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issue.  Previous Porsching columns are available at
http://www.cs.vassar.edu/faculty/welty/porsching

PORSCHING  by Chris Welty 
Hudson-Valley Region, PCA

Commuting
with special guest Porscher, John Colasante

Zip.  Zap.  Whoooosh.  Unwary pedestrians are treated to a gust of
wind and the choking odor of exhaust as I rip by in relentless pursuit
of a faster commute.   

Cresting a snowy blind curve on a narrow two lane back road I am
airborne.  My hands furiously (and with futility) saw at the steering
wheel. My neck snaps as the car plows through a snow bank, flies over
the next one, and en-dos into a farm house right through the wood side
and into a pig pen. The pigs jump on the hood and lick the windshield
as I gun the engine in an urgent attempt to back out. 

The spinning rear wheels slowly begin to bite, initiating a gradually
increasing rearward motion.   A farmer and his son come running, but I
splatter mud on them as the car heaves through the very trench I
created, the back end practically buried in the mire. I finally peel
away and the car goes sideways as the beefy rear tires grip the
recently salted pavement.  I quickly spray the windshield washer and
proceed to crank the steering wheel again, hauling up on the hand
brake.  The car pirouettes rapidly, creating enough centrifugal force
to send most of the caked on mud flying.  The embankment on the left
side of the road holds me in and stops the spinning.  Lowering the
handbrake and still at full throttle, I return the gesture to the
displaced car in the oncoming lane and regain the road.  Steering with
my knees I search for and find my tape recorder, making a note to
myself about a great idea for a new chain of car washes that boast,
"We really dry you out!"

I slam into another speed bump, this time tearing off what remained of
my exhaust system, and the tape recorder goes flying into the back
seat.  In my rearview mirror I see my muffler bounce into the oncoming
lane, causing a car to swerve off into a ditch.   

"Didn't need that anyway, at least someone found it useful,"
I think to myself.   

The unmuffled sound is deafening, shaking me down to my very soul.  I
crank up the volume on the stereo and try to blip the throttle in time
to the bass line, letting the engine act as a sub-woofer (since mine
had flown out through the open targa top when I blasted through the
last construction site).  I decide this sounds better, and reach into
the back seat for the tape recorder again. 

Recorder in had, I face the road again to find the car is redlined in
5th. I approach another tree lined curve, and downshifting smoothly I
pass a slow moving school bus in the middle of the turn. I lift the
throttle to keep with the beat of the music, and as the tail gradually
begins to wander, I reach opposite lock and my two feet slam down on
both pedals simultaneously. The car caroms off a tree and back onto
the road. I see the bus approaching as the car is pointed the wrong
way going backwards. I calmly give the bus driver a hand signal and a
silent mouthing to "slow down" as the car banks off of a tree on the
opposite side of the road and points me once again correctly down the
road. I shift to forth, pound the accelerator and roar away, noting
with satisfaction that I only lost 500 rpms.  I record my note about
new sound systems. 

I reach the main road and try to make up for lost time spent at the
farmhouse. Because of the bent rims, 120 feels a bit shaky. As I back
off a bit, I spot another 911 up ahead, a shiny black turbo. I decide
to give that car, driven by a stoic-looking balding businessman, the
"911 lovetap". With a relative speed difference approaching 30 mph I
slam his rear bumper, causing his decklid to fly off and his engine
pulleys to grind into the rear fascia. With a nod and a wave I pass in
the shoulder on his right and speed off, beaming as I see him pull off
the road in a cloud of smoke and fire. 

I screech to a halt in front of my office, scattering several people
sitting on benches. I check the stopwatch:  Still a few seconds off my
best time.  Damn.  Better have that farmer install asphalt around his
barn, that mud really cost me. 

All around me, people gawk. I reach out through the broken drivers
window and pull the outer door handle to open the door. Reaching
behind the seat and grabbing my briefcase,  shards of glass dance
around my feet. I glance at a kid standing nearby and chuckle, "I
think it's time for a paintjob". As I saunter away he turns to his
friend and says, "Was that James Bond?".