So I’m westbound on Pico at this red light somewhere past Robertson, and this dude in a vast new chromey SUV trundlebug pulls up. He blips his 300-hp engine, the street ahead is clear as far as I can see, and in an instant, nearly 40 years shred off my middle-aged frame: for the first time since Eisenhower, someone wants to drag me. And he actually thinks his obese, shiny, fashion statement of a Detroit road megalith can haul my 20-year-old import gas guzzler. Show him. Standing on the brake, I rev past 6 grand, then I pop it: We‘re both gone in a quick fog of tire smoke. My hindquarters sink back into the seat. Glatt kosher pizzerias fly by in a blur, and I’m keeping a wheel well ahead of this posturer all the way. Then I glance at my speedometer and it hits me: What the hell am I doing anyway, driving 75 mph past the Museum of Tolerance on a sunny afternoon? I brake, slow; the SUV roars on past me, headed toward Rancho Park and 90 mph plus.What happened? Simply, a personal manifestation of the last century‘s own addition to the list of mortal temptations: that of speed.
Source: Hang On | L.A. Weekly