Now then - let the mayhem commence!! Last week I had an encounter on the road that took me back to my earliest days behind the wheel - I ran an impromptu rat-race, for the first time in roughly 22 years.
What's a "rat-race," pray tell? Wellsir, it's simply a form of "hound-chases-fox," albeit carried out in cars or trucks at potentially dangerous speeds. It's not to be confused with outlaw-type street racing made famous by the "Fast & Furious" movie franchise. It can become quite the white-knuckle experience indeed if the fox runs flat out from the get-go, and the hound keeps pace, with both drivers being indifferent to ever-higher speeds, road hazards, opposing traffic, etc.
Emblematic of the very real danger involved, during my senior year in high school two classmates of mine got themselves good and dead through rat-racing. The first lost control in a sharp hairpin curve, hit a tree at 65mph, and wound up at the bottom of a small lake. The second poor slob did a sadly spot-on "Detroit Rock City" imitation; it took the first-responders a good three hours to cut his severely crumpled ride away from the 18-wheeler it had unsuccessfully tried to slide under.
Although both wrecks shook me up briefly, I nevertheless continued to view the "sport" as being akin to a joust or a WW1 aerial dogfight, rather than dwelling on the reckless danger. In time though, I eventually gave up the practice, feeling that I could only cheat Fate for so long. Thus, "slipstreaming" police or fire vehicles answering calls became my preferred adrenaline generator, along with the odd bracket-race at the old St. Louis {now Gateway} International Raceway just across the Mississloppi in Du Quoin, Illinois.
Flashing back to the present, the old reflexes came back online instantly when some driplip dude kid pulled up to a stop light beside me, and started chirping his tires in an overtly challenging manner. I nonchalantly spared him a quick once-over, and was not impressed in the slightest. Typical of today's "snowflake" generation, my erstwhile opponent was all style-over-substance. His ride was a 1974 Olds Cutlass, painted an absolutely vomit-inducing shade of monochromatic neon-chartreuse. Rolling on ridiculous-looking 26-inch chromed "rims." Bass-laden sound system that made my windows bow in and out slightly. A silly chromed peace-sign on the rear decklid - all this and a lot more quietly screamed for this bozo to be well and truly bitch-slapped.
I sighed, dropped TR into 4WD-Auto mode, and brake-torqued him up to 3500 on the tachometer. Junior did likewise, the goofy grin on his face proclaiming "Get ready to be seriously fooked with, Old Fart!" Come the green light, we both took off like the proverbial winged creatures Meatloaf used to sing about. Although the kid hole-shotted me by 3/4's of a carlength off the line, that was as much of a lead he ever had. Once my trusty buggy hit second gear - hooking hard, thanks to still being in 4-Auto - it was all over for the kid. See, although TR is essentially a Jeep-clone, his Sport Trac 4WD system is more a poor man's traction control, than a serious boulder-climber.
As such, 4-Auto allows my rig to simply hunker down and fly, just like today's super roller-coasters do. And fly we did, with Junior quite unaware of what he'd gotten himself into. Slowing just enough to maintain rigid control, I enticed the lad off the main highway, and onto the county road leading to me digs. And that's when the fun ramped up several notches. Here in Cornhusker country, our rural county roads are simple affairs of gravel laced with sand. What's more, they tend to hug the land profile, as opposed to our paved roads enjoying the benefits of cut-and-fill to enable lower grades, easier curves, higher speeds, and so on.
However, that's not to say that one can't make like a cruise missile whilst on the rocks. All it takes is a bit of careful study, fair weather, and minimal opposing traffic to be able to run fast-n-hard successfully. Having traveled the route at least twice daily for the last three years, I was quite comfortable letting my grunt-buggy nose up to near triple-digit speeds, once we negotiated the lazy s-curve just off the highway. Ahead of the s-curve, the road is arrow-straight for the next 5 miles, and I let TR totally off the leash. It was all Junior could do to simply see, let alone mount a serious challenge to my lead.
Our recent lack of rain ensured that TR generated a ferocious wake of dust, as we boomed along. Had Junior been smart, this fact alone should have discouraged him enough to break off the chase then and there. Being a good little snowflake though, Junior nonetheless continued his pursuit, hanging just back enough to avoid the thickest dust, but still sailing along at a good clip. Never once did this moron ever give thought to what the sand and pea-gravel might be doing to his ride's bling and fancy paint - like good old Wile E. Coyote, Junior's sole focus was still on trying to catch me!
LSS, I ended the game in classic fashion, negotiating the y-junction 2 miles north of my homestead in proper bootlegger {or "square turn"} style, and honked cheerfully at Junior as I flashed past him in the opposite direction seconds later. He never stood a chance, in his "poser-mobile." In postscript, I saw him outside a local tire and wheel emporium two days ago, no doubt tearing his hair out over how bent and pitted his rims likely were, and how much out-of-pocket he might soon be to fix things. Adding to the irony, next door to the tire shop was a Maaco paint and light repair facility!! Well, at least the poor lad won't have to go far to fix all his rather costly mistakes, you know?
Perhaps next time he'll think twice about challenging someone who can easily jump his truck across the Generation Gap, among many other amazing feats.
He just might live longer, dig?
More anon..........
