The Monday after Black Friday, which I like to call "Broke Monday" due to my wife's spending habits on the weekend following Thanksgiving, was winding down as I drove out of the bank parking lot and pointed my Saturn south like some great migratory metallic bird. A suffocating gray blanket of rain and wind had covered the coast for the past few days but it was finally beginning to break. Up ahead, a dying sun was casting its final few rays across the horizon.
DING! DING! DING!
The noise startled me out of my daydreaming stupor and I immediately looked over at the instrument panel. The "LOW FUEL" message was flashing angrily at me as if I was criminally negligent for not refilling it sooner. But as I would shortly learn, this was extremely fortuitous. So I pulled around in an anonymous leaf-littered driveway and reversed my direction, now heading to the nearest Chevron station. On this particular afternoon, the normally-bustling gas stop was bizarrely vacant and devoid of any activity. It was as if some super-flu had wiped out all traces of life and I was the last person on earth. However, the fact that premium unleaded was still $3.50 per gallon assuaged my fears that I was not alone and that civilization was still very much alive and kicking.
As I was pumping 93 octane at the obscene rate of something like twenty-five dollars per minute, I surveyed the sky above the tree tops. True enough, the rain was leaving but only because it was yielding to a massive cold-front that would plunge the temperature into the twenties. It was so frigid, in fact, that snow was forecasted for areas only a couple hundred miles north of the steamy Gulf.
My train-of-thought was suddenly derailed by the aural assault of something small and red hitting the interstate apex across the highway. It was a Honda Civic and the owner was driving as if he was qualifying for the Indy 500. He flew down the street beside me, completely ignorant of the danger he was posing to other motorists, with the exhaust shrieking like a weed-whacker gone wild.
"If you're going to race around like that, you'd better be able to back it up" I muttered to myself. Still, I knew he'd be long gone by the time I finished filling my thirteen gallon tank.
After a seeming eternity, the fuel dispenser clicked-off and I began screwing the gas cap back on as quickly as possible to escape the North Wind's icy scythe.
Just then, the red Civic darted past again and I knew I had a very narrow window of opportunity to catch him.
Naturally, the previously deserted convenience store began filling with other automobiles, all of whom were acting as moving chicanes in my attempt to extricate myself.
I whipped out of the Chevron parking lot and ran straight up on two vehicles in front of me. Further ahead, the scarlet Civic was crossing the center divider and heading west. He was still driving like a madman and that was making it even harder for me to pursue him, never mind catch him.
Once I reached the main highway, my eagerness got the best of me and I attempted to accelerate a little too enthusiastically. The front wheels spun like slot machine reels and I lost precious time.
Moments later, I caught sight of him again just as he was overtaking two slower cars a half-mile ahead. But by now, I was in fifth gear and determined to bridge the gap. I stole a quick glance at the speedometer, and without even trying, noticed I was already cracking a buck twenty. It was clearly automotive roulette-- I was hedging my bets that the next hill I crested would not have a State Trooper or Sheriff on the other side. At the rate of speed I was traveling, they wouldn't need a radar gun reading to throw me under the jail.
Up ahead, the Honda was diving for an exit with a couple of pickup trucks dawdling along behind it.
By the time I made it to the exit, I glanced both ways but could not see the errant Civic. I looked again and spotted a small crimson dot quickly vanishing on the horizon. Obviously, it was the opposite direction I needed to go but after all I had been through, I decided I couldn't throw in the towel now. I grabbed first gear and blasted off after him in a pallid haze of tire smoke and spent exhaust.
In front of me, the pristine four-lane thoroughfare unfurled like two endless ribbons of black velvet. It was one of the newest highways in the state and was smoother than Lafitte Foie Gras. It was also surprisingly empty which would make my highway showdown a lot easier.
I had the Civic in my sights and was drawing closer. He was running a steady eighty so I pushed the RL beyond a hundred a couple times to ultimately catch him.
A burnt orange serape was settling over the countryside as the last streams of light filtered through the long-leaf pines. At last, I was just a couple car-lengths behind and closing fast. I could distinctly tell by the body style that it looked to be a seventh generation Civic produced between 2001-2005. It was not the jellybean-shaped Si model that boasted a 160hp engine but rather the much more pedestrian EX with 127hp.
And in a garish display of taste (or lack thereof) the Civic was plastered with two-feet tall black letters that looked to be stolen from a roadside attraction sign. "CIVIC" was splashed across the back end while "VTEC" stretched the length of the driver's side door. Judging by the graffiti-sized text, I deduced the owner was either extremely juvenile or visually-impaired.
As I passed him, I looked over but could only make out a shadowy profile behind the deeply-tinted windows. I expected him to give chase but I think he was more bewildered by the personal affront than anything. I traveled a couple hundred feet ahead and he hung back, as if silently studying the silver interloper in front of him.
Given the fact that less than 6,900 Red Lines were produced between 2004-2007, I figured there was probably a good chance he didn't know what the hell he was looking at. Sure, he could read the "SATURN" inscribed on the rear bumper and see the "ION" badge on the trunk, but I'm fairly certain he missed the discrete Red Line insignia which is not much bigger than a postage stamp. Unlike him, I chose not to advertise the fact that a supercharged engine with 265-horses was spinning under the hood. No tacky graphics, garish vanity plate, or Starbucks-sized exhaust tip would sully the appearance of my car.
Finally, he took the bait and began closing in for the (presumed) kill. I decelerated and dropped from fifth to fourth, and then to third, at around 65 mph. As he pulled alongside, I wondered if I should do a three-honk countdown but decided against it. Instead, with the drop of my right Rockport I flattened the throttle and the race was on!
Almost instantly, I heard the Honda respond but my Eaton supercharger was furiously converting the altered atmosphere into forward momentum and I surged ahead. As I looked in the rear view mirror, the embattled Civic was dropping further and further back. There was also a thick, black cloud developing behind the Honda that I guessed was the engine running richer than Donald Trump.
Third gear redlined around 100 mph and I was so far out in front that I lazily shifted into fifth gear. But when I looked back, I noticed the oily plume had blossomed behind the hapless Honda and was growing larger every second. Furthermore, the Civic was drifting toward the shoulder as if no longer operating under its own power. It was then that I began to surmise something was amiss and I reflected back on a televised Formula 1 race when an engine imploded in a very similar fashion.
Anti-climatic? Absolutely.
Disappointing? Definitely.
A case of premature acceleration? Maybe.
There was a u-turn available so I slowed and swung around. As I passed the luckless Civic, I could see the hood was up. The owner was peering intently into the engine bay as if concentrating hard enough might miraculously revive the car. I briefly contemplated stopping but realized there was nothing I could do. These days, everyone has a cell phone and a friend or tow-truck is just a call away.
Instead, I reflected on what had just happened. Honda engines are arguably some of the toughest on earth. They have rev-limiters and fuel cut-offs to prevent such damage. Usually, when a part fails in an engine the injury is transparent from the outside. Something BIG had to go wrong to create that Hiroshima-sized mushroom cloud.
Unfortunately, it was too dark and I didn't race him long enough to garner any tell-tale signs of what grenaded the motor. However, I'm fairly certain some type of forced induction was required to achieve that level of destruction. If it was nitrous, I didn't see him purge, but it is the least expensive and most volatile of power-adders. Then again, a turbocharger could have perforated a piston but I never heard a blow-off valve, something the ricer set is usually pretty quick to broadcast.
In street-racing parlance, a "kill" is when one car is defeated by another. And in this instance, I truly "killed" that Honda. Regrettably, it only makes the possibilities even more tantalizing as I can't help but wonder how the race would have turned out otherwise.
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