in the dying days of PH, this forum usually had something worthwhile to read....now the most interesting read is how some stock civic, beat a stock neon......we need the others back here!!
heres a kill for you to read...
:o
Last night, I borrowed my GF's Geo Metro. 3 cylinders of asphalt-ripping terror on thirteen-inch steel rims with one whole liter of raw power [at the crank]. It's stock, nothing done to it right, it still pushes the nearly 1545 pounds of Metro around with supreme AUTHORITY. Always catching mopeds and 18-wheelers by surprise... I was headed back from Baskin Robbins with my manly triple-latte cappuccino blast ("No Cinnamon, ma'am, I take it BLACK"), when I stopped at a streetlight. As the Metro throbbed its throaty idle around me, I sipped my bold beverage and wiped the white froth my stiff upper lip. I was minding my own business, but then I heard a rev from the next lane. I turned, made eye contact, then let my eyes trace over the competition:
Ford Festiva... a late model... this could be trouble. Low profile tires, curb feelers, and schoolbus-yellow paint. Yep, a hot rod for sure. The howl of his motor snapped my reverie. I looked back into the driver's eyes, nodded, then blipped my own throttle as if to say "are you serious?" I tugged on my driving gloves and slipped on my sunglasses (gotta look cool to be fast, and I am *damn* cool, hence...). The night was split with the sound of seven screaming cylinders... Then the light turned... I almost had him out of the hole, the three cylinders pounding at my chest while thrusting me almost a millimeter back into my seat. Smoke pouring from my right front snow tire... my unlimited slip differential letting go every time a winter "stipe" passed traction to the next one. Then I saw it in the corner of my eyes, a yellow snout gaining distance on my unwieldy beast. I could hear the roar of his four cylinders claiming an un-earned victory. He slung by me without right, his left front wheel juddering against the pavement, while flashing me a smile as his .7 extra liters of motor stretched its legs like a Greyhound in Central Park. I kept my foot gamely in it, waiting for the CHECK ENGINE light to blink on in the one-gauge instrument panel. Just then I saw a glimpse of chrome under his bumper, and knew the ugly truth... He was running a custom exhaust --probably a 2-into-1 dual, maybe even cutouts!-- Damn his hot-rod soul! The old lady passing us on the crosswalk cast a dirty look in our boy-racer direction... Yet I persisted... My three pumping pistons singing a heady high-pitched song, wound fully out. Though only a few handfuls of seconds had passed, we were nearing the crosswalk at the other side of the intersection. I could hear the note of his engine change as he made his shift to second, and I saw the grin in his rearview mirror fade as he missed gears! I rocketed by while shifting and nursed the clutch gently to prevent bogging and keep my motor spinning hot. This pulled me ahead, with a trailing cloud of stinking clutch smoke. Not ready to give up so easily, he left his foot in it, revving, and I heard one wheel *almost* chirp as he finally found second and dropped the clutch. We careened over the crosswalk, now going at least 15 miles per hour. A bicyclist passed us on the left, but intent on the race (as we were), neither of us batted an eye. He pulled slowly abreast of me and neck and neck, we made the shift to third, the scream of motors deafening all pedestrians within a five foot circle. He nosed ahead as we passed 30 miles an hour, then eased in front of me, taunting, as we shifted into fourth. I was staring up the dual 6" chrome tips of his exhaust, snarling (my cappuccino forgotten) as he lifted a little to take the next corner. I saw my opportunity, and counting on the innate agility of my trusty steed, I pulled wide into the number two lane and kept my foot buried in carpet. Slowly, I inched around him, feeling my Metro roll slowly to the left as I came abreast in the midst of this gradual sweeping turn. I felt the Geo ease onto its suspension stops, then felt the right rear wheel slowly leave the ground - no matter, though, because my drive wheels, up front, were pulling me through the corner, and around the Festiva ...The Ford driver beat his wheel in rage as my GF's car eased past him on the outside, my P165/70R13's screaming in protest, as we raced to the next light. We coasted down, neck-and neck, to the red light. I tightened my driving gloves, ready for another round, when this WIMP in the next car meekly flipped his turn signal and made a right-hand turn onto Cowards Ln. GEO superiority reigns!!! I drove off sipping my masculine drink, awash in my sheer virility, looking for other unwitting targets.... Perhaps a Yugo, or a mini-van.
ps this is a repost from some other board...but good reading
