Last Monday, I succumbed again to MSS, and purchased a black (was white, and then silver, and then spraycanned black) 1983 P-type. Terra cotta interior, 3" exhaust, no muffler, smashed up a bit in the front end. Nice Riiken mesh wheels on it, 16x8 or so in the front, 16x9 in the back. Eibachs and KYBs (probably just GR2s) all around, but she handles okay. I mean, clearly, I bought it for the suspension. $1600 all in. Oh, one downside, though.
The turbo seal is blown and it burns some oil. Enough about my new car, though.
Tara came with me to pick it up. Gave Braden his money, took the car, and went for a spin. Suspicions confirmed, it burns a LOT of oil. Ate some dinner, sat around and BSed while I giggled like a schoolgirl, and then, of course, Ryan (Funkycheeze) phones. Or Tara phoned him, one or the other. I don't remember. Now, you're all probably familiar with Funky' car. It's shiny, it's red, it's meticulously restored and built, and it's FAST. So, naturally, he wants to see what this abomination I've actually paid money is capable of. He tells us to meet him at Tara's place. No problem. We swing back to the shop, pick Tara's car up, and I follow her home, because no one should have to be behind that thing when it's blowing a heinous cloud of blue smoke.
After making a quick stop at Crappy Tire to buy white spraypaint (you'll see) and after having a few people kind of choke and gag on my smokescreen, shouting things like "Oh, that's not good!" and "There's something wrong with your car!" we managed to get back to her place just in time to meet Ryan. Now, the thing about Ryan is that he does not own or drive anything slow. His winter vehicle, a Dodge Dakota, is faster than a stock MkIII turbo. His summer car, the MkII, makes me cry a little inside. But the MkII isn't insured right now, and I didn't think he'd just bring the truck to take me for 'a drive.'
Ryan's idea of 'a drive' is enough to do one of two things. If you're driving a slow car, he'll disappear and you'll never catch him, but in trying to keep up, your foot will never leave the floor. If you're driving a fast car, though, you'll spend the entire time peeing your pants, well out of your comfort zone, forming blisters on your hands from gripping your steering wheel so hard.
Not one to disappoint, he showed up in his father's track-built BMW M3. I wept a little, and started up the gas chamber again. After a couple pulls heading over to the big friggin' freeway that runs north/south in this city (Highway 2 as it runs through the city, actually) I'm starting to realize that the car is exceptionally fast. That's both very encouraging, and absolutely terrifying. The freeway run wasn't too bad, just a bit of a headache trying to get over into the far left lane so there's nothing in the way. Eventually, after perhaps startling a few people who weren't really expecting a BMW M3 to be pursued past them by a grotesque monster of a MkII, we pull off onto another road...
...and I immediately realize, on the exit ramp, that I am following a track built BMW M3 into a corner at...oh, 120km/h. Slam on the brakes before the corner, drop it into second, nearly stall it out due to a shitty ISCV, and take off after him. Not much longer, I'm back up to 140, and gaining ground. By the time I catch up, we've both slowed down to a slightly less terrifying speed, about ninety, and we realize that past a quick pack of traffic, there's a red light at the bottom of the hill. He takes the far left in the three lane road, I take the far right, and there's some big, dumb looking truck between us. I'm gunning for him, he's gunning for me, and the truck just happens to be in the middle.
The funny thing about domestic truck owners, like the man who owned this Dodge Ram 1500, is that they seem to think they've bought a sports car that just happens to be really big, because hey, Cletus, this thing got a hemi! This truck owner is no different. I don't know what he saw, the MkII, or the BMW, or both, but he sure thought we wanted to race. Which, I guess, we did. We just didn't care about him.
I rev the engine up before the light turns green and let the clutch out as it does, and the car surprises me by being very controlled off the line -- then, I guess, I was only revving at about 3k. Turbo spools, car screams like a banshee, and first gear is gone. 4.30s are useless. Second gear kicks the car out to the side at wide open throttle, and I vainly try third to get some traction. I succeed, and the Supra-shaped SCUD takes off up the hill, flying away from the BMW and the truck. Every gear, all the way up into fifth, has the car breaking traction. My fingers turn white from gripping the Piggy wheel that's been transplanted in, and I suddenly realize that if I wasn't perfectly rigid, planted back into my seat, I would be shaking uncontrollably out of pure terror.
Up the hill, I slow down as the BMW catches up, the Ram having been left behind like it was standing still. Secretly, I hope the owner of the truck goes home and kills himself that night, because his life and everything he believed about his wicked-sweet whip is a lie. I change lanes next to the BMW and sort of hope that Ryan will slow down, because I'm about ready to pass out, and instead, Tara rolls down her window. Grateful for the reprieve, I roll mine down as well (I missed power windows) and shout over to her.
"What?"
"IT SHOOTS FLAMES!"
Amid a fit of giggling, she shows me between her hands how long they were. Apparently, the gas chamber is also a gas-powered grill, blowing a foot of smoke out the straight pipe where both cat and muffler should have been, but aren't. She rolls her window up, silenced by Ryan's sudden acceleration, and I'm forced to follow suit to keep up. My night of terror isn't quite over yet, but that was the eventful and harrowing part of it, at least. The rest is a bit more sedate.
What did I learn from all of this? Firstly, I learned that Violet, when I'm finished transplanting this car's drivetrain into her, is going to be an absolutely ridiculous beast, and also extremely pretty. Win-win situation. Secondly, though, and possibly more importantly, I learned that I really like living whereas before I could have gone either way. It's amazing what your first balls-out drive in a really fast car that you're unfamiliar with can show you by way of how much you like your body in one piece, with all your synapses firing.
