The Strip at Las Vegas Motor Speedway. One thousand three hundred twenty feet of automotive fury. The best and the worst have given their all on this narrow section of tarmac.
It was a cool evening, somewhere in the upper fifties or low sixties. The underlying aroma of exhaust mixed with the pungent scent of burned rubber, creating a smell all its own. The sounds of big blocks and rice cans, clutches being dumped, shifting, and the occasional misfire...
Race night.
Ten dollars got me in as a participant, and I got a couple of pretty nifty Pontiac Motorsports T-shirts as a promotion. As I waited in line for the tech inspection, I talked to the guy next to me who had an unidentified old-school muscle car, claiming about 640 hp on just the engine, not including the nitrous he was packing.
I shuffled forward with the usual contingent of ricers and queued up next to a Scion xB. Should be an interesting drag. I went around the wet spot where others did their burn outs—not only did I not need one, since I had driven the Duke about fifteen miles to the track, so the tires were plenty warmed up—and crept forward to the tree. The Pre-stage and staging lights lit up on my side, and the Scion lined up accordingly. And we waited.
Green mean go. I punched it. But not fast enough. My reaction time was over a second... 1.010, to be precise. All four cylinders revved toward the shift to second, but it was already obvious I wouldn't be faster than that cardboard box on wheels... not with a 2.869 60-foot, and a 8.422 330-foot.
Final result: The Scion completed the course in 17.93 seconds, while I did not finish until 20.41 seconds had elapsed.
This was not the end, though. Oh no, by no means was I done. I completed a total of five runs, with similar results.
