Tom
They could be future bar stool racers, you know they need to work up to
breath taking speeds.
Glen
------Original Message------
From: "Thomas E. Bryant" <saltracer@awwwsome.com>
To: OHFASTONE@aol.com
Sent: November 9, 2000 3:31:10 PM GMT
Subject: Re: Bush's discription of his race against Gore on the Tarmac
Only a true street racer, who has experienced the raw power of the Geo,
could appreciate this!!
Tom, Redding CA (@34 degrees & sunny)- #216 D/GCC
OHFASTONE@aol.com wrote:
>
> This is an excerpt from George W. Bush's auto racing journals.
>
> <<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,
> alright,
> nothing done to it, but it pushes the barely 2000 pounds of Metro around
with
> AUTHORITY. Hardly known here in Texas,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 off
> 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, 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! 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
> ifted 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 the 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 Van!>>
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