I've never driven it that hard since then, and I don't feel bad about it. Since that night, I've embarrassed everything from Sunfires to 350Zs to riced out Civics and Preludes, but I don't think I've touched wide open throttle purely out of fear that it'll break the back end free at 140km/h and send me into a wild spin into something hard and painful.
Moral of the story? I both love and respect my 7M-GTE.
The turbo seal is blown and it burns some oil. Enough about my new car, though.
Tara came with me to pick it up. Gave Braden his money, took the car, and went for a spin. Suspicions confirmed, it burns a LOT of oil. Ate some dinner, sat around and BSed while I giggled like a schoolgirl, and then, of course, Ryan (Funkycheeze) phones. Or Tara phoned him, one or the other. I don't remember. Now, you're all probably familiar with Funky' car. It's shiny, it's red, it's meticulously restored and built, and it's FAST. So, naturally, he wants to see what this abomination I've actually paid money is capable of. He tells us to meet him at Tara's place. No problem. We swing back to the shop, pick Tara's car up, and I follow her home, because no one should have to be behind that thing when it's blowing a heinous cloud of blue smoke.
After making a quick stop at Crappy Tire to buy white spraypaint (you'll see) and after having a few people kind of choke and gag on my smokescreen, shouting things like "Oh, that's not good!" and "There's something wrong with your car!" we managed to get back to her place just in time to meet Ryan. Now, the thing about Ryan is that he does not own or drive anything slow. His winter vehicle, a Dodge Dakota, is faster than a stock MkIII turbo. His summer car, the MkII, makes me cry a little inside. But the MkII isn't insured right now, and I didn't think he'd just bring the truck to take me for 'a drive.'
Ryan's idea of 'a drive' is enough to do one of two things. If you're driving a slow car, he'll disappear and you'll never catch him, but in trying to keep up, your foot will never leave the floor. If you're driving a fast car, though, you'll spend the entire time peeing your pants, well out of your comfort zone, forming blisters on your hands from gripping your steering wheel so hard.
Not one to disappoint, he showed up in his father's track-built BMW M3. I wept a little, and started up the gas chamber again. After a couple pulls heading over to the big friggin' freeway that runs north/south in this city (Highway 2 as it runs through the city, actually) I'm starting to realize that the car is exceptionally fast. That's both very encouraging, and absolutely terrifying. The freeway run wasn't too bad, just a bit of a headache trying to get over into the far left lane so there's nothing in the way. Eventually, after perhaps startling a few people who weren't really expecting a BMW M3 to be pursued past them by a grotesque monster of a MkII, we pull off onto another road...
...and I immediately realize, on the exit ramp, that I am following a track built BMW M3 into a corner at...oh, 120km/h. Slam on the brakes before the corner, drop it into second, nearly stall it out due to a shitty ISCV, and take off after him. Not much longer, I'm back up to 140, and gaining ground. By the time I catch up, we've both slowed down to a slightly less terrifying speed, about ninety, and we realize that past a quick pack of traffic, there's a red light at the bottom of the hill. He takes the far left in the three lane road, I take the far right, and there's some big, dumb looking truck between us. I'm gunning for him, he's gunning for me, and the truck just happens to be in the middle.
The funny thing about domestic truck owners, like the man who owned this Dodge Ram 1500, is that they seem to think they've bought a sports car that just happens to be really big, because hey, Cletus, this thing got a hemi! This truck owner is no different. I don't know what he saw, the MkII, or the BMW, or both, but he sure thought we wanted to race. Which, I guess, we did. We just didn't care about him.
I rev the engine up before the light turns green and let the clutch out as it does, and the car surprises me by being very controlled off the line -- then, I guess, I was only revving at about 3k. Turbo spools, car screams like a banshee, and first gear is gone. 4.30s are useless. Second gear kicks the car out to the side at wide open throttle, and I vainly try third to get some traction. I succeed, and the Supra-shaped SCUD takes off up the hill, flying away from the BMW and the truck. Every gear, all the way up into fifth, has the car breaking traction. My fingers turn white from gripping the Piggy wheel that's been transplanted in, and I suddenly realize that if I wasn't perfectly rigid, planted back into my seat, I would be shaking uncontrollably out of pure terror.
Up the hill, I slow down as the BMW catches up, the Ram having been left behind like it was standing still. Secretly, I hope the owner of the truck goes home and kills himself that night, because his life and everything he believed about his wicked-sweet whip is a lie. I change lanes next to the BMW and sort of hope that Ryan will slow down, because I'm about ready to pass out, and instead, Tara rolls down her window. Grateful for the reprieve, I roll mine down as well (I missed power windows) and shout over to her.
"What?"
"IT SHOOTS FLAMES!"
Amid a fit of giggling, she shows me between her hands how long they were. Apparently, the gas chamber is also a gas-powered grill, blowing a foot of smoke out the straight pipe where both cat and muffler should have been, but aren't. She rolls her window up, silenced by Ryan's sudden acceleration, and I'm forced to follow suit to keep up. My night of terror isn't quite over yet, but that was the eventful and harrowing part of it, at least. The rest is a bit more sedate.
What did I learn from all of this? Firstly, I learned that Violet, when I'm finished transplanting this car's drivetrain into her, is going to be an absolutely ridiculous beast, and also extremely pretty. Win-win situation. Secondly, though, and possibly more importantly, I learned that I really like living whereas before I could have gone either way. It's amazing what your first balls-out drive in a really fast car that you're unfamiliar with can show you by way of how much you like your body in one piece, with all your synapses firing.
I've never driven it that hard since then, and I don't feel bad about it. Since that night, I've embarrassed everything from Sunfires to 350Zs to riced out Civics and Preludes, but I don't think I've touched wide open throttle purely out of fear that it'll break the back end free at 140km/h and send me into a wild spin into something hard and painful.
Moral of the story? I both love and respect my 7M-GTE.
