(non-roc) Racing Article

[Stephanie Gill <stephygee@prodigy.net>]

Excerpt from Automobile Magazine (May 2000) Article--"Street Fighting Men"


Hanna arrives at about 9:30.  Shortly after ten p.m., a lowered Mitsubishi
Eclipse, and a slammed Civic drive up
Manville.  "Here come the victims," an onlooker announces.
A small group of kids, early twenties at most, pile out.  They speak in
undertones as they look over and
under Hanna's car whie it sits on the trailer.  Hanna and Sendejas undo the
fasteners securing the Nova's
hood.  "It's a stocker," Sendejas says with remarkable equanimity
considering that the small-block Chevy
has been massaged to produce 750 horsepower.
"Ain't no stocker," one of the kids says.
Sendejas shrugs.  "Pretty close.  One carburetor.  Street tires."
"I don't know, man."
"We race motor-to-motor.  You squeeze, you lose."
"I'm going to need some space--and the go."
"That's cool.  We can do that."
The import crew huddles.  "I'm going to need fifteen cars," the kid says.
Sendejas nods agreeably.  "We're here to race."
The import guys say they need to prep their car at their shop.  They'll call
when they're ready.
Oh, and they want to run on Randolph Street, over in their 'hood.  Sendejas
agrees in a heartbeat.  He's
convinced that the race is a slam-dunk.  Even though some of the Hondas are
remarkably quick on the track--
this particular Civic was turned mid-twelves--it's an article of faith among
muscle-car loyalists that they don't
work on the street.  "The import guys spend a grip of money to go nowhere,"
says Hanna's friend Robert
Leffler, a V-8 devotee who, ironically, works in a Honda dealership.  He
points to a ratty-looking, Seventies-
vintage Camaro.  "For $3000, I could have that car running tens.  You've got
to spend $25,000 on a Honda to
run elevens."
More waiting.  Shortly after midnight, Sendejas gets the call, and everybody
caravans up the freeway.
The Manville gang hangs in a residential neighbhorhood and waits for the
second call.  When it comes, they hit
Randolph.  But as Levi is unloading, a cop drives by.  Everybody splits and
meets in a shopping center parking lot.
Now thirty cars long, the caravan heads to an alternative site.  Not enough
rubber on the road.  Back to Randolph.
The fifteen-car length handicap is quickly paced off.  Four guys hold the
Civic--now shod with slicks--in place as
the driver does four heavy-duty burnouts that fill the car with smoke.  The
1.8-liter Acura engine is positively
screaming, but compared with the ominous bellow of the Chevy, it's the
shrill cry of a child trying to be heard
in a roomfull of adults.
Shortly after two a.m., Hanna flashes his lights to signal that he's ready. 
The Honda VTEC spools up.
The driver drops the clutch and spins his tires big time.  At 9000 rpm, he
desperately tries to bang second, but
the synchros won't let him.  Hanna's howling Nova hurtles past.  Shoulders
slumping, the import guys trudge
to the finish line.  By the time they arrive, Hanna's already got his car on
the trailer, and Sendejas is
distributing the $400 booty.  "I don't drink," Sendejas says.  "I don't do
drugs.  I don't smoke dope.  This is
my high.  This is how I get amped."
For one more night, at least, muscle cars still reign supreme.  And in the
dead of night, the robust
growl of small-block Chevys echoes through the city.



Steph
"missing my old '69 Camaro RS--RIP"


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