Roothawg
12-09-2003, 09:05 PM
We all met at the Bell gas station East of town.
We had put a lot of thought into the grand scheme. This should work. Why wouldn't it?
As I loped into the parking lot in my old 36 Ford pickup with my girl sitting next to me, I saw Brent and Terry parked around back. I pulled around, shut off the motor and climbed out of the truck.
Hey man, are ya'll ready? "Yeah", Brent said. I'll meet ya back here in 15 minutes. "OK", I replied and walked back to the truck, fired it up and rumbled out of the parking lot with Brent following behind.
Downtown they were gathered in front of the Save-a-Stop, all of the town heroes and their groupies. Their machines... all polished and waxed to a high luster.
People milled around telling stories of their triumphant quests on the streets, forgetting to tell of the defeat they may have suffered as well.
The plan should work, if they take the bait.
The bait? "Yeah...they'll take it" I thought to myself.
As I rumbled through downtown in low gear, the 4.11's in my 57 Chevy rearend made the 327 sing out through the 18 inch glasspacks. Never raising the throttle above 3500 rpm. Just let her sing. One pass through town should be sufficient. Yeah...just one.
As I left town, I took the back roads hoping to not draw a lot of attention to my whereabouts. I circled back and pulled up behind the Bell gas station where I had met Brent earlier. I told my girl to sit tight in the truck til I got back. I jumped out of the truck and into his new Camaro.
We headed downtown to see if it had worked. It must have...the town was buzzing with curiousity about the new guy that had just cruised down Main Street.
The theories reminded me of the JFK conspiracy. Everyone knew the mystery guy, where he was from and who he was after. My buddy Brent, was a local, he was my insider.
Terry, was also somewhat known in the area, since he had relatives that were from there. They had no idea we were friends though.
I just hung out in the back of the crowd listening....learning.
The local hero wasn't scared, or so he said. He knew what he had in his motor and he wasn't afraid to pop the hood and tell the buzzing crowd all about it. He went into explicit detail. He told of all the modifications he had made to the engine. All of his deepest, darkest speed secrets. After assessing the situation I spoke up.
"What makes you think you can beat that guy?" I asked.
One of his groupies spoke up for him,"Because, the Duncan Brothers own the salvage yard and they get all the good parts!" "Oh...I see.", I replied.
"Hey who are you?" The groupie asked.
Me? Nobody........
I guess that was sufficient enough to satisfy the small mental capacity of the follower...so, he wandered off, close in tow to his hero.
"Hey!" Terry yelled out. I know the guy and I'll bet you a hundred bucks you can't take him. The local hero stopped in his tracks.He spins around looking stunned "What did you say?" he spouts.
Terry says again, "You can't take him and I have a 100 that says it's so. "You meet us out on the Chickasha highway at midnight and we'll see who comes out on top" says the town hero.
We'll be there.....Terry answers.
The side bets were going crazy. Everyone was stacking the odds in his favor. After all, The Duncan's had a 1967 390 powered Cougar and a 4 speed to top it off. He had never been beaten in that car since it's completion, not much of a feat in a town of 6500. Nonetheless, he was the reigning world champion driver round these parts.
I caught a ride with Brent back to the truck where the girfriend was sitting with that"Where have you been?" look on her face. I pulled in behind Brent and followed him out of town and onto the deserted stretch of road they called the Chickasha highway.
I started to see black marks as we approached the perfect stretch of road. It had an oilfield access road on both ends of the quarter mile. This is where the cars started to congregate. Soon the cars lined both sides of the highway waiting for the climactic finish of a Saturday night.
I saw the Cougar coming through the sea of headlights. He inched up to the primitive starting line and waited. I rolled off the access road and lined up next to him. I told my girl to get out and hold the money at the other end to keep everyone honest.
At this point, they still hadn't made the connection that I was the stranger in the crowd. My 36 had smoke gray windows so it was hard to make out great detail on things such as facial features and more importantly..... identities.
Once my girl had collected all of the bets at the finsih line, they flashed their headlights to let us know they were ready. I guess they figured that any guy that would put his girl up for collateral wouldn't possibly run off with their money. They had no idea that I would have traded her for a good carburetor, at the drop of a hat.
