Club Cobra - Where is Hal Copple???

I originally wrote this as a (tongue in cheek) fill in for Hal's uniquely penned adventure stories when we lost him once before about 8 years ago, after he was flamed for posting a story about blasting a Turbo Porsche with his sidepipes at an intersection.

Woke up this morning and looked out the window - another beautiful day. I realised then that I have nothing in common with South Carolina and I barely even remember Noah (he was that dreadlocked French tennis player...right...?). I downed a classy breakfast of cornflakes (we're out of Grapenuts), and I decided to take the Great FPSB for a spin.

After wiping the bird poop from the top of my steering wheel and seat - damn things come in to steal dog food and relieve themselves all over the garage - I settled into the leather 60's style bucket seat and struggled with the @^%&&+#@ 5-point harness before caressing the throttle and tickling the tiny key to light up the fire in the belly of the beast. My dogs disappeared into the bushes as the mighty stroker finally fired after my 14 minute startup routine (flooded again!) and I grinned as a thundering backfire hastened their progress and drew an oath from my wife who had planned to sleep in after a late night of classy dining. Now firmly set in "road warrior mode", I adjusted my imitation Ray Ban Aviators and eased out of the garage, idled down the long driveway heading for the open road and whatever adventure awaited.

The faint smell of the sea wafted on the early morning offshore breeze that rapidly picked up in intensity as the Great FPSB climbed through the gears, stretching its legs on the still quiet blacktop and I revelled in the car's quick reflexes and nimble steering as I dodged to and fro through a familiar pattern of potholes that I like to think of as my own personal slalom course. The fourth gear rumble from the ceramic coated sidepipes actually relaxes me and I mused that no other car can evoke the sensations and feelings that one experiences in a Cobra - though I feel that my replica must come pretty close.

As luck would have it, I crested the small rise before the Pigeon Point turnoff and spotted a fat tired Suzuki Samuari cruising confidently not more than, say, 10 or 11 car lengths ahead. It was 6:45 am and there was no other traffic in sight so I cast all vestiges of social responsibility aside and decided to make good on the the advantage of surprise that I enjoyed - partly due to luck but more likely due to my skillful driving and uncanny sense of timing.

Just as I eased up around his bumper, I thrust the authentic style shifter into second and goosed the throttle, evoking a terrifying roar from the stroker, breaking the BFG radials loose and pelting the Suzuki with a cloud of rubber particles, grit and and some dead animal that I hadn't spotted in time to avoid. As I bellowed and fishtailed past the hapless Samuari, I just had time to glimpse the expression of shock on the driver's face as his wife screamed and his kids burst into tears.

A small furry dog leaped from the passenger window and tumbled into the grassy ditch and my adversary was forced into a screeching, swerving panic stop. Capitalizing on my advantage, I slammed a quick upshift , firing a parting backfire at my opponent and bogging the car as the revs dropped dramatically - $$hit! that was 5th! With a quick curse, I corrected my mistake and extended my lead as the Great replica surged forward and I watched the needle climb well past 150, 180, 210.. Jeezzus!! That's the temperature gauge!! I forgot to toggle the damn cooling fans again! Time to find a place to stop.

As fate would have it, I was rapidly approaching the Rodney Bay intersection and I was able to turn off and park in front of Cafe Claude's, a trendy bistro often frequented by well heeled tourists and visiting celebs. The breakfasting patrons gasped as I skidded to a stop and shut the beast down, no doubt in awe of the hissing, spitting monster parked not ten feet from their tables.

I flung off the harness before climbing out and the crowd roared with laughter as I grabbed one leg and hopped around in circles all over the road. G-ddam sidepipes! I narrowly avoided being run over by the jerk in the Suzuki as he sped by; no doubt trying to salvage what's left of his manhood after our little encounter. I waved him on with my middle finger and limped into the bistro, glaring around with a look that could only mean "Go ahead. Make my day. Ask me if it's real." No one took up the unspoken challenge and I was allowed to sit in peace sipping a tall, icy mango cocktail while the Great FPSB cooled down outside.

Later, as I cruised home in the building Saturday morning traffic, I reflected with satisfaction on my latest victory and wondered what adventure waited around the next turn.....

Stay tuned for the continuing saga.

DISCLAIMER:I tried my best not to incriminate, insult, discriminate or otherwise offend any FFR or other replica owners, waxers and racers with this story (note that there was only one mention of the word REAL and all references to big or small blocks have been censored). If I still managed to piss anyone off, tough!