Driving through South America, on my way to a vacation in the Bahamas, I spot a group of apparent car enthusiasts hanging around under a bridge going over the Nile. I figure, hell, I've got a minute or two, I'll stop and chat. Within minutes of pulling up, these people I hardly know are trying to set me up with races, calling their tribesmen in for what looks like an easy piece of prey... The first would-be predator on the scene is a Camaro Z28, a 96-97, with a VERY healthy sound to it. Under the guise of nonchalance, he strolls around my car, asking questions like: "Stock?" "Got an intercooler?" To which I quietly answer "No, and yes." He decides he would like a piece, and extends the formal invite to partake in a completely legal contest of speed, and I gladly accept, not wanting to upset or insult the locals. The tradition in this area is to drive over the Nile, turn around at the other side, line up and go. So I ask the terms, and casually inquire about any mods the car may have seen. He tells me of the automatic trans and I'm happy. Then he tells me of the gears, high-stall torque converter, and shift kit and I'm sad. Putting the icing on the cake, he says, in no uncertain terms: "We go from a stop. Or we don't go." Uh-oh. Me no likey. Me likes 30mph roll. I start the FWD, and reflect for a moment about how much I truly love the sound of my side exhaust. That moment was ended prematurely as he fired up 5.7 liters of love, blowing through the large chrome pipes hanging out from the underbody. Damn. He left the part about the exhaust out. I didn't ask, or look. My bad. So we get over the Nile and turn around to go the other way, and I'm pretty intimidated. The obviously expensive paint job looks sharp, the rumble is shaking me in my car, and the burnout is impressive. I skip the burnout, like it will help anyway. We line up, I hold at about 2800, he torque brakes until the tires are about to break. A local tribesman gives us the sign and we're off. Well, he's off anyway, I'm chillin' on redline in first trying to see past my own cloud of vaporized rubber. There he goes. I grab second as I hear the distinct "chirp" of a hard-shifting small-block entering second gear. Second gear proves as fruitless as first, doing nothing but wasting useful tread. I feather, feather, and bam. It's a race. To catch up. I run out second (all three seconds of it) and grab for third. Third gear comes on strong, and the wheelspin fairy pays me a visit once again. I hate that hooker. I floor the gas, drive through it, and realize that I am coming up fast on the V8 monster so desperately trying to get away. Not today, dinosaur. As third is almost gone I FLY by the archaic antagonist and grab fourth. Peace. I'll write. Asta. Out. Nothing but tails for the musclecar. Well, tails and the smell of 110 leaded. Arriving back at the village, I felt like the pretty girl at the party, everybody wanted a ride. Graciously I bowed out, with head held high and saying nothing more than: "You win some, you lose some."

Honestly, although I passed him hard, it really wasn't that bad for him, I spent a lot of time tap dancing. I'd say 2. The go pedal was released at around 125.

Thanks for the amusing story James. They always help the work day to move along a bit faster.

Ah yes, entertainment is my lot in life. Glad to be of service.

He's not lying i've seen him dancing on a pole in his front lawn.

Hey now, that was a private show! That's different. I thought you said you wouldn't tell anyone! See if I ever dance for you again!