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The Race By Shawn M. Gmitter The night was cool and quiet, quite unusual for a Florida summer evening. As I pulled into frank’s yard, Will shouted out the window. “Come on you bastard, Hurry up!!” Yeah, up yours, I’m Hurrying” called back Frank from his house. We were all in a particularly good mood that night. Frank had just started a new job, Will had just started a new girlfriend and I had just gotten my car back. It was a 1987 Pontiac Grand Prix. It had a great body and a freshly built up 305 under the hood. She wasn’t the fastest in town but we knew she wasn’t the slowest. The combination of the upgraded camshaft and the true dual exhaust as well as a host of other upgrades made for the sweetest rumble as we slowly cruised down to Clearwater to check out the action. The thirty-five minute trip seemed to fly by as we journeyed down the highway. We were free, windows down, neon’s on, stereo pumping. We raced a few times on the way, nothing special, an old camaro here, new Honda there, I never really opened her up (I never really had to) once in Clearwater it was straight cruising mode. Tinted windows half way down, strobes flashing, neon’s glowing, stereo up just enough to be heard yet still low enough not to draw the attention of the pigs. After three or four slow-going, girl-staring at trips up and down the main strip, Frank told me to pull over at the gas station so he could go to the bathroom as well as get a drink. While Will and I sat on my trunk waiting for Frank to finish his business, it rolled in, a 1976 Chevrolet Monte Carlo. She wasn’t the nicest looking vehicle on the strip, but definitely a looker. The thing that caught our attention was the sound. The rumble from this beast pounded in your chest. When the car pulled into the spot next to us, a fairly mean looking guy and two of his buddies got out. One of them went inside and the other two lit up cigarettes. The driver of the Monte looked over at Will and I and I watched as his eyes slowly sank and looked at my dual exhaust pipes. “What ya got in her” he asked. “Little ole 305” I replied She fast?” Fast enough” replied Will before I could say anything “Really? Care to prove it?” “Can’t race on the strip” I replied “Got a lil something different in mind,” said the driver of the beast. “Like what” I asked “Where you live?” he asked. “Port Richey” I answered “Perfect, we are from Springhill, about 15 minutes north of Port Richey and about 50 minutes or so from Clearwater” “Yeah, we know where it is” I said “Well then I propose a race” said the pilot of the rumbling beast. “From this gas station to Spring Hill Drive, first one there wins” “What are we racing for?” asked Will “I’ve got 500 bucks” said the man “DEAL!” says Will before I could even react “Well alright, meet us over by the exit in ten minutes” “What ya got in that beast anyway?” I asked (figured I should at least know what we were going up against. “Oh nothing you need to worry about …only a 454 with flat-tops and dual four barrels” chuckled the man. While my face was steady, my heart dropped just a lil bit. Just then, the man said something that gave me hope. “All running back to the 4:11 gears in the rear with a four speed.” Music to my ears, in a highway race my three speed with the stock 2:56 gears should prove better suited for the race as compared to his drag strip setup, at least that’s what I hoped.