You may remember that this time last year I had a street race with a mysterious Honda. It inexplicably imploded not far into our highway match, thereby leaving me with an ambiguous victory. The intervening twelve months have been pretty uninspiring, thanks in no small part to the State of Mississippi funneling $7 million of our tax-dollars into over 100 new members of the Highway Patrol. With this, each of the six southern counties saw their Gestapo-like presence swell from 16 to 36 full-time officers. And these new recruits have been patrolling the roads with all the zealousness of the Third Reich, convinced they are saving the world one traffic ticket at a time.
The evening began innocently enough with me picking up my mother for our first visit to the new Edd's Drive-in located in Wade. A Pascagoula family institution since 1953, the residents of north Jackson county have been salivating over their new location since the announcement in 2010. My mom has ridden in my car only a handful of times, so as I pulled onto Highway 63 I instructed her to watch the boost gauge on my Aeroforce Interceptor. I explained that under normal conditions, the boost gauge displays the manifold vacuum pressure, but under full-throttle the number quickly jumps from negative to positive as the intake manifold pressure exceeds atmospheric pressure. After a quick blast through second-gear, I pointed out that the supercharger generated 15.1 PSI but I could tell that number didn't mean a thing to her. Instead, she was just excited that her sun visor was equipped with a mirror.
After a year of inconsistent operation, my cruise-control finally stopped working so I've been having to manually keep the accelerator pedal down until the new part arrives. While this isn't too bad, it's much harder to keep my lead foot at a safe and prudent speed. Previously, I had relied on the cruise-control for this, so it's been a bit of a challenge lately. But as I was squirming around trying to comfortably position the gas pedal, I spotted a sinister-looking Camaro pulling up to the highway.
It was as black as a coal chamber and a vintage model at that. I literally did a double-take because it looked like something I'd see at a classic car show, not roaming the woods in Wade. As I passed by, I glanced behind to see it pull out. Unexpectedly, the backend whip-sawed around. Then it snapped back to the other side as the driver struggled to keep it between the ditches. With driving like that, I was willing to bet that he had me in his crosshairs. However, I maintained the speed limit as I watched him draw closer and closer, until the Camaro's visage completely filled my rear-view mirror.
From the profile, I could tell it was a '69 and I saw the red and silver Z/28 emblem on the grille. But muscle-cars like these are always a gamble; I'd seen enough to know that it could be packing anything from a mild 302 all the way up to a monstrous 454 V8. Still, I wasn't going to let him bully me and if I was going down, it wouldn't be without a fight.
We were stopped at a red light, there was a truck in front of me, and my mind was running through a thousand different scenarios, none of which I hoped ended with me going to jail for street racing. As the light turned green, I cautiously pulled away but couldn't do anything yet with the truck ahead of me. Meanwhile, the Camaro was lurking right behind me, like a black panther waiting to pounce. Around 40mph, the truck moved over, inviting an empty lane ahead. As we passed the truck, the right lane opened up as well, save for a car that was maybe an eighth-mile ahead. Suddenly, the Camaro darted into the right lane and I knew it was now or never. Instinctively, I nailed the throttle and realized I was in a gear too high, fourth instead of third. This observation hit me with stunning clarity as the Camaro roared alongside. And like my life flashing before me eyes, I had a brief moment to reflect on what was possibly wrong with the picture: I recognized that the wrong gear and the extra 200 lbs my car was encumbered with, courtesy of my mother and a full tank of gas, might possibly be the nail in my coffin.
The Camaro was pulling ahead and my front bumper was at his door. I stole a quick glance at the tachometer and saw it was passing 4500rpm, still some 2500rpm before my engine develops maximum power. But up ahead, the solitary straggler in the right lane was looming fast. If I could hold off the Camaro for just a couple more seconds, he would have to hit the brakes and concede defeat.
With my foot flat against the accelerator, and the supercharging continuing to build boost, I froze the angry Camaro from pulling away. Perhaps two-seconds passed-- although it seemed like an eternity-- and the Camaro was hard on the brakes, swerving in behind me to avoid rear-ending the hapless motorist.
"HA!" my mother exclaimed in a surprising outburst of solidarity.
Just then, the turn-off for Edd's was in front of me and I began slowing for it. The Camaro blew past, its full-throttle exhaust an effigy of failure. My mom observed, "There goes your friend!" To which I replied, "He's not my friend, but I bet he sure was shocked that this little four-cylinder kicked his V8 ass!" Some research later turned up that the '69 Z28's solid-lifter 302 was conservatively rated at 290hp but a host of options (twin 600-cfm Holleys with a cross-ram manifold, 4.10:1 gears and Chambered exhaust pipes) made it a potent performer. A quarter-mile time of 14.8 seconds at 101 mph is given which sounds about right for what I saw. Regardless, I'd love a side-by-side rematch in third gear with no passenger and no interference from the local gendarmerie.
Aside from the twenty-minute wait to order, and the forty-minutes to receive our "fast food", dinner at Edd's was unremarkable-- the hamburgers were tiny, the fries were stale and the cold drinks were warm. But the night was certainly memorable for my mother who, at eighty-years young, got to experience her first highway drag race!
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