Accord, Accelerate Accordingly.

Ever since Gene Honda began producing automobiles in the late 80's one thing has remained consistent; Hondas are the fastest cars on Earth. Knowing this has put me in my fair share of arguments, fist fights, thumb wars, drag races, you name it. Luckily I have a lead foot to get me out of such jams, only, it's an endless cycle. Soon as I finish proving the fastness of my car some new chump comes crawling out of the woodwork to challenge me. It never fails.
"Hey, you drive a Honda? I'll blow you away with my souped up moped."
Or, "Hondas are slow as hell! I'll totally blow you away in my tricked out Sentra!"
And, "Dude that Honda ain't shit compared to my lame-ass Neon. Prepare to be blown away!"
Things have gotten so bad with the "Honda Haters" that I've developed a sixth sense which detects when one is near.
I was leaving work early to get drunk in a Wal*Mart bathroom when suddenly I was struck with a hot flash. Too young for menopause, I knew it had to be something else.
The school day hadn't yet ended, all the busses were lined up in back of the building with their drivers leaned against them, talking, waiting for dismissal. One particular driver stood apart from the group; tight black jeans, denim vest, tattooed arms (each wrapped around a lady bus monitor), ponytail, and aviator sunglasses; this guy was leader of the pack. The kind of guy that washed his face by scrubbing it with glass shards. The kind of guy that wiped his ass with 40-grit sandpaper. The kind of guy that could fist fight a mule. The kind of guy that would fist fight a mule.
Yeah. Impressive. It was while walking past him that I had the hot flash.
"You the fag with the Honda?" he asked.
I looked over. One foot on the ground, the other poised against the bus, an old lady in each arm, he represented all that was cool. Without answering I walked by as he spat tobacco juice, then spoke.
"Hey Nancy, where ya goin? I'm talkin to you!"
"My name's not Nancy!" I yelled, "It's Richard. Richard T. Garfunkle. What the hell do you want?"
He rolled his eyes.
I turned and started walking again.
"Hold up! I got somethin to say."
Whipping back around I stared him dead in the eyes, squinted mine, curled my lip like Billy Idol and told him, "Well start talking punk. Otherwise I gotta split."
"OK" he said, "Here's what's up. Think back to a few months ago, let's say the end of March maybe; you're driving along when, lo and behold, you come to a red light. Now you're staring straight ahead, not looking at no one. You're feeling pretty cool. Hell, you should, you're listening to Disturbed. Those guys wrote the book on cool. You turn your head to the left, give the guy in the next lane a look like you wanna kiss him. Now, let's say you start revving your engine like a tough guy. The light turns green. You take off. You don't look in your rear view mirror until you've hit third, maybe fourth gear. And what do you see? Some 'chump' in a Dodge Spirit 'so scared he took a left turn!!!' How's this sounding?"
Frankly it sounded pretty awesome (ya know, except for that kissin' dudes part) and made me wish I had a girlfriend so we could bang. I didn't tell him that. Instead, I held my Billy Idol lip snarl, shrugged my shoulders and, in my most stoic voice said, "Sounds like I'm listening to a punk bitch."
He spat his tobacco wad onto the pavement, smiled, revealing a mouthful of greasy brown, jagged teeth. "What I mean is, this story. Does it sound familiar?"
Familiar? Shit, I must've made that ooh-ahh-ahh-ahh-ahh noise for like three weeks afterwards, that's how stoked I was over the whole thing. I didn't tell him that either. No. I wasn't about to back down from this putz simply because he had two broads ready and willing to hump at his disposal. That trick didn't work on me. Neither did the tattoos nor the tobacco; not even the unbrushed teeth would phase me. Shrugging again, intensifying the lip snarl so drastically I couldn't see out my right eye I asked, "What's your point?"
"My point? Great question. What's my point in telling you this story you know so well?"

I lost interest, zoned out.


"Stop that!" I heard him yell.
"Stop what?"
"Scratching your balls, man! Jeeze, you'll make my old ladies puke." He pulled the broad on his left in for a nice long tongue kiss, extra sloppy.
"Sorry about that, babe. Some people have no manners." He said this, winking, after they'd finished. The broad on his right shook her head at me, farted, said I was a loser.
Without any clue what we were talking about or why I wasn't yet in a Wal*Mart bathroom getting drunk I started walking away again.
"I'm not finished!"
Annoyed, I yelled back, "Well finish!"
"I'm trying! Where were we?" he paused a moment, gathering his thoughts. "My point is, that 'chump' wasn't turning left out of intimidation. That 'chump' was turning left, because he was in the turning lane. That 'chump' was me and ever since I found your stupid little blog entry, saying how you beat me in a race, I've been trying to find you. THAT'S my point."
My lip snarl died down. I thought back to that fateful day, realized he was right. He had been on my left, in the turning lane. My cheeks red, my hands shaking, I asked, "So? You want a rematch or something?"
He laughed. "You bet your ass I wanna race. And you know what my Dodge Spirit will do to your puny little Honda?"
"What?" I asked.
Reaching into his pants pocket he pulled out a tiny notebook, ripped off a sheet of paper, crumpled it in his hand and blew it away.
"That."
School bells clanged. The kids were out. Soon the busses would be clogging up traffic. Forget getting drunk at Wal*Mart I needed to see Groff. Before I could reach the Accord I heard him call to me again so I spun around.
"Hey champ! One thing I'll give you credit for. You really were down with the sickness that day. Don't let anyone take that from you" and he put his fist to his chest in respect.
I nodded in silence, then took off.

