When Rick Prospero and his son jumped in the twin turbo, green RX7 to leave Summit Motorsports Park less than twenty-four hours ago, they were leading Modified Power Adder by .23, and owned the third quickest pass of the week.
Since then, Glenn Hunter had ran a 7.51 to knock them from third, and Dan Saitz and his 88 Mustang put down a 7.60-184.5 to challenge for the class lead. I was in the next pair, so I had a front row seat for Rick's attempt, and I can't imagine what it's like to tune a mid-seven second car on small radials at a track you haven't been down yet.
As soon as the Mazda left, it was obvious they were conservatively soft. Painfully soft until about two hundred feet. They needed a 7.82 to maintain the class lead, Rick's only attempt went 7.954-186.6. So he would leave US131 a tenth down in class, and eighth quickest in overall average.

I pulled into the water box beside Bobby Ricci's orange third gen Camaro, a pair of ten second runs through the first two days had left him in a tight three way battle for third place in SRSBNA. As we exited our burn-outs, the starter gave him the cut-off sign and they pushed the Camaro back. The failure to get a run meant Bobby would have to accept his half-pass 13.50 from earlier in the day and end his chance to place in class. This is Drag Week; hours of tedium and grueling hard work, an endurance event, but it's punctuated throughout with brief moments where the intensity and pressure are ramped up to eleven, and you find yourself lifted to incredible new heights, or knocked over and left behind.
I purged the nitrous in the engine, while in neutral, and it sounded really crisp. I dropped it into low, and settled my hand on the shifter with my thumb resting on the button. I was in the left lane, and I moved to the left edge of the groove, almost expecting the car to move towards the center line. I foot braked to 2500 and waited for the tree. The front tires barely left the asphalt, and I grabbed the bottle as soon as the suspension settled, the shift light was on instantly, so I hit second. The Valiant was in the groove, the 428 sounded fantastic, and I let the shift light hang for a moment before I went to third. The shift light was on again at the thousand foot mark, but she was pulling well so I rode the button all the way to the stripe.
"YES! Finally!" I screamed in my helmet, a small fist pump, and a pat of the dash followed...that felt like what I expected a good, small hit to feel like in this car.