"Underlying Euphoria"
...table experience. The suspension is adjusted too low for any encounters with speed bumps, but it creates a go-kart like ride which compliments my driving style. Easing off the engaged clutch while feathering the throttle, and I’m off. The blue illumination of indiglo gauges make it easy to see the plethora of vital engine monitoring systems. A quick check of the instruments reveals that everything is in order. I proceed to turn westbound on Southern avenue with a little too much gas and a hasteful release of the clutch, resulting in twin sixty foot strips of molten rubber fused to the asphalt like burnt Styrofoam on skin. With a smile resembling that of a lottery winner on my face, I decide to ride it out a little further. A quick stab of the clutch while keepingmy foot deep into the throttle, I slam the shifter into second and continue to leave my past behind me. The turbo remains to spool with a screeching howl, and resumes in spinning the rear wheels while tattooing the earth for another sixty feet. The asphalt scorching event is cut short by the fast approaching traffic light, which just rudely turned yellow. Abruptly releasing the throttle results in the blow-off-valve letting out an incredible PSSSHHHHHHTTTT! Similar to the sound of air brakes on a semi’s trailer or city bus, yet profoundly louder. The extreme clamping force of four piston Brembo calipers squeeze the carbon metallic brake pads against the cross-drilled and slotted rotors, located at all four corners. They effectively halt the forward motion of the finely tuned street beast, my long forgotten flagship model Mitsubishi Starion ESi-R. As I come to a stop, a retched stench of burnt rubber clogs my nasal passages as the huge plume of tire smoke I outran finally catches up with me. The billowing opaque white cloud rolls past me and engulfs the intersection like a thick Seattle fog, before dissipating into a murky haze. The light turns green and I’m off once again, slicing through the remaining smoke like a Catholic nun cuts through self-esteem. Roughly ten minutes later, I decide to hop onto the freeway via Gilbert road. Without hesitation I blast down the on-ramp precisely shifting through the gears, and explode onto the freeway in the top of third gear at a freedom jeopardizing one hundred and ten miles per hour. A quick shift into fourth accompanied by a howling turbo and droning exhaust tones, only provoke me to stay in the adrenalin induced exhibition of speed. I shift into fifth gear at one hundred and thirty six miles per hour, and smoothly switch across two lanes to avoid a tanker truck. The HOV lane is desolate as I rocket westbound down US-60, literally five inches above the pavement at one hundred and fifty miles per hour. My dash mounted radar detector erupts to life with various flashing lights and eardrum piercing beeping noises. Alerting me of a radar gun somewhere up ahead. A rapid downshift into fourth gear results in a two foot fireball being shot out of my exhaust, which is simply unburned fuel. I slow to one hundred miles per hour, and see a flicker of orange light in my mirror from another fireball as I engage third gear. Crawling along at seventy miles per hour my radar detector is silent, and I can’t spot Johnny Law anywhere. Maintaining a steady speed I shift back into fourth gear, switch over three lan...