I started the 36 and revved her up just for a little atmosphere music. His 67 roared to life as he turned on his lights. It was a full moon overhead, and it lit up the highway in an eerie shade of blue. His brother would be the flagman.Then the most bizarre thing happened he opened the trunk of his car. Uh oh....is he turning on the bottle? Nope, his brother returns with a jug in his hand. He pours out an unidentifiable liquid onto the ground in front of his brother's tires. Now, these are street tires, not wrinkle walled slicks. He does a burnout that would make John Force proud. "Man, I may be in trouble" I think outloud. Then his brother taps on my window. "You want some earl?" He asks me ina thick Oklahoma accent. "Uh...what?" I reply. "Earl...ya know, used earl makes em tires sticky."
"No thanks" I told him ....not believing what I had just heard. Using used motor oil for a tire additive....could I get this lucky?
I'll flag ya....when the flashlight comes on...ya'll go.
OK, I'm ready...fire at will. I popped off.
I rolled down the driver's window just far enough that I could give the old hero a wink. His jaw dropped as the lightbulb over his head came on. I brought up the rpm's while footbraking it. I could effectively hold the 36 to about 3500 and then she would creep.
He brought up his rpm's, with the clutch depressed, still looking over with a dazed look on his face. The flashlight comes on, the 327 screams to life as the r's start to climb.
He dumps the clutch on the Cougar and we are off!!
5500....5800....6500...I look up in the mirror and I see his headlights pointing off to the left. He's sitting still!! Oh, it's impressive to the groupies, the John Force burnout continues.
I grab second and see him gaining in the mirror. It's hard to judge the distance but I am taking no chances. I hammer on...no mercy. I grab high gear and push the rusty spoon pedal to the floor. I streak through the mass of cars on both sides, looking for that spray painted stripe accross the road. Finally , I cross the line with the Cougar well behind. The locals start running up to the truck screaming their take on the race. "6 Carlengths!" "8 carlengths!!"
The distance got greater each time the story was told.
I kicked open the passenger door and yelled at my girl "GET IN!!"...She jumps in , I flogged the throttle again. "We gotta get out of here...before those mental giants figure it out!" The pipes bellowed and we disappeared in to the distance. There is a 2 part moral to this story. There is always someone faster and they are always willing to take your money.
We had put a lot of thought into the grand scheme. This should work. Why wouldn't it?
As I loped into the parking lot in my old 36 Ford pickup with my girl sitting next to me, I saw Brent and Terry parked around back. I pulled around, shut off the motor and climbed out of the truck.
Hey man, are ya'll ready? "Yeah", Brent said. I'll meet ya back here in 15 minutes. "OK", I replied and walked back to the truck, fired it up and rumbled out of the parking lot with Brent following behind.
Downtown they were gathered in front of the Save-a-Stop, all of the town heroes and their groupies. Their machines... all polished and waxed to a high luster.
People milled around telling stories of their triumphant quests on the streets, forgetting to tell of the defeat they may have suffered as well.
The plan should work, if they take the bait.
The bait? "Yeah...they'll take it" I thought to myself.
As I rumbled through downtown in low gear, the 4.11's in my 57 Chevy rearend made the 327 sing out through the 18 inch glasspacks. Never raising the throttle above 3500 rpm. Just let her sing. One pass through town should be sufficient. Yeah...just one.
As I left town, I took the back roads hoping to not draw a lot of attention to my whereabouts. I circled back and pulled up behind the Bell gas station where I had met Brent earlier. I told my girl to sit tight in the truck til I got back. I jumped out of the truck and into his new Camaro.
We headed downtown to see if it had worked. It must have...the town was buzzing with curiousity about the new guy that had just cruised down Main Street.
The theories reminded me of the JFK conspiracy. Everyone knew the mystery guy, where he was from and who he was after. My buddy Brent, was a local, he was my insider.
Terry, was also somewhat known in the area, since he had relatives that were from there. They had no idea we were friends though.
I just hung out in the back of the crowd listening....learning.
The local hero wasn't scared, or so he said. He knew what he had in his motor and he wasn't afraid to pop the hood and tell the buzzing crowd all about it. He went into explicit detail. He told of all the modifications he had made to the engine. All of his deepest, darkest speed secrets. After assessing the situation I spoke up.
"What makes you think you can beat that guy?" I asked.
