nVSs
01-30-2004, 02:45 PM
Just introducing myself. I am a proud owner of a 96 impala SS. I have always loved this car and anything that is big and fast. I am also a admirer of your marauders. I am just here to see your beautiful car and if I was finacially able to buy one now I would. I have seen a few around here in Maine but not often. I love muscle cars and hope to be an asset to you Merc. owners. I love all cars and for my first contrubution is this beautiful writen story from a ricer forum.
It had been a long time and coming...
A stretch of 4 days without rain had left the roads bone-dry, a rare thing in an Oregon Winter. Without so much as a wisp of errant con-trail marring the perfect December sky, there was nothing to keep the scant heat of daylight from fading as quickly as it came.
The roads were cement, laid down in five lanes, surprisingly unworn for all the trucks that rolled over them most of the year. I sat alone for a time on the hood of the Scooby, blowing clouds of my breath into my cupped hands in a feeble attempt to bring some life back into my fingers. An eery, hollow silence held the scene before in a vice-grip, orange streetlights without so much as a flicker breaking the frozen industrial scene stretching on for at least 2 miles.
Fortunately, that vice-grip was effortlessly pried loose by the sound of the Devil's Own Chariot.
That it was called Cash was no surprise. Decked out completely in black save the matte-finish alloy wheels filling its wheel-arches and the pair of 3 and a half inch sound cannons angle-cut and aiming straight for the ground, it lived up to the name. And just as the Man in Black sang songs of heartbreak, frustration, and occasionally joy, so Cash warbled its own hollow roar... The song never changed, of course. It sang "I'm coming for you, I'M COMING FOR YOU."
I heard it long before I saw it, and I smiled just a little. This was to be a battle between the last remnants of the old guard... American steel and spinning rear wheels, 8 cylinders, 4 doors, and one mission. On this night, old rivalries would finally be settled. Push rods would be pitted against 4 cams spinning furiously in knife-edged precision. After this struggle, those left standing would be able to tell their children that they watched the last of the Muscle Cars race for the rest.
Cash rounded the final corner, stoccato shot-gun blasts of backfire echoing dozens of times down the lonely industrial corridor. I saw that long, sinous shape right as a second exhaust note filled the air.
It was a tad but higher, a dignified wail rather than a roar. Its owner was a failure in the eyes of some... A silly attempt to revive a long-dead name-plate and attach it to a platform that had seen better days. Of course, the detractors were never slow to point out that a v6 Accord is faster down the quarter, that full-size rear-drive sedans were never made to be driven in any way other than down the freeway, half-asleep.
Those fools had never heard the scream of the Black Tux's little surprise.
Both cars came to a stop, and their drivers both got out. Cash's was a good friend of mine, a young guy eternally steeped in the old school. His dad owned a COPO Camaro, purchased brand new by his grandfather, and my friend had grown up all his life tooling about on this restoration project or that. The blood of te General ran through his veins.
His rival was a refugee from the import scene. He was an older gentleman (relatively), old enough to remember when b-series swaps were a rare and beautiful thing, and where street-ported FCs and MkIII Supras and R31s were THE Japanese scene. Of course, he was older and wiser now... A business man, a family man... But an addict nonetheless. He drove the Black Tux off the lot and wasted no time remaking into the perfect marriage of muscle-car ethic and new-school know-how.
What the Black Tux didn't know was there were 454 cubic inches lurking under the hood of his SS-badged foe. What Cash didn't know was there is sometimes a replacement for displacement.
I rode shotgun in Cash. As I opened its heavy front door, I couldn't help but marvel as the star-riddled skyscape looked back at me in perfect detail from the hood of the Impala. The blackness behind the little points of light was no match for the ebon depths of its mirror-polished paint.
The Marauder, that Black Tux, lined up on our right. I heard a faint... Something as he threw a few revs out. What? I couldn't tell right then.
The race was to start at 3 honks from the Black Tux. I noted with a smile that my friend made no effort to prime up his beast... 3.73s, and a 454= quite a jump off the line with part throttle, and any more than that would make short work of the rear contact patches, especially in sub-freezing weather.
For a moment, all I heard was two cars idling, breathing like boxers before the match, sizing eachother up. Cash took deep, stuttering breaths, loping miserably through its too-open intake ports, an undercurrent of angry frustration at not doing what it does best constantly throbbing out the duals. The Black Tux was composed, calm, bubbly black body looking all the world like its Crown Vic sibling, save for the monochromatic paint job, chrome exhausts, and slightly different headlight treatment. I heard not a bit of overlap or even a whisper than the 32 valves under its hood were doing anything but being civil and composed.
