On my way in to the shop this morning in the roadster, I pulled up to a red light. Spidey senses tingling, I look over my shoulder only to see one of Phoenix’ finest creeping up on my quarter panel. He’s rolling his window down and I’m thinking for sure the open headers have finally got me busted. No such luck… He looks the car over and then to me saying “Let’s race”. I give him a little throttle blip and the light goes green. He lit outta there like a scalded dog. Son. Of. A. Bitch…. I just got smoked by a cop!
I’d been behind the wheel of the race car plenty of times. Even on the hallowed ground of the Bonneville Salt Flats. The number of those times behind the wheel while the engine was running? Exactly zero… Today was my day and I… well, I was shittin’ bricks… this was a fresh motor and it’s not like we showed up at the dyno to run our mouth.
As the car was strapped down, and I cannot explain what made me do this, but I wandered over to the corner about 25 feet from the car, snatched the fire bottle off the wall, placing it a few steps between the car and the guy running the rollers for us. You can bet the farm that I made some sarcastic remark about not needing that funky yellow powder all over the place….
Quickly I leaned that “driving” this thing wasn’t quite as frightening as I’d “hoped”. It was exhilarating to squeeze into the throttle and toss the seemingly miles long shifter around. I just didn’t want to hurt the car or look like an idiot. Or look like an idiot by hurting the car. Or hurt the car by being an idiot…