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It?s early Sunday morning. I can?t sleep and I?m bored. I live in an apartment building and soundproofing wasn?t part of the architect?s or the developer?s plan. I don?t want to turn on the TV and wake up half the building. Last thing I need is some irate neighbor banging on my door.
So, I?ve got to move, in more ways than one.
I decide to go for a ride and check out a 20 miles stretch of highway that has been repaved. I get in my two-tone blue, 1976 Plymouth Fury and slowly drive away. It has a 360cid motor with a 4-barrel carburetor, and a great transmission.
The highway is near my house and the drive is pleasant with nary a car on the road. When I reach the end of the new black top, I turn around to head back home. As I drive up the ramp to get on the highway, I see a bright orange Cuda or Challenger drive by. I could never tell those apart, but it has a black stripe with 440 on the side of the rear fender. I think to myself that I can take this 6-pack toting dude or dudette. When I was a teen, the older sister of one of my friends drove a Mustang Mach I and my aunt drove an AMX. I thought that they were the two coolest women on the face of the earth. Sorry mom, but the old Pontiac Parisienne just didn?t make the cut.

Whoever is driving the 440 is wise to this wannabe. As I accelerate so does the driver of the orange car. Except for the two of us, the highway is clear.
The chase is on.
No time to enjoy the scen...