It was a meditation on a bygone age, a reflecti--
3! 2! 1!
The first thing I noticed wasn't the sounds... Oh they were there: Spinning tires on cold cement, the roar of the Big Block, the curious whine of the Black Tux... It was enough to make your ears bleed. As much as those things were noticable, I was much more focused on the sensation of being pressed deep into my supple leather seat by a great wave of torque. I could feel the car around me sit down on its haunches, the front end suddenly becoming much lighter than the huge block of iron inside would seem to allow.
To my right, I watched the Marauder pacing, then leaving us. And it passed by me, I finally understood that this was no run-of-the-mill 15 second car. Oh no. Apparently it got bit by a Cobra and came back a good deal stronger.
Right when I thought all was lost, as the Black Tux gained 2, then 3 cars on the struggling Impala, the 454 yawned, stretched its legs a bit, and woke up.
In the proceeding seconds, I watched saucer-eyed as the Speedometer started to pick up speed. 60, 70, 80... Then, all the sudden, 100, 110, 120... We were neck and neck with the blown Marauder, screaming down the long strech of industrial wasteland, an echo of the days when Dodge was making Hemi Darts and Ford and GM were repeatedly upping the ante of the horsepower war. This was it of course. Unless American tastes drastically changed, there would never be cars like this again... This was muscle's last stand.
130... I hear the wind screaming angrily as it is manhandled by the sheer tidewave of torque propelling the Impala forward. I watch the Black Tux start to lose steam, not able to keep pace with some 600 lb/ft pushing our two-ton boat through atmosphere without care or concern.
I can hear the blower whine fade as the Marauder finally lets off, being left behind. by Cash's stampede. We slow down quickly enough, turn around, and drive back toward my car. I'm shaking just a bit, adrenaline finding no reason to let up even though the race is over. I take a few deep breaths, and realize I am grinning ear-to-ear like a kid in candy store. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that Cash has an engine 4 times as big as mine, with 4 times as much power, in a car less than twice as massive. Maybe it's just the rush of nostalgia from back in the day when I used to wrestle my bald-tired, badly-tuned Mustang through cold nights just like this. Maybe I'm in awe. Who knows. Just then, my friend turns to me.
"Hey, don't you think it's kinda funny how Impalas are little tiny antelope? I mean, this car really isn't anything like that."
I nodded. He was right.
It had been a long time and coming...
A stretch of 4 days without rain had left the roads bone-dry, a rare thing in an Oregon Winter. Without so much as a wisp of errant con-trail marring the perfect December sky, there was nothing to keep the scant heat of daylight from fading as quickly as it came.
The roads were cement, laid down in five lanes, surprisingly unworn for all the trucks that rolled over them most of the year. I sat alone for a time on the hood of the Scooby, blowing clouds of my breath into my cupped hands in a feeble attempt to bring some life back into my fingers. An eery, hollow silence held the scene before in a vice-grip, orange streetlights without so much as a flicker breaking the frozen industrial scene stretching on for at least 2 miles.
Fortunately, that vice-grip was effortlessly pried loose by the sound of the Devil's Own Chariot.
That it was called Cash was no surprise. Decked out completely in black save the matte-finish alloy wheels filling its wheel-arches and the pair of 3 and a half inch sound cannons angle-cut and aiming straight for the ground, it lived up to the name. And just as the Man in Black sang songs of heartbreak, frustration, and occasionally joy, so Cash warbled its own hollow roar... The song never changed, of course. It sang "I'm coming for you, I'M COMING FOR YOU."
I heard it long before I saw it, and I smiled just a little. This was to be a battle between the last remnants of the old guard... American steel and spinning rear wheels, 8 cylinders, 4 doors, and one mission. On this night, old rivalries would finally be settled. Push rods would be pitted against 4 cams spinning furiously in knife-edged precision. After this struggle, those left standing would be able to tell their children that they watched the last of the Muscle Cars race for the rest.
Cash rounded the final corner, stoccato shot-gun blasts of backfire echoing dozens of times down the lonely industrial corridor. I saw that long, sinous shape right as a second exhaust note filled the air.
It was a tad but higher, a dignified wail rather than a roar. Its owner was a failure in the eyes of some... A silly attempt to revive a long-dead name-plate and attach it to a platform that had seen better days. Of course, the detractors were never slow to point out that a v6 Accord is faster down the quarter, that full-size rear-drive sedans were never made to be driven in any way other than down the freeway, half-asleep.
