Victory

Victory

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It’s about 11:00 PM on a warm summer night. My best friend, Brian, was with me in my red ’97 Honda Accord Special Edition. We were just cruisin’ around—looking for races. It was late, and we were getting bored, about to turn in for the night. We decided on just one more round before heading back. So that was what we were doing when my headlights illuminated a large batwing spoiler on a black car.

“RICER!” Brian shouts, laughing. He always got a kick out of the ‘riced-out’ tuners where we raced. “What is it?” he asks.

“I dunno,” I reply, closing in to get a closer look at the badging. I couldn’t get a good look at the car, since the body kit and spoiler altered the shape of it enough to render it confusing to my then-limited knowledge of car models. It was a Mazda, but I had never encountered an MX-6 before.

“It says ‘MX-6’,” I say, my brow furrowed in confusion.

“I’ve never heard of it,” Brian replies, “Are you sure it’s not an MX-5?”

“No, I can’t really get a good look at it,” I say, trying to decipher whether or not the last number is a 5 or a 6. I decide, What the hell? and pull up beside the tuner. I shift to neutral and rev my engine. I haven’t spent that much money on my car—it looks stock; no body kits, a decorative spoiler, stock Special Edition alloy wheels, and a chrome-plated stock exhaust tip. Under the hood, I have a short-RAM intake which makes my car sound like it has an exhaust system, and it increases acceleration considerably. The 2.2 liter inline-4 roars as I rev it to 6,000 rpm. The Mazda lets out a fart in return, triggering a fit of laughter from Brian.

We continue side-by-side for a few miles, getting a feel for each other. The driver is a blonde chick, and she has a brunette passenger and a couple other girls in the back. We hit the jackpot with this one.

“Dude, it’s a chick!” Brian exclaims.

“Probably her boyfriend’s car,” I say, thinking girls weren’t into that kind of thing.

I can’t clearly see any features on the girls, but they all seem very slim and hot. She revs her car again, and I return the favor. We were approaching a green light when it turns yellow. Both of us slam on our brakes, coming to a stop at the light.

I rev the engine, and she does the same. I smile from ear-to-ear as I start to feel the anticipation pulse through my veins. My heartbeat quickens as we rev beside each other.

The opposing light turns yellow and I hold the RPM’s steady at about 4,000, ready to neutral drop into drive and launch. Beside me, the girl does the same. The light turns red, and I brace myself. One…Two…Now!

The light turns off and I drop the car into drive. With a squeal of rubber on the road, we take off down a straight, 2-lane stretch of road in the country. We’re side by side for a few miles, then I manage to inch ahead a couple of feet, and she slides in behind me, riding in my draft.

“Stay on it, dude, stay on it,” Brian urges as the speedometer passes 60 mph. The speed limit is 45.

“I don’t know, man,” I say, keeping an eye out for cops.

“Stay on it, man!” he urges, and I can’t help but agree with him. I keep my foot to the floor as the car shifts smoothly into third gear. She’s still in my draft—I can see her headlights in my mirror, not falling back; but not closing in, either.

The transmission shifts into 4th gear as we accelerate past 100 mph. We’re fast approaching a green light at an intersection in front of a high school when it turns yellow.

I glance at Brian, then in my rearview mirror, then at my speedometer: 110 mph and climbing. I’m starting to pull a little on the Mazda. The light turns red.

“Crap,” I say, as we pass 112 mph. The Mazda is still behind me, losing more ground. We blow through the red light racing at about 114 mph, at which point I finally eased off the gas. Adrenaline was pumping through me as I whoop in ecstasy.

Blondie pulls up next to me and waves cheerfully to us, and we wave back. No hard feelings, babe, I think to myself. I turn off a side road to go back home, my adrenaline desire satisfied.