The Fast and the Faster

Along time ago when my sister lived in Butte, Montana with me and our mother and step dad, we had these awesome, amazing cars. Kerri had a 1966 Mustang Coupe that had a 302 in it. I had the 1968 Fastback Mustang, it just had a regular straight six cylinder in it.

Kerri was working for Delta at the time. She calls me up on our parents' rotary phone. Yes, we're that old. She asks me if I had wanted to go out and toss a couple back, after she gets off work in 15 minutes. I'm like, "Hell yeah, sounds like fun." She responds with, "Good, there's a couple of pilots who wanted to come along as well." I'm thinking, This ought to be good.

I drive out to the airport and go inside and wait for my sister, and these pilots to get done with their shift. They come walking out from behind the counter, laughing about some joke. Kerri was always good for a good laugh, and had the ability to make you laugh.

We head outside and the one pilot says, "Oh, I'm riding with him." Kerri and the other pilot go and get her car. Jim and I get in mine. I goose the engine, Jim is like, "This is nice." Kerri and Steve come wiping around the corner. He rolls down her window, and she shouts at me, "It club," and guns it.

We get out towards the Montana Street exit, before the highway. It's late at night; no one is coming. She pulls up alongside me, revs her engine, and says, "Hey Chase, I'll race ya." I tell her that she'll beat me anyway; she's got the bigger engine. At this point, we are about five miles from the club.

There was a movie that hadn't come out yet, and I want to refer to a line that Tom Cruise says in the movie Days of Thunder. "So I don't have to worry about getting beat by the other car, but the driver?" This preludes to the race between my sister's 66 302 Mustang Coupe, to my 68 six cylinder Mustang fastback. Vrooom vrooom vroooooom, wheels squealing, smoke coming from our tires.

We're off like a bat out of hell. Speedometer is racing 90 miles an hour. Kerri comes flying by, doing 100 miles an hour. Jim says to me, "Are you going to let your SISTER beat you?" I'm like, "Oh, it's on Buddy, hang on." I floor it: 100, 110, 120, 130, WHOOOSH!!!! I'm doing 140 miles an hour, and fly by Kerri and Steve. I look down; I'm doing 150 miles per hour. Jim is like, "Dude slow down." We go flying down the off ramp; I slow it down pretty quick, and without wrecking, take the corner at 30 miles an hour.

Jim is a pilot. You would think that he would be accustomed to such speeds. Not so much in a car. Another hairpin corner to the left, and 200 feet away is the club. Drop it down to fourth gear, and we are there. We get out of the car, and Jim says, "That was crazy insane, but you're one hell of a driver."

Kerri and Steve drive up park next to us. They get out. I say to my sister, "Kerr, my straight six beat your 302. How is that possible?" Steve says to me, "Dude, all I saw was a blue streak."

If your money was on the 1966 302 cylinder Mustang Coupe, pay up. I beat the car and the driver, with a straight six cylinder in a 1968 Fastback Mustang.