No!! Race..I Won!!
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Joined: Dec 2000
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I borrowed my siter's Geo Metro last night. One liter of raw power, 3
cylinders of asphalt-tearing terror on thirteen-inch rims. It's stock,
alright, nothing done to it, but it pushes the barely 2000 pounds of
metro around with AUTHORITY. I'm 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, 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, and I looked back into the
driver's eyes, nodded, then blipped my own throttle. As 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, my three
pounding cylinders thrusting me at least a millimeter back into my seat,
as smoke pouring from my front right tire... my unlimited slip
differential was letting me down! I saw in the corner of my eyes, a
yellow snout gaining, and I heard the roar of his four cylinders. He
slung by me, right front wheel juddering against the pavement, and he
flashed me a smile as his .7 extra liters of motor stretched its legs. I
kept my foot gamely in it, though, waiting for the CHECK ENGINE light to
blink on in the one-gauge (no tachometer here!) instrument panel. 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 exhaust...maybe
event cutouts! Damn his hot-rod soul! The old lady passing us on the
crosswalk cast a dirty look in our boy-racer direction...
Yet still I persisted, with 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, and I heard the note of his engine change as he made
his shift to second, and I saw his grin in his rearview mirror fade as
he missed the shift! I rocketed by, shifting, and nursed the clutch
gently in to keep from bogging, keeping my motor spinning hot and
pulling me ahead, now trailing a 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, 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, and 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 wife's car eased past him
on the outside, my P165/54R13'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. Chevy
(Suzuki) superiority reigns!!!
I drove off sipping my masculine drink, awash in my sheer virility,
looking for other unwitting targets.... Perhaps a Yugo, or maybe even a
Volkswagon Van!
Funny as hell huh? Please give credit to this kill story from someone on superhonda.org forum, thats where I saw it.
cylinders of asphalt-tearing terror on thirteen-inch rims. It's stock,
alright, nothing done to it, but it pushes the barely 2000 pounds of
metro around with AUTHORITY. I'm 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, 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, and I looked back into the
driver's eyes, nodded, then blipped my own throttle. As 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, my three
pounding cylinders thrusting me at least a millimeter back into my seat,
as smoke pouring from my front right tire... my unlimited slip
differential was letting me down! I saw in the corner of my eyes, a
yellow snout gaining, and I heard the roar of his four cylinders. He
slung by me, right front wheel juddering against the pavement, and he
flashed me a smile as his .7 extra liters of motor stretched its legs. I
kept my foot gamely in it, though, waiting for the CHECK ENGINE light to
blink on in the one-gauge (no tachometer here!) instrument panel. 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 exhaust...maybe
event cutouts! Damn his hot-rod soul! The old lady passing us on the
crosswalk cast a dirty look in our boy-racer direction...
Yet still I persisted, with 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, and I heard the note of his engine change as he made
his shift to second, and I saw his grin in his rearview mirror fade as
he missed the shift! I rocketed by, shifting, and nursed the clutch
gently in to keep from bogging, keeping my motor spinning hot and
pulling me ahead, now trailing a 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, 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, and 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 wife's car eased past him
on the outside, my P165/54R13'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. Chevy
(Suzuki) superiority reigns!!!
I drove off sipping my masculine drink, awash in my sheer virility,
looking for other unwitting targets.... Perhaps a Yugo, or maybe even a
Volkswagon Van!
Funny as hell huh? Please give credit to this kill story from someone on superhonda.org forum, thats where I saw it.
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Registered User
Joined: Oct 2000
Posts: 4,959
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From: Bedford
It's been nearly 40 years, but if I still owned my mighty Fiat 600 I would certainly throw down the gauntlet against your gigantic Geo. My Fiat wielded a humongous 17 hp (from 4 cylinders at the crank) and would probably have exceeded 30 mph to that crosswalk! I never dynoed the 600, but i'm sure one of my mods raised the hp rating by at least 1% or more. I loosened the header from the block to achieve the perfect purr of a well tuned engine (remember when you had to set the points and the timing?). She shared a number of traits with one of her contemporaries, the Porsche 356: Rear engine, ass-happy oversteer; this baby had it all, including suicide doors, straight from the 30's. Life was good, gas was cheap, even when adjusted for
inflation.
This picture of the beast should make you afraid, very afraid!
inflation.
This picture of the beast should make you afraid, very afraid!
