donger need food.

Farewell My Sweet

Nine Thousand Revolutions Per Minute. That's how fast the forged crankshaft spun around its tiny little bearings in the motor when that red band reached the far right of the digital tach. At those speeds, the pistons in that tiny Honda moved faster than the slugs in a Formula 1 race motor. And to this day, that banshee wail of an unmuffled intake tract reverberating off the walls of a canyon road in the hills above San Joaquin Valley still sends shivers down my spine. BwwaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!

I still love that amazing precision of the rifle-bolt-action shift mechanism (once the oil got warm) ... So buttery smooth and snickety snick snick short even when toddling around town at a Civic-like pace.

And the tail-out, full lock-counter-steer shenanigans of the last few weeks knowing that the end was near.

Yes, I will miss thee, oh gold-digging topless black mistress. It was fun while it lasted. I hope (pray?) that your new (inexperienced) 18-something-year-old owner takes care of you well.

posted by VirtualErn @ 11:32 PM

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