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Up front, I'm as guilty of it as anyone else, okay?
That's my disclaimer n' I'm stickin' to it.
But, any of these street matches come with such a pile'a variables that they really don't amount to nothin'.
Pullin' up to a GT-40 at a light n' dustin' 'im's an impressive claim. Right up until you find out that the driver was on the phone, properly frizzin' 'er hair in the iddy-biddy mirror, lookin' for her mascara that rolled into the passenger foot well n' tryin' to get 'er ankle bracelet unhooked from the clutch pedal without breakin' it (the bracelet, not the pedal).
But you never really know do you? You can only attest to the involvement of the person in your driver's seat.
Makes for alodda wasted effort, unnecessary wear-n'-tear on Stewie n', in the wrong environment (An unnoticed cruiser within range/ a vehicle, r', person suddenly appearin' in the "zone") could wind up costin' you you license, r' worse, someone's life n' your freedom.
Yeah, yeah . . I know. The disclaimer. Remember?
You wanna find out if you really beat somethin'/someone r' they handed you your ass . . get in the ring folks.
At the track (Drag r' roadcourse) everybody's givin' it their best shot n' the results r' the results. No excuses.
It's all about holdin' our own leashes, ain't it?
('Sides . . . the GT-40 might'a been parked.)
Be well.
Java
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In life-long pursuit of that most mythic of beasts: the ever-elusive perfect corner. Well . . . that, r' at least a whole lodda clear spin-out room.
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