I ran across this on the net about 10 years ago and got a kick out of 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 ofmetro around with AUTHORITY. I'm always catching mopeds and 18-wheelers by surprise... I was headed back from Baskin Robbins with my manly triple-lattecappuccino 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 sippedmy bold beverage and wiped the white froth my stiff upper lip. I wasminding 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 differentialwas 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 ashis .7 extra liters of motor stretched its legs. I kept my foot gamelyin it, though, waiting for the CHECK ENGINE light to blink on in theone-gauge (no tachometer here!) instrument panel. I saw a glimpse of chrome underhis bumper, and knew the ugly truth... He was running a custom exhaust -- probably a 2-into-1 dual exhaust ... maybe event cutouts! Damn hishot-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 ofseconds 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 gentlyin to keep from bogging, keeping my motor spinning hot and pulling meahead, 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 careenedover the crosswalk, now going at least 15 miles per hour. A bicyclist passedus, 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 footcircle. He nosed ahead as we passed 30 miles an hour, then eased infront 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 helifted 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 incarpet. Slowly, I inched around him, feeling my Metro roll slowly to theleft as I came abreast in the midst of this gradual sweeping turn. Ifelt the Geo ease onto its suspension stops, and felt the right rear wheel slowly leave the ground - no matter, though, because my drive wheels, upfront, 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 onthe 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 aVolkswagon Van!
