So y'all know what started this one, we had a conversation in our forum 'bout Italian food. Don't ask, just read the thread yourself. /forums/images/graemlins/rotfl.gif So for <font color="green"> gokartergo</font color> and the rest of y'all, sit back and enjoy. So there I was, rollin in my ride, the Stock Poser K5 in Oaktown (that's Oakland, CA for y'all non-diversified folk). I'd just left 4WPW as another satisfied customer; it's true, it's true (thank you Kurt Angle) and was heading back to the crackerbox of Vine Hill in Martinez. It was a sunny and warm spring Friday afternoon in the East Bay, the year 1998, but I was not to enjoy it since I had to be at the Contra Costa Gray Hotel later that evening to perform my duties as a highly professional bailbondsman. My senses were alert to my surroundings as I drove down the street looking for the freeway on-ramp. As some of you know, and some of you may not know, most sections of Oaktown ain't for the white boy and of course I was in one of those 'hoods so the danger factor was significant. The street was a very nice and wide four lane street and up ahead I saw the red light so I began to slow down. Then I saw it. Metallic blue, South Dakota plates, white boy driving. Italian machinery at it's finest. For those of you that have never had the honor of being in the presence of a Lamborghani(check that letter organization Shaggy /forums/images/graemlins/rotfl.gif), the car just breathes it's name to ya. In this case, it was the Diablo model. I could hear it, it was talking to old Bubba Ray. "Diablo, Diablo." But while I was getting the talking to, I was wondering what a white boy in a Diablo was doing in Oaktown. Who knows cause that thought was quickly dismissed. All I knew was the Stock Poser K5's rep was all good with the 'Stang kill at 80mph plus just a few weeks earlier. Well boys and girls and chevyfumes, there are those times in your life that you must ask yourself if the opportunity of the challenge of which you will go down in a very quick and losing in a George Armstrong Custer type manner will make you a better person in the long run. Yes, y'all know what I had running through the gray matter. And then when I made the decision, the Earth stood still. I focused intently on the signal light. Bubba Ray was gonna go big cause he was going home anyway; plus there just ain't that many people on this world that can say they did what I'm about to relate to y'all. In mere seconds, that magical light that screams to y'all to apply the go pedal in a vigorous and vengeful manner came to life and my RT on that light made NHRA drivers go crying home to mommy. The worn-out stock TBI GM 350 came alive with fire. I took this wannabe homie off the light, but I knew that wasn't the end, but only the beginning of the battle of my life. I gave the pedal all I had, the 350 applying it's non-monstrous power through the much maligned 700R4 tranny, the chain driven 208 transfer case to the at that time 3.4something gearing in the 12 bolt hi-po stock rearend. We had about 10 feet on the Diablo as we hit the chicane. This was the point where letting off the gas was the prudent thing to do. Even with the 33" BFG MTs shod on the hi-po wagon wheel 15x8 inch wheels, the CG factor of a K5 doesn't lend itself to high speed cornering. I thought it would be here that the battle would end, but I was wrong. I came out of the chicane with my marginal lead and it was time to wind the ponies back up and get gone like Jon Bon Jovi's career. Well folks, then the expected happened. We were flying down the straight, somewhere around 60 mph. The metallic blue Diablo drew even with the Stock Poser K5. Then the sound penetrated the driver's side window. I knew the battle was lost, but I'm not one to give it up that easy, unless she wears Rockies and can go for more than 8 seconds. The rev rev of a highly tuned, Italian V-12 can turn the normal man into a whimpering fool, but I was game. That's one of the sounds that penetrates the senses that you will always remember it fondly. For me, it got cataloged into the sensory book along with a 700HP NASCAR engine at 180 mph, the heartbreak of losing a loved one, and the smell of a stripper in the dive hole club of the city. In an instant, the Diablo had gone from hanging back to so many car lengths ahead of the Stock Poser K5 that one needed a laser range finder to describe the distance. A smile crossed my lips knowing that satisfaction had been gained in this experience and that the pilot of the Diablo was a sporting man like myself. It's times like these that add to a man mentally to make him stronger and ready to head into the impossible fight to join amongst other men before and give as good as they got.