Dr.Jass
Pastor of Muppets
...as I slip into the cool vinyl of the high back bucket. I feel every tumbler as I slide the key into the ignition lock, teeth up as God intended. A pump of the accelerator pedal reminds me of the heavy springs required to pull three Holley 2300s back to idle; a twist of my right wrist brings a hesitant huff before the the open-headered engine roars to life.
I feather the throttle to keep the chokeless 440 running until it's accepted its fate to another run on a humid Atlanta night. My right hand falls to the familiar shape of the cold plastic T-handle; a click with the right thumb changes the shift-indicator needle from yellow to red, and I back out of my parking space jerkily, against the angry cold idle of the engine. A flick of the wrist and the indicator is now green... we move forward.
I am on the hunt.
Trying to keep the engine just above idle, we creep our way out of the apartment complex. At the exit, as if to display my intent, the gear-selector needle now points at 1 while my left foot holds the brake pedal. It is the arch-enemy of my right foot, which is insulted that at this point its only function is to load the converter to stall. Through crazed, 25-year-old plastic I see the faded orange of the needle reach a point near the increment marked "30" on my Rallye-cluster tachometer, and the left foot gives up its task. At the same instant, my other foot jabs hard towards the carpet while the rear tires howl their discontent as four hundred and forty cubic inches enforce their will against friction and gravity. Through my side-view mirror, I see the graceful hips of my Charger against a backdrop of road, trees, and streetlights swaying gracefully to and fro as the torque-induced slide continues. Just as the tires seem to grasp the task before them and hookup seems imminent, a quick movement from my right arm moves the shifter forward one notch. The engine's song quiets slightly as the Torqueflite bangs into second gear and the car lunges forward accompanied by a new, perhaps louder, plea from the overpowered rear skins.
It is not driving. It is reaction to the needs of the machine.
The tach needle swings high, then backs down as the 255/60R-15s finally show up to the party and begin to deliver power to pavement. Eyes focus at a point distant; anything nearby becomes a surreal hyperspacial blur. That which is behind me is obscured in a drifting white haze. A glance at my 140MPH Certified police speedometer assures me that I have left careless far behind and Johnny Law will get himself a 6-pointer should he happen across me now.
As the revolutions per minute approach 6,800, I am intoxicated by the song of 1,350CFM against the roar of 7.2 liters of fury played through the uncorked Super Comp headers. The force against my back is incredible; my head only touches the headrest at times like this.
I am unable to lift. I must shift.
The 727 has its way and the tires make known their protest. There is a slight, fleeting glow for the instant that the mechanical-secondary Six Pack has force-fed the mighty Wedge more than it can burn in its chambers, and the excess lights off in the pipes. Out back, the scrabbling for traction is finally at an end as rubber and road have locked in a matrimony of acceleration. The only instrument available is the ear; I dare not take my eyes from the road at this speed. The slightest distraction is guaranteed disaster; room for error is nil as we rapidly run out of road.
Speed's exilhiration is overcome by survival instinct; my foot reluctantly releases its death grip on the accelerator to issue a firm order of "whoa!" on the wide, flat pedal to its left. Calipers push, ceramic meets steel, and forward progress recedes. A click of the button and a pull to the rear produces a chirp, and the engine bellows its anger at this--the antithesis of purpose. More pedal pressure, another downshift, and soon the beast rolls to a stop--almost innocently--right on the white line.
A look right. A look left. All lanes are clear of traffic. The engine breathes heavily with anticipation at idle like a boxer at the opening bell. My right foot twitches before it leaves its perch on the brake pedal as the wheel turns to the right. No repeat performance--no brake this time, nor a rude pinning of the gas pedal... slowly we rumble up to speed. The 440 purrs, knowing it will be untethered again soon enough. The victim lies unaware; perhaps it will be a Cobra Jet Ford or a big-block Chevrolet or even a Ram Air Pontiac. Fate will soon enough make the choice of who stumbles across my path, of who will notice the fade and cracking of my taillamps while trying desperately to save face. He knows not what awaits him.
