I used to drag race -- was cruising through small Conneticut towns on an early Sunday morning, after the Chicago Convention, tryin' to save on toll road fees, "camping out" on a creek in a small town. Driving a Beetle, when another "Beetle", one with this "old" guy pulled up next to me at the stoplight and grinned, revved the engine. Blasted my *** to the next traffice light (now, mine was bored, stroked, ported, tuned piped, multiple carbed and cammed up). He looked over at me grinning, said "It's really a Porsche, underneath." I didn't firgure it out 'til probably years later, it was Paul Newman.
I used to do sanctioned races, didn't cheat, but when I won -- gave my date the trophies for "being the best woman in the world," (at THAT moment, she WAS with ME, so that alone made her the "best"!) After all, what was I gonna' do with all those trophies, otherwise, melt them down into cannonballs?
But, I learned about 40 years ago, that a scoop the size of a garbage can, 12" wide stripes, big tires, loud pipes and burning rubber down the street doesn't impress much of anyone but my date's father when I brought her home 2 hours past curfew -- "What'a y'all been doin'?, where y'all been this late at night" "Oh, just DRAG RACING, why are YOU still up? "
CARRY on!
GARY