It was the early 80's but here goes. I was driving back to school in Virginia on a Sunday night. My car was a Plymouth Horizon, 2.2l 4 speed. Funds were a little low but I had just done a decent brake job... even turned the rotors. Tires were another story. Three almost bald all seasons and the spare which was a different vintage almost bald all season.

I always took a "short cut" through several National Forests and over 7 mountains in West Virginia and Virginia. I got into the boonies about 10 PM driving about 8/10'ths and a car was closing slowly on me. It turned out to be an Escort. He pulled out to pass, I slowed down just a little to let him by and then the race was on. I had a very slight edge in acceleration and he could get around the corners a little better so we were closely matched. Passing required momentum and "getting the jump". On the rare straight aways, the 85 MPH speedo was pegged so hard it wouldn't even wiggle. We were at it for over an hour swapping positions several times. By unspoken agreement we slowed down in the few small towns. Near the end there was a straight away followed by a near 90 degree bend. I knew it well and got slowed down and around the bend with a bit of drift. At that point he was behind me. After the bend I didn't see him at all until I slowed down later for a town and traffic. When I turned off I saw him pass with a big crease in his back bumper. He must have met a tree on the bend. My only casualty was severly warped front rotors from overheating the brakes. I lived with the shake until I finished school and got a job and enough money to fix it. The Horizon continued to serve me well past the 100k mile mark.

That was the first - and last - time I really raced on the street. We were both lucky.