Do you remember when you got hooked on our scene?
I remember my moment exactly. It happened on a Friday night during my Junior year in high school. A friend, who I won't name, had me meet up at a local arcade so we could roll out in his at-the-time heavily modified car-Dynomax muffler, K&N filter, and cut stock springs-to the street races up in some far-off mythical place called Sylmar in the San Fernando Valley.
It was my first street race, ever, and during the entire drive question after question zipped through my mind. "I wonder if there are going to be any girls? What exactly goes on at a street race? I wonder if there are going to be any hot girls? What happens if we get busted? Are there going to be any girls at all? And more importantly, is my friend's '90 non-Si Prelude fast?" Nervous with anticipation, I was sweatin' worse than a Korean liquor store owner after the Rodney King verdict. We exited the off ramp and turned into a Denny's parking lot packed like it was giving away Grand Slams.
"This is where everyone meets up. See all the cars here and in the gas station across the street? Everyone's waiting to see if the track's clear of five-oh," just as my friend finished explaining, an EF Civic pulls into the parking lot. After an exchange of words to the waiting crowd, both corners simultaneously erupt in a roar of ignited engines.
"It's time."
My heart started beating faster as we pull out of the parking lot. We turned left and made a right down a long, dark street and emerge to a lighted freeway overpass on the right. On both sides of the road, cars were lined as far as the eyes can see; double-parked in some stretches. People, including, gulp, girls-firm Hinas at that-were gathered in masses. Under the overpass, thirty or so cars were lined up in what was a makeshift staging area. At the front, a chick flagged the two lead cars. Tires squealed and taillights faded, as they raced off into the night.
We stayed in the right lane and waited for our turn. Time slowed to a crawl. The fifteen cars in front of us turned to five, four, three, two, one...it was our turn. I looked to the left to see who we were up against. It was a DA Integra. He reved, dropped the clutch and did a mean burn out. The crowd, including the girls, cheered.
"What are you doing? Smoke your tires!" I yelled.
"I can't...I'm automatic."
D'oh! Automatic: The ultimate street race faux paux and game killer. Before I could sink into the chair from transmission embarrassment, the flagger dropped his hands. We're off! Well, sort of. The DA jumped the line. We, on other hand, skipped-hopscotched at best-slowly leaving the start. Waaaaaaaaa, pause for the gear change, waaaaaaaaa. If there were any lingering doubts that we were in a five-speed, they were dashed in silky smooth shifts. We made it to the end of the track, behind by more than nine car lengths and my friend, who now you know why will remain nameless, turned to me and said, "That was fun, right?"
Hell yes! Imagine if we would had of won! That's when I was hooked and I knew that I wanted an import. Not a '90 automatic non-Si Prelude, but a Honda. Looking back, with all the drama involved with street racing, it's something I would never encourage. Simply put, it's not worth it. There are open track day alternatives and sport compact-exclusive drag races at sanctioned tracks. But I'm not going to front. For me, it sparked something that will stay with me for a lifetime-including a more slightly-less-than-financially rewarding career at Source Interlink.
Editor
Carter Jung
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IT_Team
Last time you raced someone on the street (freeway? Signal? You win or lose?).