Until then, I will hunt.
I feather the throttle to keep the chokeless 440 running until it's accepted its fate to another run on a humid Atlanta night. My right hand falls to the familiar shape of the cold plastic T-handle; a click with the right thumb changes the shift-indicator needle from yellow to red, and I back out of my parking space jerkily, against the angry cold idle of the engine. A flick of the wrist and the indicator is now green... we move forward.
I am on the hunt.
Trying to keep the engine just above idle, we creep our way out of the apartment complex. At the exit, as if to display my intent, the gear-selector needle now points at 1 while my left foot holds the brake pedal. It is the arch-enemy of my right foot, which is insulted that at this point its only function is to load the converter to stall. Through crazed, 25-year-old plastic I see the faded orange of the needle reach a point near the increment marked "30" on my Rallye-cluster tachometer, and the left foot gives up its task. At the same instant, my other foot jabs hard towards the carpet while the rear tires howl their discontent as four hundred and forty cubic inches enforce their will against friction and gravity. Through my side-view mirror, I see the graceful hips of my Charger against a backdrop of road, trees, and streetlights swaying gracefully to and fro as the torque-induced slide continues. Just as the tires seem to grasp the task before them and hookup seems imminent, a quick movement from my right arm moves the shifter forward one notch. The engine's song quiets slightly as the Torqueflite bangs into second gear and the car lunges forward accompanied by a new, perhaps louder, plea from the overpowered rear skins.
It is not driving. It is reaction to the needs of the machine.
The tach needle swings high, then backs down as the 255/60R-15s finally show up to the party and begin to deliver power to pavement. Eyes focus at a point distant; anything nearby becomes a surreal hyperspacial blur. That which is behind me is obscured in a drifting white haze. A glance at my 140MPH Certified police speedometer assures me that I have left careless far behind and Johnny Law will get himself a 6-pointer should he happen across me now.
As the revolutions per minute approach 6,800, I am intoxicated by the song of 1,350CFM against the roar of 7.2 liters of fury played through the uncorked Super Comp headers. The force against my back is incredible; my head only touches the headrest at times like this.
I am unable to lift. I must shift.
The 727 has its way and the tires make known their protest. There is a slight, fleeting glow for the instant that the mechanical-secondary Six Pack has force-fed the mighty Wedge more than it can burn in its chambers, and the excess lights off in the pipes. Out back, the scrabbling for traction is finally at an end as rubber and road have locked in a matrimony of acceleration. The only instrument available is the ear; I dare not take my eyes from the road at this speed. The slightest distraction is guaranteed disaster; room for error is nil as we rapidly run out of road.
Speed's exilhiration is overcome by survival instinct; my foot reluctantly releases its death grip on the accelerator to issue a firm order of "whoa!" on the wide, flat pedal to its left. Calipers push, ceramic meets steel, and forward progress recedes. A click of the button and a pull to the rear produces a chirp, and the engine bellows its anger at this--the antithesis of purpose. More pedal pressure, another downshift, and soon the beast rolls to a stop--almost innocently--right on the white line.
A look right. A look left. All lanes are clear of traffic. The engine breathes heavily with anticipation at idle like a boxer at the opening bell. My right foot twitches before it leaves its perch on the brake pedal as the wheel turns to the right. No repeat performance--no brake this time, nor a rude pinning of the gas pedal... slowly we rumble up to speed. The 440 purrs, knowing it will be untethered again soon enough. The victim lies unaware; perhaps it will be a Cobra Jet Ford or a big-block Chevrolet or even a Ram Air Pontiac. Fate will soon enough make the choice of who stumbles across my path, of who will notice the fade and cracking of my taillamps while trying desperately to save face. He knows not what awaits him.
Until then, I will hunt.
