Somewhere out there is a kid in a red BMW 325 with a ski
rack who thinks he spanked my well-modified '83 Porsche 911 the other day. He came up on my rear bumper on Route 9W looking for a fight, blew past at 65 mph, and wailed away at what I guess to be about 90 mph. He's probably wondering why a poseur has a roll bar and speed-equipment stickers on his rear quarter window yet drives like he votes in St. Petersburg.



As I watched him disappear in the distance, I thought to myself, Have a nice day, 2Fast 2Stupid, I'm going to the track tomorrow.