Not sure if this fits, but I hope you guys like it. It's a story I wrote for my local car club newsletter a few years ago. I agree street racing today is stupid, and they will throw you under the jail if caught.

1969 Charger R/T vs. 1971 GT-37

Flashback to late May 1983, first Saturday after graduating High School, I'm cruising in my trusty Green 1969 Charger R/T, 440 4-spd car, and run into a fellow Senior in his car. We didn't run in the same crowd, so we never spoke during school, however, we'd often pass each other while cruising the 2 lane highway that ran through the middle of town. We'd always rev our engines at each other, bounce the front-ends and other stupid crap teenagers do. But, we never met side by side until this night. He pulled out from a gas station on the main drag just as I pulled out from a side street onto that same stretch, meeting each other at the same time.

He had a Red 1971 Pontiac GT-37. I believe it was a 400 auto with the typical cam, headers and carb. My car was stock, but of course it was a Big Block Mopar! Anyway, we drove up through town for the next couple of blocks goosing the cars. We stopped at an intersection, which just happened to be beside an old walk-in movie theater that had been converted to a Holy Roller Church. The Church was letting out at the time we pulled up to the light. The sidewalk was full of very serious looking people.

The GT-37 driver brought it up against the stall, which got the attention of the Churchgoers. I tried to be cool and idle the 440 up to 1500 rpm while holding the clutch. I got nervous and ran it up to about 2500 and the light turned Green. I dumped the clutch and left the line absolutely smoking the tires, bias-ply’s mind you - G-60-14's. So did the GT-37, but not quite as bad. As my car slid right, I could see he had me by a fender off the line due to my over-revving. I still remember the open jawed bystanders as we left the line. My car quickly ran up to the shift point and I nailed second.

When I hit second, it was like the Charger hit warp speed, I left the GT-37 in the weeds. I literally pulled him so hard that by the time I was in mid third gear, I backed out of it because he was wayyyyy behind. I waited for him to catch up. He pulled up beside me and gave me the obligatory loser nod. I was cool, and gave a slight nod back. That's right, I won, you lost. Don't mess with Mopar. Yada, yada, yada.

Anyway, it was late by the time all this happened, so I drove home. As I pulled in the driveway, I heard something funny. The car didn't sound right. Oh no, had I hurt it? I got out and listened, it was missing. Hmmm, not good. I popped the hood in the gravel driveway and dug out the flashlight. As I scanned the engine compartment, it hit me. Number 7 plug wire was swinging in the breeze. I plugged it back and she purred like a kitten again. So, not only did I beat the GT-37, but I did it on 7 cylinders! Ok, ok, it was a 400 Pontiac, but hey 7 cylinders is kinda cool don't you think?

I left for Army basic training shortly thereafter and didn't think much about it. Just another easy kill. Then, my running buddy from high school, Jimmy, sends me a letter. In it he detailed how the GT-37 driver was running his mouth about how fast his car was. Jimmy, being the ultimate cool guy, saunters up in the middle of the crowd and states that he knows where a certain Green Charger is, if he really wants to race and thinks he's fast. The GT-37 driver wasn't a happy camper at that announcement and publicly turned down Jimmy's offer, receiving several derisive remarks from the crowd. That letter really brightened up my day after being yelled at by Drill Sergeants all day.

I did not see the GT-37 driver again for many years. But, around 12 years after that fateful May night, there was a car show close to my hometown. I happened to be in town visiting the folks. I decided to drop in, and he was there with his car. I was impressed he still had it. Looked like he had just painted it, it was missing the decals. No mistaking it was the same car. I didn’t see him until I was getting ready to leave. I resisted the urge to go up to him and say, "Hey, the last time I saw you; you were in my rear view mirror". Instead, as I was finishing a conversation with someone, he walked by, looked at me, did a double take, I nodded and smiled, and he moved out swiftly. I thought to myself, “Well, I guess he doesn’t want to talk to me.” I left and went back to my folk’s house, not thinking much about it. I regret not following him and at least saying, “Hi”.

Attached pic is Jimmy and I, December 1984, while on leave from the Army from beautiful West Germany.