I didn't write this, and I don't know where I got it from since I've had this saved for a long time. Enjoy!!!
...continues belowTrans Am Racer
The Midwest summer sun is setting as a battered old pickup pulls up to the desolate farm house. A solitary figure exits and strides toward the concrete block garage on the backside of the property, his tall frame silhouetted by the orange-washed sky, footsteps accented by the rhythmic crunch of gravel under his snakeskin boots.
A credit card like shape is removed from his wallet and entered into the alarm box. Keypad numbers are depressed and a green bulb lights signaling that the sophisticated security system has been deactivated as the overhead door begins to rattle open. Two more entries on the keypad energize the full width fluorescent lights, illuminating a very clean warehouse-like interior.
The figure walks across the polished concrete floor with long rhythmic strides, heading past the work benches, tools and racks of engine parts toward the far side of the garage. He stops at the flowing shape hidden under the black car cover, reaching down to remove the mask of invisibility. The cover is quickly removed and folded away. The nasty glint of highly polished midnight blue lacquer reflects the figure's image in its muscular sides. The left side door opens and the figure settles into the supportive Recaro seat, fastening the racing harness and cinching it tight. He and his machine have become as one. The cockpit of this road warrior is unlike any other car on the planet, a veritable maze of switches, lights, gauges, scanners, jammers, communicators and other high-tech devices expressly designed to help him beat the system.
A gloved hand reaches for the ignition, twisting the key to bring forth the wicked, barely muffled sound of hungry horsepower, emanating with the sudden rumble from the fully built 455-CID powerplant awakened from its slumber. The garage takes on an eerie, menacing countenance as the idling motor fills its stillness with the methodical staccato of a radically-cammed big block.
The driver fine tunes his engine’s performance via the bank of knobs and gauges housed in a special overhead console, precisely adjusting the voracious motor's timing, fuel mixture and spark control. A look around the interior verifies this as a serious road machine, the perfect projectile for triple-digit running. Everything you see flat screams performance. Augmented by the underhood roar of 500 horsepower, Hurst 4-speed and tall 2.41:1 rear axle, this modified “Tin Indian” will see the better side of 160 mph without ever breaking a sweat.
A check of the instruments indicates the Trans Am is ready to roll. The driver slides the shifter into gear and coaxes the snarling Pontiac out of its coccoon. Depressing a blue button on the console secures the garage for the time being. He will be back later. The last rays of sunlight reflect off the horizon and then vanish as the now black TA heads for the interstate.
The driver maneuvers his Trans Am through the small town traffic, activating the dual radar detectors as he approaches a stoplight. To his right is a big-block Chevelle; to the left, a late model Corvette. All eyes scan the Trans Am and its pilot as the rumbling Bird comes to a stop.
The Corvette's driver leans over to challenge the Trans Am, but his passenger stops him, noting the embroidered "RPM" on the pilot's black leather jacket. "That's the guy Rob told us about. The one who blew off his 'Cuda then vanished into nowhere when the cops blocked the road". The 'vette driver looks over again, this time met by the Trans Am driver’s icy stare. He backs down. The Chevelle driver is not so enlightened and revs at the TA as the cross-lights go yellow. The R's came up on the big Pontiac motor, the driver's razor-sharp reactions side-stepping the clutch the instant the light hits green. Both cars take off in a haze of tire smoke, the Chevelle's 4.11 gearing giving it a slight edge as they cross the intersection. Sixty, seventy, eighty miles per hour, both drivers are slamming gears as their powerful road rockets do what they were built for. Running past the town's city limits and on out towards the interstate. The Chevelle gives it a good try, but it's apparent he's all done by 125 mph and now it's time for the Trans Am to perform. The gloved hand activates a console-mounted toggle switch, bypassing all the restrictions of the exhaust system and opening up the headers. Another switch is armed, a dial turned, and the 455 is fed a richer mixture of racing fuel, matched by an increase in ignition timing and fuel pressure to awaken those additional sleeping ponies. The Chevelle keeps trying as the Trans Am surges ahead, putting three lengths on the struggling Chevy.