One of his groupies spoke up for him,"Because, the Duncan Brothers own the salvage yard and they get all the good parts!" "Oh...I see.", I replied.
"Hey who are you?" The groupie asked.
Me? Nobody........
I guess that was sufficient enough to satisfy the small mental capacity of the follower...so, he wandered off, close in tow to his hero.
"Hey!" Terry yelled out. I know the guy and I'll bet you a hundred bucks you can't take him. The local hero stopped in his tracks.He spins around looking stunned "What did you say?" he spouts.
Terry says again, "You can't take him and I have a 100 that says it's so. "You meet us out on the Chickasha highway at midnight and we'll see who comes out on top" says the town hero.
We'll be there.....Terry answers.
The side bets were going crazy. Everyone was stacking the odds in his favor. After all, The Duncan's had a 1967 390 powered Cougar and a 4 speed to top it off. He had never been beaten in that car since it's completion, not much of a feat in a town of 6500. Nonetheless, he was the reigning world champion driver round these parts.
I caught a ride with Brent back to the truck where the girfriend was sitting with that"Where have you been?" look on her face. I pulled in behind Brent and followed him out of town and onto the deserted stretch of road they called the Chickasha highway.
I started to see black marks as we approached the perfect stretch of road. It had an oilfield access road on both ends of the quarter mile. This is where the cars started to congregate. Soon the cars lined both sides of the highway waiting for the climactic finish of a Saturday night.
I saw the Cougar coming through the sea of headlights. He inched up to the primitive starting line and waited. I rolled off the access road and lined up next to him. I told my girl to get out and hold the money at the other end to keep everyone honest.
At this point, they still hadn't made the connection that I was the stranger in the crowd. My 36 had smoke gray windows so it was hard to make out great detail on things such as facial features and more importantly..... identities.
Once my girl had collected all of the bets at the finsih line, they flashed their headlights to let us know they were ready. I guess they figured that any guy that would put his girl up for collateral wouldn't possibly run off with their money. They had no idea that I would have traded her for a good carburetor, at the drop of a hat.
I started the 36 and revved her up just for a little atmosphere music. His 67 roared to life as he turned on his lights. It was a full moon overhead, and it lit up the highway in an eerie shade of blue. His brother would be the flagman.Then the most bizarre thing happened he opened the trunk of his car. Uh oh....is he turning on the bottle? Nope, his brother returns with a jug in his hand. He pours out an unidentifiable liquid onto the ground in front of his brother's tires. Now, these are street tires, not wrinkle walled slicks. He does a burnout that would make John Force proud. "Man, I may be in trouble" I think outloud. Then his brother taps on my window. "You want some earl?" He asks me ina thick Oklahoma accent. "Uh...what?" I reply. "Earl...ya know, used earl makes em tires sticky."
"No thanks" I told him ....not believing what I had just heard. Using used motor oil for a tire additive....could I get this lucky?
I'll flag ya....when the flashlight comes on...ya'll go.
OK, I'm ready...fire at will. I popped off.
I rolled down the driver's window just far enough that I could give the old hero a wink. His jaw dropped as the lightbulb over his head came on. I brought up the rpm's while footbraking it. I could effectively hold the 36 to about 3500 and then she would creep.
He brought up his rpm's, with the clutch depressed, still looking over with a dazed look on his face. The flashlight comes on, the 327 screams to life as the r's start to climb.
He dumps the clutch on the Cougar and we are off!!
5500....5800....6500...I look up in the mirror and I see his headlights pointing off to the left. He's sitting still!! Oh, it's impressive to the groupies, the John Force burnout continues.
I grab second and see him gaining in the mirror. It's hard to judge the distance but I am taking no chances. I hammer on...no mercy. I grab high gear and push the rusty spoon pedal to the floor. I streak through the mass of cars on both sides, looking for that spray painted stripe accross the road. Finally , I cross the line with the Cougar well behind. The locals start running up to the truck screaming their take on the race. "6 Carlengths!" "8 carlengths!!"
The distance got greater each time the story was told.
I kicked open the passenger door and yelled at my girl "GET IN!!"...She jumps in , I flogged the throttle again. "We gotta get out of here...before those mental giants figure it out!" The pipes bellowed and we disappeared in to the distance. There is a 2 part moral to this story. There is always someone faster and they are always willing to take your money.