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NO TIGER CONTENT

To: tigers@autox.team.net
Subject: NO TIGER CONTENT
From: DCStory@aol.com
Date: Wed, 15 Nov 2000 01:30:02 EST
There is absolutely no TIGER content here. Please delete immediately ... 
unless you might enjoy a good street racing story I happened upon. 


And The Light Turned Green...

I borrowed my wife's Geo Metro last night. One liter of raw power, three
cylinders of asphalt-tearing terror on thirteen-inch rims. It's stock,
all right, 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 *darn* 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, smoke
pouring from my front right tire... but 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! Darn 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 P165/80R13'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/Geo (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
Volkswagen Micro-Bus!
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