No, I did not write this. I wish I did. :smile:
I took a ride in my venerable old '83 Mercedes 240D diesel last night.
Two point four litres of raw power, 4 cylinders of asphalt-tearing terror with 67 rompin stompin horse power at my beck and call.
It's stock, all right, nothing done to it, but it pushes the 3200 pounds of German engineering 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 "D" rattled 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.
Geo Metro -- 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 (Rattle Rattle!!).
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 four pounding cylinders thrusting me at least a millimeter back into my seat, as smoke pouring from exhaust pipe...
I'd let it sit and idle too long! I saw in the corner of my eyes, a yellow snout gaining, and I heard the roar of his three cylinders. He slung by me, right front wheel juddering against the pavement, and he flashed me a smile as his gasoline powered 1.1 liters of motor stretched its legs. I turned off my AC to gain 10% more power and kept my foot gamely in it.
Then I saw a glimpse of chrome under his bumper, and knew the ugly truth... He was running a custom exhaust -- probably a 1.5-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 four pumping
pistons singing a steady, deep, diesel 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!
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. I was waiting for the first dot on the speedometer to tell me to shift (no tachometer here!)
Shifting, I nursed the clutch gently to keep from bogging, keeping my motor spinning hot and pulling me ahead, now trailing a cloud of stinking clutch smoke, no that's diesel exhaust again...
He pulled slowly abreast of me, and neck and neck, I shifted into third at 38 MPH - a little early, but better safe than sorry. The scream of
motors deafening all pedestrians within a five foot circle. He nosed ahead as we passed 42 miles an hour, then eased in front of me, taunting, as he shifted into fourth. I decided to keep my car in third, counting on the ability to pump out the power at higher speeds and lower gears. 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 German Diesel roll slowly to the left as I came abreast in the midst of this gradual sweeping turn.
I felt the front start to push a little, so I
added more power only to realize that was all I had! But, I saw the right rear wheel lift on the Metro and realized he had reached his limit!
Slowly I gained on him through the outside of the turn, passing him with ease!!!
The Metro driver beat his wheel in rage as my car eased past him on the outside, my P175/R14'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. MB superiority reigns!!!
I drove off sipping my masculine drink, (I hadn't even spilled it!), awash in my sheer virility, looking for other unwitting targets....
Perhaps a Yugo, or maybe even a Volkswagon Van!
Racing the Benz
Fast Water
Linear Mode