Earl and Groff were deeply immersed in a conversation about how much they missed stealing kids' bikes only to ghost ride them down hills, into trees, ponds, and other cool things by the time I reached Groff's place. They were pretty hammered and, considering it was almost 3 in the afternoon, I wasn't surprised. I relayed to them the details of my confrontation until Groff interrupted, saying, "Sounds like you had an encounter with Throttle."
Throttle? I was set to race a dude named Throttle? No way. "Are you sure we're talking about the same guy?" I asked, providing a description afterward.
"Did he have two busted lookin' broads with him?"
"Yep."
"Then that's Throttle all right."
"How do you know this, Groff?"
"I was out drinkin' alone one night when I spotted this chick with huge knockers. She was with another chick and this dude with shitty tattoos. I walked over to introduce myself but I must've slipped, 'cause I fell face first into those fun bags of hers; probably eight or nine times this happened. A freak accident, ya know? Then the dude with the tattoos picked me up and started yelling."
"What did he say?"
"He asked if I knew what he did to pricks who try hittin' on his old ladies. I told him I didn't. He said 'I do this' and body slammed me onto a table. I woke up a few hours later in a dumpster, a shirt full of spaghetti."
"Damn. That sucks, dude."
"Tell me about it."
"So what do I do?"
"Don't you worry about it Rich. Just set up a date to hold the race and leave the rest to your good buddy Groff."

So that's what I did.

Three days later Groff, Earl, and I were on our way to the meeting point which, coincidentally, was behind the school. A risky move since I'd called in to work to prepare but, whatever, I had my dignity on the line. My nerves always act up before a race so we made small talk. Passing a used car dealership Groff announced it would be exciting to steal a car, hotwire it, and go for a joyride. Earl agreed, mentioning that he and his cousin used to hotwire cars all the time, adding, "I can show you how whenever you want." This pleased Groff very much and he couldn't stop smiling the rest of the ride.
Approaching the school we could see Throttle and his two old ladies through my windshield. Small talk was over. Groff gave a quick review of the plan, refreshing our memories in case we needed it. We didn't.
I pulled up alongside Throttle's Dodge Spirit, and we exited the car. Without hesitation Groff went right to work, approaching the broad with huge knockers, hands out, fingers wiggling. The distraction. Throttle fell for it, grabbing Groff by the crotch and yelling at him. I joined in the mayhem, swearing at the other broad and Throttle simultaneously. Perfect. No one saw Earl open my trunk or what he did after that.
Two black eyes, a torn shirt, bruised groin, and a pair of soiled trousers later Groff was ready to call it quits and go home. I stopped Throttle from beating Groff unconscious by reminding him of the race he was about to lose. This pissed Throttle off even more, but he got into his Dodge and started pumping the gas, his old ladies following. Earl, Groff, and I did the same.
Now, I bet you're wondering, "Gee Rich, if there wasn't anyone out front telling you when to go, then how did you guys know when to start, and how did you pull it off without one person starting before the other?" Simple. We made sure to arrive with enough time to get ourselves settled and ready to race before 4th period began. The road we chose wouldn't see much (if any) traffic until two o'clock, so it wouldn't be a problem for us to sit in our idling cars until then. One person in each car had a watch synchronized with the school's bell system that way the driver would still get a countdown. With our windows down we could hear the bells clearly and when they went off, so would we. And that's that.
Waiting there, my knuckles white, palms sweaty, all I could think about was winning the race, and celebrating with my friends. Groff sat in back nursing his wounds while Earl counted backwards from ten. Exactly on zero the bell rang.
I slammed my foot down on the clutch. Lifted. Slammed on the gas. Shifted. First gear. Second. Third. Fourth. I was winning! But what about the plan? Had something gone wrong?
I was shifting into fifth when I first heard the sound. A high-pitched, screeching, sound. Metal on metal? It drew closer. I looked out the passenger side window. Throttle and I were neck and neck! How could that be? What about the plan?
"What the fuck Earl?" I yelled and Throttle zoomed past.
Just in time to cross Matthews St. The finish line. I hit the brakes. Thirty seconds later, that screeching sound became unbearable. Still looking out the window I saw a bike rack, full with BMX's and ten-speeds padlocked to it, scrape by. It was attached to a metal chain, dragged by a speeding Dodge Spirit.
Up until this point Groff had had his face in his hands. He lifted it to speak, "You idiot! I told you to attach it to something STURDY!"
Earl shrugged, shook his head back and forth, "You telling me that isn't sturdy? That bike rack's made of wrought iron, man! Look! It's still in one piece!"
The car at a complete stop, I pressed my face into the steering wheel, closed my eyes and asked Groff, "What next, genius?"
He didn't pick up on the sarcasm.
"Plan B" was his response.

Losing sucks. There's no way around it. Losing sucks. Of course there's always the old saying, "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" but who really wants to join with a douchebag like Throttle? Not us.
That's why you have a Plan B.
That's why you and your friends find out where your nemesis lives, steal a car, hotwire it, set the cruise control, and ghost ride it into his living room.