Encounter with the wily M5
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Lo and behold I decide to take the super-twisty route home tonight when in front of me I notice a spanking new silver M5. There are no two lane stretches the whole way home, and I have an M5 in front of me. Yum.
There is a ute in front of us for a half mile and then...saints be well praised...the hulking Bronco turns, high center of gravity causing the whole rickety mass to wobble and shimmy.
Just before the m5 shoots ahead, I notice the well-proportioned and slightly bulgy nature of the Bavarian Grendel. Those grotesque rear tires.
His tires kick off a bolus of dust and he surges forward REALLY hard. I drop down to second and come on the cam just as we both take a hard left off camber turn. He brakes, I do not and I get within 10 feet of him. That 400hp in mad, wicked effect, the gap lengthens to twenty-five, but I am around 7k in 2nd gear and pull right up behind him again. He continues pushing the Grendel, back to the lair. An uphill right and we are like a silver and red train. I match his accelleration and he mine, we tied together in a fit and fury of pushing on and more and more and greater and tighter turns until we have found the Pace toward which we can expend no more speed.
We are howling around corners, the din of my engine fully blocking any lusty sounds developing from his own. He begins to brake less and less, obviously letting the engine brake him a few short feet to transfer some weight. Like a Thelonius Monk rhythm, we amble and redouble, buck and surge. My top is down, I am wearing a black ski mask, I am the Last Man- all pumping heart and pursed lips in concentration. My car is my feet lifting up and forward and down in a sprint, feeling the burning sole and rubber contact the ground as if the world were exploding behind us, us two men the last and wishing preservation. Niccolo Paginini is playing his 24th Caprice in quintuple time under my red hood, 256th notes and 1024th notes and 4096th notes meshing into a single note that has no discernible beginning or end. My feet are madly blipping the throttle up and down again and now 3rd is needed, now second; oh, if I could just get into 1st for a moment I could push my feet faster on the cold, mottled Pennsylvania ground, but just as my feet are cramping and the engine is exploding into gold and steel-silver sparks, teh Grendel pulls into his resting place, beeps his horn. I yell at the top of my lungs, "Thank you, thank you, thank you"
The winter is almost over and the end of the world is coming here to Pittsburgh. The stretch of fire we left behind us glows orange on my horizon. Like the dying sun as Hemingway drinks cognac on an empty stomach back when the wars were not on the street, but in great men's hearts.
Joe
There is a ute in front of us for a half mile and then...saints be well praised...the hulking Bronco turns, high center of gravity causing the whole rickety mass to wobble and shimmy.
Just before the m5 shoots ahead, I notice the well-proportioned and slightly bulgy nature of the Bavarian Grendel. Those grotesque rear tires.
His tires kick off a bolus of dust and he surges forward REALLY hard. I drop down to second and come on the cam just as we both take a hard left off camber turn. He brakes, I do not and I get within 10 feet of him. That 400hp in mad, wicked effect, the gap lengthens to twenty-five, but I am around 7k in 2nd gear and pull right up behind him again. He continues pushing the Grendel, back to the lair. An uphill right and we are like a silver and red train. I match his accelleration and he mine, we tied together in a fit and fury of pushing on and more and more and greater and tighter turns until we have found the Pace toward which we can expend no more speed.
We are howling around corners, the din of my engine fully blocking any lusty sounds developing from his own. He begins to brake less and less, obviously letting the engine brake him a few short feet to transfer some weight. Like a Thelonius Monk rhythm, we amble and redouble, buck and surge. My top is down, I am wearing a black ski mask, I am the Last Man- all pumping heart and pursed lips in concentration. My car is my feet lifting up and forward and down in a sprint, feeling the burning sole and rubber contact the ground as if the world were exploding behind us, us two men the last and wishing preservation. Niccolo Paginini is playing his 24th Caprice in quintuple time under my red hood, 256th notes and 1024th notes and 4096th notes meshing into a single note that has no discernible beginning or end. My feet are madly blipping the throttle up and down again and now 3rd is needed, now second; oh, if I could just get into 1st for a moment I could push my feet faster on the cold, mottled Pennsylvania ground, but just as my feet are cramping and the engine is exploding into gold and steel-silver sparks, teh Grendel pulls into his resting place, beeps his horn. I yell at the top of my lungs, "Thank you, thank you, thank you"
The winter is almost over and the end of the world is coming here to Pittsburgh. The stretch of fire we left behind us glows orange on my horizon. Like the dying sun as Hemingway drinks cognac on an empty stomach back when the wars were not on the street, but in great men's hearts.
Joe
