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Replacement Displacement?

I have to speak loudly because of the engine noise. "Watch the starting guy". "He will probably give Racer W some kind of signal". Racer W is in the left hand lane, we are in the right. The starting guys little finger drops slieghtly. "GO" I say. Mrs. Jim flinches when I say go. As she lets go of the buttons, it is like being hit in the shoulder blades and driven forward by a three hundred pound lineman on the football field. The front of the car raises up, and the torque of the motor tries to twist the car like a wash rag. The rear of the old chev slides way to the right for a long moment. Mrs. Jim holds throttle and waits while she palms the wheel about one turn to the right. A lesser driver might have lifted on the throttle. The rear comes back. Mrs. Jim palms the wheel back straight as the rear tires begin to hook up. With peripheral vision, I see the starting guys hands almost down. Racer W is not quite across the white line. Mrs. Jim has already carved out a couple of car lengths. As the rear of the car slides a little to the left, Mrs. Jim advances the throttle pedal to the floor. If one could look under the hood at that moment, they would find the butterflys on all three two barrel carbs open. The linkage up against a small electrical switch that only comes on when the throttle is opened all the way. This switch enables a mixture of nitrous and gasoline to feed from each intake port under the intake manifold. The cables that restrain the big block motor are tight on one side. They keep the motor from breaking its mounts. Mrs. Jim holds the car in low 1 for a little longer than she should because the valves are starting to float. She reaches down and hits the 'T' handled shifter and bumps the transmission into low 2 with the heel of her right palm. The left front of the car is raised, the right rear of the car squats as lots of displacement and torque work their magic. Forward velocity comes in big gulps as the big block roars, the intake sounding like it is going to devour the hood. "Shift at 6000" I yell. I look back over my shoulder.
 
As stated in post #17.
(In the arena of displacement, is a 427ci tri carbed monster)
Love this Jim. Also see that Mrs.Jim owns a pair, (not literally)
but all the same. I mean this with the upmost respect.
 
Racer W (Ricer W) is falling steadily behind. Mrs. Jim selects drive. the rpm's drop some but immediately climb again. Mrs. Jim has her hands at the 10 and 2 position and looks to be holding on for dear life. "How do you prefer your rice?" I say above the roar of the motor, "boiled or fried?" The white line that signifies 1320 feet flashes past, only after it passes does Mrs. Jim lift on the throttle. "Boiled or fried, it's cooked either way" laughs Mrs. Jim. The front end of the car settles lower as we decelerate. "Wait till you get below 100 before you use the brakes" I say. "How fast are we going?" says Mrs. Jim while glancing down at the speedometer needle that has passed out of sight to the right. On my left shoulder is a red mini Jim with a pointy tail and a pitchfork that says "Whooo-Wheee boy, tell er thet she just piloted this here rocketship to over 2.7 times the speed limit on this here road". On my right shoulder is a mini Jim that wears a white suit with wings and he quietly shakes his head back and forth and says "Perhaps it would be best if you do not mention how fast YOU let Mrs. Jim drive so as not to upset her?" I shake hands with the little guy on my right shoulder, he nods his head up and down. "That was some nice driving" I offer. "Really?" Says Mrs. Jim. She brakes to a stop and pulls her hands from the steering wheel as if they are stuck to a magnet. As she holds them up, I notice they are shaking just a little. "Lets go see what Mr. Racer W has to say for himself now" I say. She turns around and takes off down the road. We arrive at the other end of the straightaway going a little faster than we should due to Mrs. Jims habit of speeding up and trying to stop at the last possible instant without hitting anybody or anything, a technique that she has mastered, and knows that it infuriates me. Several of the youngsters jump back as we grind to a halt. I get out and try to walk slowly and nonchalantly over to snatch up the 300 bucks. Mrs. Jim reaches right past me and grabs the money, folds it up without even counting it, and stuffs it in her shirt. "But, but, well, that wasn't very nice" I say. Mrs. Jim looks at me and bats her eyes once at me and says "I know". Mrs. Jim steps over to Racer W and puts out her hand and shakes with him. I can hear Racer W's ego deflating and it sounds like a big whoopie cushion making a disgusting sound. I Smile. She shoots me a look of death and places her left index finger upon her lips, a universal signal for me to not say anything at all if I don't have something nice to say. "This is quite a machine you have here" says Mrs. Jim, "I think you almost caught me there at the end, better luck next time", she smiles and grabs my hand with her fingernails and directs me toward the drivers side of the old Chev. I open her door first. As I settle into the drivers seat, Mrs. Jim says "You ARE going shopping with me and you ARE going to REALLY like it, that way I'll be able to keep a closer eye on you". Sometimes I don't like shopping.
 
Dear Jim.
Sure hope this solves your neighborhood problem with Racer W and
that annoying little hamstermobile.
Tell Mrs. Jim thank you for letting this take place.
Also would love to see pics of the Flames car if at all possible.
 
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