hehehe... what's better than cars? Stories WITH cars... here's a serial!

13 seconds: open dusk til dawn by scott david harris ©2003 prologue- 12:04am I had been on the highway a good long while. Too long it seemed. Eleven long hours through four states, I was beginning to get punchy there in the drivers’ seat. My Mountain Dew supply had given up around Pennsylvania and my bag of teriyaki jerky had disappeared halfway across New York. Heading south at eighty miles per hour, I was just focusing on keeping the little Cavalier between the guardrails that lined either side of southbound Interstate 81. Through the sunroof, the moon was glaring large and white, keeping the rest of the Virginia landscape lit up in that horror movie pose. This was the epitome of a summer night and I was just a misguided pilgrim heading south away from the glare of an arc-halogen twenty-four hour civilization. Strip malls, convenience stores, parking lots, urban sprawl, suburban sprawl, engineered environments at every turn of the wheel. I had entered this world willingly. In the roar of my engine going through the gears, I had merged with an Interstate and entered a fabled world of all night all-you-can-eat places, twenty-four hour gas stations, repair shops, all manner of tourist caterers huddled around exit ramps, neon oasis in a dark sea of midnight Americana. I was in a place where all minds go when they are seeing the big elephant of miles lost in the dark. Yawning, I tried to stretch in my seat, feeling every stitch in the leather, noticing how uncomfortable the seat belt was across my shoulder and how it chaffed against my neck. The realization hit me that soon I would have to get off the highway and at least get a soda, something to keep me awake on the long transition south. Florida was still at least 12 hours away. The miles dutifully ticked off on the odometer, keeping me appraised of how much further I had to go. My vision was blurring as the scenery began to fade into the shadows of sleep. The long transitions between exits was creeping me out. I was used to the city, exits every few hundred feet. Four lanes going either way, nothing but high speed and maniacs in SUV’s. I rounded a long corner, a huge green exit sign greeting me in the high intensity light from the front of my Cavalier: LUNEVILLE PASCHAL CORNERS INDIAN SPRINGS RESERVE EXIT 77 1 MILE next exit 27 miles Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I began the slow transition to the off highway. With the Cavalier plunging down the ramp, signs pointed this way and that for fuel and food, lodging and police. It was an obscure Virgina state road in the middle of nowhere. The ramp itself was rough, scarred with the skid marks from big rigs trying to slow down in time for the yield sign at the intersection. My Cavalier bounced over the bumps and wallowed through the ruts, coming to rest at the bottom. I turned right heading for the Sunoco station the sign indicated. I ran the car through the gears, really getting into the boost, feeling the engine that I had built with my own hands. There is nothing better than actually driving something that you put together, no matter what anyone else says. The road twisted through growths of trees, seventy miles per hour seeming like light speed in the close dark. I reached down to the Alpine deck and silenced Pennywise, punching the SEEK button. The display dialed through the numbers from 88.1 to 107.9 without touching a single voice out in that night. Creepy, but not unheard of. I flipped Pennywise back on, the punk driving me on. I chanced a look up in the mirror and that was when I saw it. Reflected in the red glow from my tailights was the nose of a late eighties-early nineties Camaro. No headlights, less than four feet from my rear bumper. I never hesitated, dropping the shifter from 5th into 3rd gear, the turbo spooling instantly. The Cavalier was all business as the sticky Nittos mounted to seventeen-inch Enkei RSF2 wheels began to work for traction. “Let’s go.”, I breathed as I got into it. I was one with the Cavalier as I unleased my 2200. I looked up in the mirror, and the Camaro was gone. Had it actually been there? Was I hallucinating, some fast and furious daydream? Probably not. My car was more substance than style. I didn’t traffic with the ricers in the capital district. I had the equivalent of a tactical nuclear warhead under the hood and it was carried around in the equivalent of a shopping cart, and that was the best way to bring it; All go, no show. Up ahead, the unmistakable fluorescent glare of a gas station pierced the night. I breezed into the parking lot and idled up to the pump, the spectre Camaro already forgotten about. All I wanted was my big slam Mountain Dew and a couple of bags of jerky to keep the long journey south moving along. I was the only car in the lot, and I remembered thinking that this was about the loneliest gas station I had ever seen. Under the lights, the Cavalier was a quicksilver beast, all alien and fear. I killed the engine and got out, feeling the part. Around me, nothing but moths moved in that summer night. This was the loneliest place I had ever been! With my Sunoco card swiped, I filled the beast with ultra 94 octane, the numbers streaming by as a nothing more than a digital blur. Filled, I topped off the tank with a squeeze on the pump trigger and sealed it up. Inside the station was pure Americana. There is nothing so uniquely American as an all-night gas station. Racks of consumables, no nutritional value, but tasty as hell. Coolers filled with soda, water, beer and cheap wine. Air conditioning cranked to arctic conditions, almost as if the manager was trying to get it to snow in their store. Music crooning from the speakers overhead, always either country-western or some Top 40 concoction. In this particular outpost of consumables, it was the country variant. Without a second thought, I grabbed a big bag of nasty beef jerky and a liter of oh so good Mountain Dew. I didn’t care if yellow dye number five made my nuts small; Dew was the prefered drink of my