I tend to avoid this section like the plague, but I feel like sharing a fun little run-in I had earlier tonight. I had initially planned to stay in and drink a few brewskis, but some jerk drank all my cold Blue Moon, so I had nothing better to do but go for a drive. It was a nice night for once, not too humid, 'bout 75 degrees. Car was running like a top and I was enjoying the sweet sounds of the Garrett T-25 and Cory Morrow.
I got caught at a long-ass redlight right outside of the I-76 onramp when I saw it in my rearview mirror. It had blue lights. Not the piercing blue lights of a Police Interceptor (complete with the Ford Modular roar), mind you. No it was more of a pansy-ass purple blue like you might find in a seedy men's bathhouse you inevitably find yourself outside of when you get way too drunk and realize long hair doesn't automatically make her a girl. It pulled up next to me with the windows down and radio rap bottoming out the stock Pontiac Premium Audio system. I turned down the country to get a better listen. Just as I suspected, it was Jeremih's "Birthday Sex". All three occupants simultaneously turned their heads to get a better look at me and my sick whip.
I knocked it in neutral and gave them a quick jab of the throttle. The turbo decided it wasn't time to play and didn't give away any hints of what was lurking under the hood. The mighty, and by "mighty" I mean "puny", roar of the 3.1 liter overhead valve V6 burbled out of the dual exhaust outlets. This, of course, was hilarious to the teenage, backwards hat-wearing, wannabe gangbangers in the Grand Prix next to me. In perfect harmony, all three let out in a roar of laughter that struck my ego with a thunderous blow. Then I heard it..
The scream of the Generation III Eaton M90 escaped from under the hood of the saloon. This wasn't just any Grand Prix I was fucking with... it was the SUPERCHARGED GRAND PRIX GTP, complete with the engine touched by the hand of God himself: the L-fucking-sixty-seven. I was taken aback. Never before have I been graced with the presence of such mechanical perfection. I started to rethink my decision. I wanted to roll up my windows and sink back into the supple comfort of the 10-way pneumatic AQ9's. I wanted to have my windows tint on-demand like KITT had in that one episode of Knight Rider. I wanted to be cradled in the arms of the one that loves me. I was playing with fire. Literally. I was about to question the almighty power of the 3800 Supercharged Series II V6.
The lights on the opposite axis of the intersection turned yellow. This shit was about to get serious. I put the car back in drive and gripped the leather-wrapped steering wheel. The hyenas continued their hearty laughs, but I was in the zone. I could envision it. I could feel it directly under my testicles. No, wait.. that was just my phone receiving a text message.
My gaze was affixed on the two fiery red suns directly in front of me. It's as if they were taunting me. "You fool, who do you think you are with your sorry 3.1 and your undersized exhaust restriction bolted to the side of it?" I shook the voices from my head with a loud scream and I knew it was time. The traffic signal to my right was now red. I could feel my fingers trembling and my heart trying to escape from my chest the same way Taco Bell escapes from your lower intestine after a night of binge drinking. That's when it happened..
The light faded from red to green like a disappointing Christmas light show. With the grace and speed of a heat seeking missile, my right foot moved from the brake to the carpet with only a quarter inch-sized plastic accelerator pedal in it's way. The Kuhmo Ecstas on the two front crosslaces suddenly found themselves transferring all 225 foot pounds of torque to the pavement below. Both cars tore through the intersection, all 24 valves and respective methods of boost serenading each other in the warm summer air. I watched the green numbers glowing my face. 35.. 36.. 37... All 12 PSI of intercooled charge keeping my back firmly planted against the seat. The post-gen's fender was inching just in front of mine.
Suddenly, the unfortunate gear ratios and total lack of mid-end power reared it's ugly head in the face of the GTP. He just met second gear. I instantly regained my fender, and another one in the process. The nose of the Widetrack was quickly finding it's place on the totem pole of the Grand Prix family.. right behind my passenger side door.
I could hear the M90 shrieking in horror as the bulbous boat it was feeding began to lose ground to the sharp lines and masculine stance of the B4M-equipped Turbo Grand Prix. I'm sure the driver got a good look at my license plate and gold emblems reinforcing the fact that he laughed at the wrong valence-sagging first-gen. The digital number in my face was getting larger by the second. My foot eased off the gas as I watched the HUD clear 75 MPH.
The blue headlights found themselves in my rearview mirror.. a cool two car lengths behind my back bumper. The nose of the 4-door sunk back into the pavement as it retreated in defeat, finding it's niche in the lane behind me.
I had tamed the beast. I was David and he was Goliath. I fought the law and I won. For once, I showed the good ol' 240 horsepower 3.8 liter V6 that sometimes old dogs can still run with the pack. And learn new tricks.
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3D Quick Pool Champion!
Originally Posted by digitaloutsider
