[Griff]

lifted from no-treason.com


Rob Robertson
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Requiem For A Mighty MoPar


Traffic was wide-open travelling south on I-95 out of New Hampshire, and the deep breathing, long-legged Sport Satellite settled nicely into into its favorite 100 mile per hour cruising groove. 7.2 liters of displacement coupled with 3.23 highway gears gave it all the low end torque it needed for handling the in-town chores, but where the pavement turned long and straight the top-end was limited only by a somewhat indifferent front suspension,... and nerve. Being young and not overly-bright meant not having the sense to listen to that spark of reason in my head because there was competition to be found out here, and I would have it.

I'd meant no harm when the pretty little IROC Z retreated in my rearview mirror, and frankly I wasn't interested in wasting gas on an anemic ghost of a past champion. The showroom Chevy raced up beside me, young boys crowding its windows, challenging the old MoPar and its driver as they mouthed, "Let's go!" Bored but curious, I let the Camaro pull ahead by half a car length, making sure to keep the nose of the Plymouth right in the corner of the driver's eye. Easing up to 120, the Chevy had run out of air, or gears, or perhaps guts, and I casually gave them a wave as I eased past right before mashing my foot to the floor, leaving them once again (and finally).

Mustangs also fell by the wayside in the same manner, and I'd always resented the emasculated Corvette owners who gave some pretense to racing yet fell back whenever we approached triple digits. Their machine was 'an investment', or 'a statement', or anything but the instrument for which it was designed; to propel a human being at speeds beyond the sanely acceptable. "The car has more balls than you do," I thought to myself, eyeing the middle-aged, executive type behind the wheel of what *should* have been some real competition. 'Cool it down and pack it up' was the plan to which I'd resigned myself as I looped around to pick up 128 North to Cape Ann.

North of Beverly is where the complexion of Route 128 really changes. The malls and industrial parks are left far behind, as well as the clots of commuters and extra lanes. Dense and green, the trees grew right up to the edge of the highway as well as filling the wide median, blocking the view between the north and southbound lanes. Even at 85 the scene was peaceful, and in my reverie I never noticed the bright red Porche 911 bearing down on me. Alone on that two lane stretch of highway, the Porche smoothly negotiated around me and back into the fast lane, checking his rearview to see if I was willing to give chase.

A slight dip of the nose told him all he need to know, and in a heartbeat our speedometers registered the news; each of us had found the challenge we were looking for.

My stock instrument gauge was useless as the needle swung through 120, pinning itself at the (undesignated) speed of 130, leaving only the tachometer and some ungodly sound from under the hood to tell the tale. NASCAR racing was coming to life, and the high-pitched sound of an engine running past six thousand RPM filled me with visions of pistons punching through the hood. Still the Porche maintained the lead, and drafting was no longer just a buzzword from the broadcasting booth. The 911's whale tail opened a pocket for me to slip into, and moving out to pass left me desperately trying to convince the front-end of the Mighty MoPar that my notion of direction was worthy of merit.

The road pulled up into a slight rise with a sweeping right hand turn at its crest, and at 7400 RPM my motor seemed eager for even more fuel. This was my spot, my only chance to break away from the German fury and prove the mettle of American iron. Standing between me and victory was a sedate little commuter car in the right hand travel lane, blithely rolling along at the posted 55 miles per hour. Fortunately for me (and unfortunately for him), the breakdown lane was just wide enough for the Plymouth's bulging rear fenders plus a jelly donut, and with the most careful input to the steering wheel I could muster, I let the beast drift across the lane, sheering off distance as I took a radically inside line, aiming for an apex between gravel and the station wagon's side molding.

I wondered what the unsuspecting commuter felt as the two speed demons passed him on either side at nearly the exact moment, but by the time I'd pulled back into the passing lane in front of the 911 he was nowhere to be seen in the vibrating mirror. A bit of panic seeped into my brain as I realized that we were fast approaching traffic ahead at what must have been 165 mph, but both the Porche pilot and I throttled back and let it go with a friendly wave. Adrenaline rushed through me, my legs rubbery and jangling as I scrubbed off speed to take my exit, leaving me spent but elated as I mused, "there's no replacement for cubic displacement!"