universe. I dropped my goodies on the counter and pulled out my wallet. The attendant dropped his magazine and scanned my stuff. “That your car out there?”, he asked as he opened the drawer. “Yup.”, I answered back. “Is it fast? It looks it.” “It’s not stock, that’s for sure.” I grinned. His eyes shifted from the counter out the window, “Those guys out there might like to know how fast it is.” “What?” The guy pointed out the window without looking. “Those guys think they are in the fast and the furious. But they’re mostly harmless.” I looked past the attendants’ shoulder out to the pump islands. Sitting on either side of my car were props from whatever movie ran here in rural Virginia. On the right was a lime green second generation Mitsubishi Eclipse, the left an intimidating, sinister black Mercury Cougar complete with Combat body kit. Behind my car was at least a 2003 Civic, the gold standard of ricers everywhere. Gentle bass bumped from a hatchback as their engines idled, waiting. Beyond the crowd around my car was a 93 and up Chevy Camaro, sitting at the edge of the lot. Knowing something about domestics and rear-wheel drive, that monster could’ve had anything under the hood! I took my goodies from the counter and stepped back into the night. I could hear one of the engines idling, rumbling, in that still air. It was a sound that I came to regard with going fast. The owners were out of the cars, each eyeballing my Cavalier with an almost disdain. In the so-called ‘tuner’ circles, J-bodies had the reputation for being a step below driving a Dodge K-car. Like Dangerfield said, “No respect.” In the eight years I had been building Cavaliers, I had heard every Cavalier joke out there. It was getting so someone had to really work to get me with one I hadn’t heard before. “What’s goin’ on?”, I said as I got to my car, tossing my goodies into the open window. A guy got out of the Eclipse, a hoodrat clone. If the kid was a day over nineteen, I’d eat the candles on his next cake. He was baby-blue Fubu-ed, saggy Hilfiger-ed and his UNC hat was cocked off at the 2 oclock position per ghetto regulations. “We see the car sitting here. Just thought it was fast.” “It is.”, I smiled back. “It’s very fast.” By this time, everyone was out of their cars, except whoever was in the Camaro at the edge of the lot. I wasn’t nervous, I had been in bigger crowds with more attitude back in Albany. These guys were the next generation of car guys, nothing more. Fifteen years earlier, these same type of guys would’ve been driving 5-liter Mustangs and IROC-Z Camaros. The people I was used to racing with in Albany were dangerous types, almost always armed and most certainly unstable. In that department, I could tell that these guys were dilletantes, more living out some fantasy than anything else. “Where are you headin’?”, one of the guys asked. “Florida. Going to the tuner bash in Daytona.”, I replied. “Yeah, we heard about that. We wasn’t headin’ down, though. We do enough racin’ here.”, Quickly, I was interested… Racing, any racing, was what my car was built for. I was good, maybe even the best. I had yet to come up against someone that could take me. Suddenly, my trip south had taken on a whole new level. “High stakes? What’s the buy-in?” “Pinks… we race for pinks.”, Hilfiger replied. “Who am I racing?” “Robby thinks his Camaro can take you.” “Where?” “Just a little bit up the road, the dark side of route 86. There’s a blocked off section’a highway that never got finished.” “Outstanding.” I opened the door on my car, “Let’s go.” I got into my car and fired the engine up. Sweet warsong of tuned exhaust wafting into the Virginia night. I blipped the throttle a couple of times, the blow-off valve barking out like Darth Vader. I gave a sly grin before I shut the door. I was smug behind the wheel. I knew my business and I was counting on the the assumption that the the guy behind the wheel of the Camaro didn’t. I followed them out of the gas station and into the night, not at all afraid of where I was going. After all, I had raced against all that Albany had to offer. These guys weren’t sketchy to me at all. The road twisted and twisted again, until we slid around a series of concrete blocks. The was the dark side of Route 86. We rolled up to a makeshift start line, rubber marks leading out beyond the headlights’ glare. I pulled the parking brake up and opened the door. “This is it?” Hilfiger was out of his Eclipse at at my door as the Camaro rolled up in the suicide lane. He was a fat-idling V8. I was positive that it was at least an aluminum LS1, but I thought I heard the faint whine of a cheater… was there a supercharger under the hood? Suddenly, I felt a shiver of fear go into my stomach. Maybe my Cavalier wasn’t at the top of the foodchain. I had my own cheater, but I wasn’t sure it would be enough. Laughing gas will only get you so far before it either gives out or blows the engine up. “Ok, Yankee, this is a two mile stretch. First one to the end, wins. You lose, you lose your car so don’t choke.” “Understood.” I swallowed hard. I had raced for pinks before, but this time was different. I was cocky and had a sick feeling that I was about to get left on a back road in the middle of nowhere riding the shoe-leather express. I revved the engine once, gunning it to the limiter and letting it machine gun back down through the exhaust. Once more, to the limiter and back down the RPM’s. I ran through everything one last time, making sure the gauges were where they were supposed to be. I was never too careful at the start of a race. Satisfied, I let one hand rest on the steering wheel and one on the stick. It was a rule that you never let the opposition see how nervous you really were. It was bad for the image. One of the kids’ girlfriends had walked around the front of the car and was looking almost right as she stood between the Chevrolets. I ran up the RPM’s again, forgetting my image for just a second. I felt like I was about to lose my car…

should I go further? Will our hero lose his car? Find out in the next exciting episode!

