Bobby “BULLDOG” Alford shares a good story with us.
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While minding my own business, washing my 1987 Grand National in my driveway, some young punk in a white, VERY NEW, Mustang continues to drive up and down my street, revving his engine every time he passes me. I wasn’t sure if this was a Mustang, because these 2018 models look like a foreign tuner to me. My car is MOSTLY stock. I do run 100% methanol, have an Art Carr shift kit, 60-pound injectors, as well as a few suspension upgrades, but nothing REAL amazing.
My wife comes out and asks for a ride to the supermarket, so of course I oblige since any excuse to drive is a good one. It was extremely hot out this day, so the A/C was a must. Since I never leave my car in ANY parking lot, I waited outside with the motor running an A/C on. Anyone that has one of these cars knows the tend to heat up pretty quick with the air on and the car not moving. So I shut her off, stepped out, and popped the hood. This of course caused a small, but very impressed crowd.
Four or five rows down I hear a familiar sound. The exhaust of the white Mustang. He ends up driving by my car, being sure to rev his motor as much as possible, only agitating my new-found fans, rather than impressing them. That’s when I noticed the COBRA tags on the body. Ok, I’m slightly impressed. Not enough to miss the “yeah, ever” lip curl he gives me as he drives by. My wife comes out and life goes on.
Fast forward a few hours and it is nightfall. Up the street from my house is a straight road approximately five miles long. The one problem is it goes right by the police station, and the tend to hang out in that area.
As I sit at the light on this straight road, guess who pulls up on my right? Yup, Mr. Mustang. Of course his window goes down. Since it had cooled off a bit, mine was already down, so there was no way to ignore him. He yells out the window. “Are we gonna do this or what”? I noticed he had a girl in his passenger seat. I do not like to race with anyone in my car, nor do I like my “victim” to do it either. I told him to drop his girl somewhere, and I would be happy to spank his little bottom. That’s when she starts with the mouth. Can you believe that? The chic starts talking shit.
At this point I was taking a left so I was in the left lane. He was going straight, so if we raced I would be on the wrong side of the road. Luckily you can see if there is a car coming from two miles up, so I felt I was OK, although this too was against my street racing beliefs. After listening to 20 seconds of trash talking I said “you know what son? Let’s do this”
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I felt a burnout would draw attention from anyone who may be in the area, but unseen. So, I backed up a bit and just tried to build some pressure. My turbo was set at 15 pounds, my alcohol was primed, what else was there? Oh yeah, shut off the A/C and roll up the window. Since I am at that light ten times a day, I know the order of light changing. Since I was in the left-hand lane, I had the green arrow, and knew the next light was a go! As soon as the left arrow turned red I hit the throttle wide open! The light went green and I let off the brake. The next set of lights is a half mile up EXACTLY. The problem is, it is right in front of the cop shop.
I don’t know what it was about this race, but everything seemed to go perfectly. I beat him off the line, the tires didn’t spin at all, they gripped perfectly. Other than a chirp going into second gear, they did their job. The turbo took over, and my alcohol light went on at ten pounds. Keeping an eye on the road in front of me, I concentrated on my knock gauge at one o’clock. That sweet sound of Pypes exhaust, and the scream of the turbo drowned out his exhaust. She shifted again, my head snapped back, and we were off.
He stayed pretty much beside me, his nose about three quarters the way down my car. I really wanted to get far enough ahead to pull in front of him, but he does have a respectable car. I continued to pull away from him as we continued passed what HAD to be a quarter mile, but I never let off. I don’t know if it was fear of the speed, or fear of the cops, but he finally just faded off into my rearview and I switched into the proper lane. By this time, I am just about on top of the police station.
I let off the gas and looked down at my speedometer. Of course, it SAID 85 MPH, but what else is it going to say? Obviously I was going much faster than that! Eventually the speed worked its way down to a reasonable number, as I prayed that no cops happen to be pulling out of the cop shop at the time. I went by the station with the speedometer still reading 85. To my surprise and delight, nothing lit up the area behind me, and I was home free.
I pulled into a gas station about another mile up, and turned around, continuing my pleasant drive home. To this day I hear a Mustang go by my house revving its engine. I choose to think of it as the car is paying its respects to its elders. Its elders that had just a little bit more than it did that night!
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