Those fools had never heard the scream of the Black Tux's little surprise.
Both cars came to a stop, and their drivers both got out. Cash's was a good friend of mine, a young guy eternally steeped in the old school. His dad owned a COPO Camaro, purchased brand new by his grandfather, and my friend had grown up all his life tooling about on this restoration project or that. The blood of te General ran through his veins.
His rival was a refugee from the import scene. He was an older gentleman (relatively), old enough to remember when b-series swaps were a rare and beautiful thing, and where street-ported FCs and MkIII Supras and R31s were THE Japanese scene. Of course, he was older and wiser now... A business man, a family man... But an addict nonetheless. He drove the Black Tux off the lot and wasted no time remaking into the perfect marriage of muscle-car ethic and new-school know-how.
What the Black Tux didn't know was there were 454 cubic inches lurking under the hood of his SS-badged foe. What Cash didn't know was there is sometimes a replacement for displacement.
I rode shotgun in Cash. As I opened its heavy front door, I couldn't help but marvel as the star-riddled skyscape looked back at me in perfect detail from the hood of the Impala. The blackness behind the little points of light was no match for the ebon depths of its mirror-polished paint.
The Marauder, that Black Tux, lined up on our right. I heard a faint... Something as he threw a few revs out. What? I couldn't tell right then.
The race was to start at 3 honks from the Black Tux. I noted with a smile that my friend made no effort to prime up his beast... 3.73s, and a 454= quite a jump off the line with part throttle, and any more than that would make short work of the rear contact patches, especially in sub-freezing weather.
For a moment, all I heard was two cars idling, breathing like boxers before the match, sizing eachother up. Cash took deep, stuttering breaths, loping miserably through its too-open intake ports, an undercurrent of angry frustration at not doing what it does best constantly throbbing out the duals. The Black Tux was composed, calm, bubbly black body looking all the world like its Crown Vic sibling, save for the monochromatic paint job, chrome exhausts, and slightly different headlight treatment. I heard not a bit of overlap or even a whisper than the 32 valves under its hood were doing anything but being civil and composed.
It was a meditation on a bygone age, a reflecti--
3! 2! 1!
The first thing I noticed wasn't the sounds... Oh they were there: Spinning tires on cold cement, the roar of the Big Block, the curious whine of the Black Tux... It was enough to make your ears bleed. As much as those things were noticable, I was much more focused on the sensation of being pressed deep into my supple leather seat by a great wave of torque. I could feel the car around me sit down on its haunches, the front end suddenly becoming much lighter than the huge block of iron inside would seem to allow.
To my right, I watched the Marauder pacing, then leaving us. And it passed by me, I finally understood that this was no run-of-the-mill 15 second car. Oh no. Apparently it got bit by a Cobra and came back a good deal stronger.
Right when I thought all was lost, as the Black Tux gained 2, then 3 cars on the struggling Impala, the 454 yawned, stretched its legs a bit, and woke up.
In the proceeding seconds, I watched saucer-eyed as the Speedometer started to pick up speed. 60, 70, 80... Then, all the sudden, 100, 110, 120... We were neck and neck with the blown Marauder, screaming down the long strech of industrial wasteland, an echo of the days when Dodge was making Hemi Darts and Ford and GM were repeatedly upping the ante of the horsepower war. This was it of course. Unless American tastes drastically changed, there would never be cars like this again... This was muscle's last stand.
130... I hear the wind screaming angrily as it is manhandled by the sheer tidewave of torque propelling the Impala forward. I watch the Black Tux start to lose steam, not able to keep pace with some 600 lb/ft pushing our two-ton boat through atmosphere without care or concern.
I can hear the blower whine fade as the Marauder finally lets off, being left behind. by Cash's stampede. We slow down quickly enough, turn around, and drive back toward my car. I'm shaking just a bit, adrenaline finding no reason to let up even though the race is over. I take a few deep breaths, and realize I am grinning ear-to-ear like a kid in candy store. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that Cash has an engine 4 times as big as mine, with 4 times as much power, in a car less than twice as massive. Maybe it's just the rush of nostalgia from back in the day when I used to wrestle my bald-tired, badly-tuned Mustang through cold nights just like this. Maybe I'm in awe. Who knows. Just then, my friend turns to me.
"Hey, don't you think it's kinda funny how Impalas are little tiny antelope? I mean, this car really isn't anything like that."
I nodded. He was right.