Now is the time the Trans Am pilot usually backs off...he's proven his point. But not tonight, not yet anyway. The twin radar detectors go ballistic as the racers crest a rise, the state trooper's short-range "K-BAND" radar gun aimed directly at the speeding duo. The Trans Am's radar jammer does its best to convince the officer of their innocence, but he's not buying that "55 mph" reading on his screen, pulling onto the pavement and giving chase as the dueling pair fly past. The hunter has become the prey and the real game can now commence. This is the main event; the purpose of this evening’s activities.
The driver's right hand reaches over and pops off a dashcover from above the glove box, revealing a multi-channel police scanner. With the push of a button it comes to life informing him of the trooper’s every move. The local constabulary was waiting for him tonight, it seems, with two cruisers behind, one coming from the opposite direction, and a fourth waiting 5 miles ahead. Time to say “bye-bye” to the Chevelle!
The Trans Am shifts into forth and accelerates for all it's worth, bending the stock speedometer needle way past its 140 mph limit and resting on the trip odometer reset knob at the bottom of the gauge. The officers' voices fill the vehicle's interior as the scanner barks out their communications, unaware that their every move is being monitored by the one they want so much to catch.
A glance in the rear-view mirror reveals the hard truth...two state police cars directly behind the unlucky Chevelle, escorting him to the shoulder in preparation for a short ride to jail. Their illuminated images shrink quickly from sight at this speed, a buck fifty-five, but the ride isn't over yet. There’s still two more uniformed hunters ahead.
The center console is opened and a series of switches flipped, dousing the mega-watt aircraft lights and blackening the Trans Am's tail lamps, leaving only a jet black figure nearly invisible against a quarter moon lit landscape. From an overhead hanger, the driver retrieves his special infrared goggles.
The troopers are expecting him to head for the interstate, to run for the state line, and they make their move to block him. The driver smiles as he hears the directives coming over his police scanner, then suddenly becomes serious as he realizes what he must do. He slows to 120 then hammers the brakes hard, the massive four-wheel discs decelerating the Trans Am with the G-force of a roadracing car, dash-mounted readouts monitoring the steadily increasing brake pad temps as the powerful TA comes to a stop, still completely disguised in its cloak of darkness.
The driver's hand moves to deactivate the header cutout switch, returning the exhaust note to a quiet rumble, but is it too late? The scanner again comes alive with the anxious voices of the troopers, wondering what has happened to their quarry. They regroup and begin to converge on the exact spot he's at and the driver knows it's time to move. He swings the Trans Am across the median and onto the opposing lanes of traffic, heading back toward town... and into the path of the pursuing patrolmen.
Traffic is light this night leaving the Trans Am very little room to hide. The driver will have to employ all his tricks to "avoid the noid", the proud highlight of any evening and his crowning achievement from many years of banzai running. He's been chased dozens of times, but never captured; not since building his stealth-racer Trans Am. He’s not about to break with tradition on this night, either. The TA cruises at 65 mph until he sees his target, the red lights of the patrol cars on the opposite shoulder, the escorted Chevelle driver being tucked into the back seat of the lead cruiser.
The Trans Am pilot waits until the precise second before instigating his final assault, listening intently to the troopers’ commands over the increasingly busy scanner. A helicopter is called out to aid in the search for "the perpetrator", described only as "a fast, dark car, heading west on old 140 near the interstate, possibly driving without headlights." A gloved hand moves to the center console, re-activating the header cut-out switch and disrupting the still night air with the unmistakable din of big time horsepower. Instantly the driver's right boot slams the firewall, opening up eight barrels of Holley induction, throwing the engine into a high-pitched roar and sending the tach needle soaring towards 7000 rpm.