Fasten Your Seatbelts

And to quote AFI’s 94th greatest movie quote of all time:

"I’ve got the need – the need for speed!"

I don’t have any good speeding ticket stories to relay, so please check out Rob’s and Sara’s recent accounts for highway hijinx blogging. No, there are no police cars or high-speed chases in this story, just a battle for the road between two fine specimens of vehicular craftsmanship. This road (figuratively speaking) isn’t big enough for the both of them.

(Literally speaking, it was a four-lane road, so I guess it is.)

The setting is a traffic light on Eisenhower Avenue in Alexandria, VA. Alexandria, as few may know, stands only slightly behind LeMans, Indianapolis, and Daytona as a mecca for high-performance racers. Some would say I was in said mecca because of the caliber of car I drive. (Others would say I was on my way to class.)

As I toed the intersection line in my street warrior, a ’99 Honda Accord, I knew that no one ruled the road like me. I’ve got the finest features of a top-notch driving machine: air conditioning, seats, power windows, 3 out of 4 doors that work. I move in a veritable drag race dream. As far as I’m concerned I own the road. But then hesitation pulled up along side of me.

Lamborghini. Countach.

I thought those things were just in the movies. But sure enough, a bright red monster of a sports car had lined up at the traffic light to my left. If you need a visual, click here. And the guy inside this thing? Older white guy, probably late 50s. Cool glasses. Sharply Dressed. I couldn’t make out what he was listening to, but to take away from his visage of cool, I’m going to report it as Paul Anka.

So there we were, two road warriors waiting side-by-side at the traffic light at Cameron Parke Place. Now kids, YAB does not in any way endorse drag racing. It is very illegal, very dangerous, and just plain not feasible in rush hour traffic. Fortunately, Mr. Countach shares the same respect and concern as YAB for driving safety and the law, so he wasn’t about to blast off the line, either.But the score still needs settling.

I don’t know where Mr. Countach was headed, but frankly, I didn’t care. I needed to prove once and for all which was a better brand of sports car – a Lamborghini or an Accord. He appeared to not even care that I was staring him down, but I’m sure he was just bluffing. He knew just as well as I did that once that traffic lights turns, he and I would be deadlocked in a clash of high octane proportions. Nothing left to do but grab the wheel with both hands, slide my foot closer to the gas pedal, and watch.

Green.

Both of us left the line in a fury of slow and safe acceleration. Side by side, barreling down this residential street, we both moved faster and farther from our meeting point. After 12 seconds, we had both made it to our top speed. Thirty-Five Miles Per Hour. Now both combatants in this drag race could push their pedals to the their respective metal, but there’s local law enforcement that would prefer we didn’t. So there we were. Neck and neck at 35 mph.

I don’t stand for ties.

Giving it everything I had, I push my car to the limit. I couldn’t let Smirky McFancycar win this battle, even if he Is still feigning like we aren’t actually racing. Here I go…36…37…

And it was at 38 miles per hour that I proved to the world that an Italian sports car is no match a ’99 Honda Accord.