Vrrrrooooooooommmmm?

["Peter F. Ferris" <pferris@domain.elided>]

Greetings Reapers,

Lately there's been a bit of a thread about the "torqueiness"(?!) of Binder
motors v. raw horsepower.  

As fate would have it, a friend sent this along to me this afternoon. 
Anyone that's ever driven a vehicle that feels like you stuck your foot in a
bucket of mud when you floored it, can appreciate this.  An aside: I have a
4 cyl '94 Dodge Caravan and a '80 Dodge Aspen (slant 6), in addition to my
Binder - the thrill of driving it still awaits me - but progress was made
today, but that'll be another posting! Not sure what newsgroup / bbs / etc.
this originally appeared in, it's a tad  longish but humorously "on topic"
of low end pony power.  One big difference is, these guys probably don't
enjoy the same "stump pullin' power" we do. And awaaaay we go:

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%
 
 A friend, (not a four-wheeler or product loyalist) past this on to me.
 Enjoy...
 
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 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 *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 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 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 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 P165/54R13'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
a Volkswagon Van!

Some replies:
Don't make me take the car cover off my 88 Subaru Justy. a 135 cubic
inch beast with 3 cylinders, 90 HP and 4WD to boot!!

On Wed, 09 Dec 1998 17:18:59 -1000, Spydaman
<spydamanNOSPAM@domain.elided wrote:

Me and my diesel Rabbit will take you and your Geo on, any day of the
week, as long as there are no hills (I have 5 on the floor but don't
know what the last 2 are for).
                                                           Spy in Hawaii

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

Cheers,


--Pete


1972 T-All, 1010 345.  Needs motor mounts, oil pump, belts, hoses, battery,
vital fluids, etc. "But the hard part is behind me..." :-)