...waiting! (anxiously)

MOAR!!!!

i want more....

ok... a little more... this is going to be a serial... as long as you guys like it.
Understand, a piece here, a piece there... i don't want it to be too long. We're car guys, not philosophers!!

ok... little more:

II The hands dropped and I was into my engine for everything it had. First gear. Second gear, I had the Camaro by a door. Third gear, the turbo pulling twenty pounds of sweet sweet boost, still accelerating. I chanced a glance down at the tachometer, the needle swinging over past five, six, sixty-five, seven thousand RPMs. Clutch. Pause. Fourth gear. The speedometer was swinging past the one-twenty mark as the straightaway streamed black blur away from my headlights. Just on my quarter panel, I could hear the V-8 demon howling in fury as he made his own way through the gearbox, a supercharged whine in that howl. Oh yes, friends and neighbors, there was a blower under the hood of that mulletmobile! Out of the corner of my eye, the bumper was coming back into view. One hundred forty miles per hour and one gear left. I was fingering the nitrous… Too soon, I was owned and carless. Too late and I would be trying to catch taillights. Once more, I became morbidly aware that his door was now in view, the Z28 on his fender flickering in the reflected light… Now or never. I punched the nitrous trigger down, the effect nothing like you saw in the movies. There was no dramatic warp-drive effect, no blurring of reality, just the sound of your engine being driven balls out as more air than was ever intended was stuffed into each cylinder. Immediately, the front wheels broke traction as the 75-shot hit the engine, the tach dancing for a split second at the rev limiter. Then we were all acceleration again as the tried and true Cavalier chassis settled back down for its trip to the high side of the speedometer. It was forever I had my thumb in the laughing gas, the gauge on the dash dropping as I used the tank up. The engine was screaming at 7400 RPM’s, the little Two-Point-Two at it’s limits as the redline loomed. I looked over, the Camaro was fender to fender with me, his V8 had no more. I had him! Fuck me running, I had his LT1 ass! One hundred fifty miles per hour. Thirty miles per hour faster than any Cavalier had been intended to go, beating a Camaro down a dark Virginia highway in the middle of the night. Was there anything better? I was smiling as I crossed the line first, feeling the wheels thump across more than seeing it, the roar of everything other than the engine coming up slowly and then filling in my adrenaline-riddled brain. My hands were shaking as I began downshifting. It was all autopilot as I ran through the gauges, hoping like hell that I hadn’t broken anything in the engine. I may have built it, but that didn’t mean I was perfect! A quick scan and a finger-tap to the sticky temperature gauge and I was at a stop, the Camaro coming up next to me. “Your car runs pretty good, Yankee, but you ain’t getting mine.”, his voice came from inside the F-body. “I don’t want your car. You just got beat by a Cavalier. Who’d want a Camaro that got beat by a Cavalier?” I was a bastard. “See you around.” I didn’t wait for his reply as I spun my Cavalier around and headed back down the highway. I was, however, feeling that I might regret the fact that I had left my pistola locked in a safe in my apartment. There just was something Hollywood about the whole scene, the kind of scene where bad things happen fast to Your Hero! Shaking it off, I got the car up to speed and let the Camaro pace me back to the concrete blocks. They knew he’d lost. Their best had fallen to a Yankee in a goddamn Cavalier. Oh the humanity! Still, one of them asked as I began to roll around one of the blocks. “Who won?” I smiled, “I did.” “In that?” He was seriously amazed. “Of course. Why not?” That was how I left them as I rolled back down that dark Virginia highway. I left them guessing and that’s the best way to leave someone you’ve beat. As I merged back on to 81, my adrenaline buzz faded back to a nice mellow drone as I polished off my soda with several huge gulps. I was pretty damn satisfied with myself. I could do this forever, two-lane blacktop across America, my own personal road movie starring me and a certain red Cavalier. Why not? It had been done before only with a black 1955 Chevy, and then there was Vanishing Point and the legend of Kowalski. Laughing, I shifted into fifth and continued south wondering where the next challenge was going to come from. As it turned out, though, I didn’t have to wait long!

Yay for the Cavalier!!!!

...what next?

Dude, you really can write! Nice! (And sorry it took so long to reply, I haven't had 2 minutes to sit down and read this till now)

Posted by bandi Yay for the Cavalier!!!! ...what next? Dude, you really can write! Nice! (And sorry it took so long to reply, I haven't had 2 minutes to sit down and read this till now)

i wrote that on the fly... i hadn't really given it much thought... just sat down and blurbed it out... I have some more I'll add when I get 5 minutes... I've been all systems go since 4am!