With the talk recently (and in the past) about the raw performance of the
Spitfire, I read this article (from the Lotus-Cars List) with great
interest. It reveals how the owners of other marques cope with their low
powered cars.
(Doesn't apply to Laura G, obviously! ) <vbg>
- Atwell Haines
+++FORWARDED MESSAGE+++
>Subject: 'merican motor sport
>
>Received this from a friend and thought some on the list might
>appreciate it:
>////////////////////////////////////////
>
>I borrowed my wife'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 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 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 P165/85R13'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!
>
>
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