Urban Street Racing: A First Hand Accout of Illegal Street Racing from the Driver's Seat

Engines revving at the line, his mind is calm and is as clear as the vastness of space. Eyes are center and sharply focused. He feels his heart rate increase. It pounds with such a driving force that its rhythmic beat is the dominate sound in his ears.

Both hands grip the wheel with palms sweaty and knuckles white-tight. The left foot pressed reluctantly on the break petal, the right lowering the gas petal to the floor one millimeter at a time.

Both drivers know that in mere seconds this contest for pride will come to an end. The prize for the winner is only satisfaction, knowing that his machine out preformed that of his opponents. For the loser, there is only the embarrassment of defeat.

The light flashes green, the contest is on. With a last second glance for law enforcement, both drivers slam their gas petals to the floor.

The sound of his pounding heart in his ear is instantly subdued by the screeching noise of tires tearing against the pavement in concert with the roar of his large three hundred and fifty-one cubic inch V8 engine as the RPMs rise.

The tremendous blare that the two road warriors generate annihilates the natural silence of the night. The smoke of rubber on fire fills their lungs and waters fill their eyes.

His fists grip the wheel unyieldingly, holding to a path which is straight and true. He is slammed into the back of the seat of his rangoon-red 1964.5 Ford Mustang as they take off of the line.

Only seconds later he is violently thrust back in his seat and then forward again as the transmission switches into second gear.

The volume of the engine lowers to a whisper for a fleeting instant and then roars as it has always done before, like a predator after a kill.

Never relinquishing his focus on the road ahead, a split-second glance out of the corner of his eye to the sparkling midnight blue Camero reveals to him that his enemy to the left remains persistent, staying by his side as if he were a shadow. Like a hawk diving for its prey, the two of them pierce the air of the cool desert night. The flickering reflections of streetlight are all but unnoticed.

With determination, willpower, and immense resolve the driver pushes on; his strength of will reaching its peak.

Once again the vehicle switches gears on its own, this time from second to third. He feels the whole of his body jolt back and forth, but he keeps his foot pressed firmly against the gas petal, keeping it pinned to the floorboard. Briefly the echo of thumping from within his chest becomes the loudest sound to him in the universe. The fumes of melted rubber dissipate. The smell of carburetion takes its place. The order entices excitement.

As he breathes in the smell of the fuel-air mixture he realizes for the first time that the finish line is near, and for the first time he realizes that he will reach it before his foe, though he lags behind.

Only thirteen and nine tenths of a second since the contest began it comes to and end. In that amount of time they have covered one quarter of a mile. The dispute is over, the steady driver has won.

He liberates his foot from the gas petal, the place it has been pressed against for nearly fourteen seconds, and allows his car to coast. As the speed of the automobile decreases so does the heart rate. His focused eyes loosen and he lets out a sigh of relief before driving on to instigate the next challenge.