BBBWWWHAHAHAHAAH
Wonderfully written...........even in my state of flu induced haze, I'm
ROFLMAO...........
Thanks Max!!
Henry
----- Original Message -----
From: "max_stemple" <jasperezra@gmail.com>
To: <diesel_mercedes@yahoogroups.com>
Sent: Tuesday, November 29, 2011 9:36 AM
Subject: [diesel_mercedes] Re: Drag racing in a 240D
--- In diesel_mercedes@yahoogroups.com, "Chip" <czulli@...> wrote:
>
> Max,
>
> I can't use a 240 for drag racing Max.
>
> Chip
> Houston
> I guess you must of missed this story. Max
"I took a ride in my venerable old '83 Mercedes 240D last night. 2.4 liters
of raw power, 4 cylinders of asphalt-tearing terror with 67 rompin stompin
horse power at my beck and call. It's stock, all right, nothing done to it,
but it pushes the 3200 pounds of German engineering around with AUTHORITY.
I'm always catching mopeds and 18-wheelers by surprise...
I was headed back from Baskin Robbins with my manly triple-latte cappuccino
blast ("No Cinnamon, ma'am, I take it BLACK"), when I stopped at a
streetlight. As the "D" rattled its throaty idle around me, I sipped my bold
beverage and wiped the white froth my stiff upper lip. I was minding my own
business, but then I heard a rev from the next lane.
I turned, made eye contact, then let my eyes trace over the competition. Geo
Metro -- a late model, could be trouble. Low profile tires, curb feelers,
and schoolbus-yellow paint. Yep, a hot rod, for sure.
The howl of his motor snapped my reverie, and I looked back into the
driver's eyes, nodded, then blipped my own throttle (Rattle Rattle!!). As I
tugged on my driving gloves and slipped on my sunglasses (gotta look cool to
be fast, and I am *damn* cool, hence...), the night was split with the sound
of seven screaming cylinders...
Then the light turned... I almost had him out of the hole, my four pounding
cylinders thrusting me at least a millimeter back into my seat, as smoke
pouring from exhaust pipe... I'd let it sit and idle too long! I saw in the
corner of my eyes, a yellow snout gaining, and I heard the roar of his three
cylinders. He slung by me, right front wheel juddering against the pavement,
and he flashed me a smile as his gasoline powered 1.1 liters of motor
stretched its legs. I turned off my AC to gain 10% more power and kept my
foot gamely in it. Then I saw a glimpse of chrome under his bumper, and knew
the ugly truth...
He was running a custom exhaust -- probably a 1.5-into-1 dual exhaust...
maybe even cutouts! Damn his hotrod soul! The old lady passing us on the
crosswalk cast a dirty look in our boy-racer direction... Yet still I
persisted, with my four pumping pistons singing a steady, deep, diesel song,
wound fully out. Though only a few handfuls of seconds had passed, we were
nearing the crosswalk at the other side of the intersection, and I heard the
note of his engine change as he made his shift to second, and I saw his grin
in his rearview mirror fade as he missed the shift! I rocketed by! Not ready
to give up so easily, he left his foot in it, revving, and I heard one wheel
*almost* chirp as he finally found second and dropped the clutch. We
careened over the crosswalk, now going at least 15 miles per hour. A
bicyclist passed us, but intent on the race as we were, neither of us batted
an eye.
I was waiting for the first dot on the speedometer to tell me to shift (no
tachometer here!). Shifting, I nursed the clutch gently to keep from
bogging, keeping my motor spinning hot and pulling me ahead, now trailing a
cloud of stinking clutch smoke, no that's diesel exhaust again...
He pulled slowly abreast of me, and neck and neck, I shifted into third at
38 MPH - a little early, but better safe than sorry. The scream of motors
deafening all pedestrians within a five foot circle. He nosed ahead as we
passed 42 miles an hour, then eased in front of me, taunting, as he shifted
into fourth. I decided to keep my car in third, counting on the ability to
pump out the power at higher speeds and lower gears. I was staring up the
dual 6" chrome tips of his exhaust, snarling, my cappuccino forgotten, as he
lifted a little to take the next corner.
I saw my opportunity, and counting on the innate agility of my trusty steed,
I pulled wide into the number two lane and kept my foot buried in carpet.
Slowly, I inched around him, feeling my German Diesel roll slowly to the
left as I came abreast in the midst of this gradual sweeping turn. I felt
the front start to push a little, so I added more power only to realize that
was all I had! But, I saw the right rear wheel lift on the Metro and
realized he had reached his limit! Slowly I gained on him through the
outside of the turn passing him with ease!!!
The Metro driver beat his wheel in rage as my car eased past him on the
outside, my P175/R14's screaming in protest, as we raced to the next light.
We coasted down, neck-and neck, to the red light. I tightened my driving
gloves, ready for another round, when this WIMP in the next car meekly
flipped his turn signal and made a right. MB superiority reigns!!!
I drove off sipping my masculine drink, awash in my sheer virility, looking
for other unwitting targets.... Perhaps a Yugo, or maybe even a Volkswagen
Van! ...Courtesy of Mark Shilling."
Hey, mines a 4-spd, too, Max
W
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