This Ain’t Your Gramma’s Sunday Driver
an editorial by game designer/creator Rob (korn696)
Since the start of this project, I have finely tuned my drag racing senses. I practice on Acca’s Peformance Center, and I can’t help but ask myself what it must feel like to truely drag race down the middle of town. Sure, I’ve done it before (you’d be surprised what an old stock ‘91 Mazda Protege four-banger can do), but not in a finely tuned piece of automotive engineering.
Drag racing seems to have quite a bit of tradition wrapped in it. Nostalgia is thick and palpable when you visit the old diners that once housed some of the world’s quickest speedsters, now in their golden years. The one national custom that seemed to spread globally is also one of the most unchanged and pure.
There is no candy coating when drag racing. Most of the time it’s a spur of the moment thing. A buddy and good friend of mine owns a ‘94 Ford Mustang GT 5.0. It’s his baby, and as well it should be. He’s done some remodelling on the transmission, replacing the stock single-plate clutch with a monstrous three-plater. It’s an absolute pleasure and honor to watch him tear-ass through those gears, especially on a good night. Night after night, that car does his bidding, at the same time dangling his life before his very eyes. You think you’re quick on the shifting, he’s got you beat. Where a stock Mustang of the same make and model has about a four to five inch gear throw from first to second, this one’s about an inch and a half, so he spends less time shifting, and more time watching you in his rear-view. It’s the kind of heart-pumping, nerve jangling adreanline rush that so many crave, and which only drag racing can deliver. And that is the reason behind the Need for Speed: High Stakes drag racing modification, pure and simple.
It all sounds so easy, jumping on the gas and making the car stand up on it’s rear wheels because you gave it a sharp kick in the ass, the g-forces of acceleration literally pasting you three inches farther into your seat than the manufacturer planned for. It all sounds so easy, a finely tuned enging cranking out more ponies than old re-runs of Bonanza, and before you know it, you’ve turned out a nine-second quarter-mile. Then the posse comes along. You know what I’m talkin’ about: cherries and blueberries, county mounties, rent-a-cops, the fuzz; it don’t matter, because they’re out for only one thing: to bust your speed needin’ ass. That’s right. Faster than Jenny Craig can say “All you can eat,” these badge wearin’ asses can kill the need to feed a lil’ speed into your ride, know what I’m saying. It’s the thrill of the chase that keeps us going, in conjunction with the thrill of victory, or the disappointment of defeat.
When this game finally makes it’s debut, expect the same thrill and the same disppointment, because this ain’t your gramma’s Sunday driver.
