Imagine it is eleven o' clock, Saturday night and there are sports cars hidden in every crevice of highway seventy-eight. Every gas station and business parking lot is swarming with them. The drivers conversing and showing off their newest accessory waiting until the predestined time. This is the secret world of street racing, where racers of all kind are accepted as family. To these people, racing is an addiction and the only way to satisfy this urge is to make your car race worthy, and race. To some it is a hobby, but to the few who race it is a way of life.
The preparation of these cars is praise worthy--artwork at best. Their hoods are popped and the beauty of their engines is almost seductive,drawing the eyes to their brilliance. As the cars are started the whistle of the turbo chargers sing like a robin bird in spring, air intakes roar, and the performance exhaust systems rumble like earthquakes. The elite run with nitrous oxide which is commonly referred to as "Nos."" The "Nos- hookup in a car is like fine wine "sweet at first and ending with a punch. The racing style rims induce drooling, neons blaze the colors of the rainbow, and racing logos are showcased on the back windows of the beasts. Experienced racers are secretly pouring high-octane boosters in their tanks, because they know it could mean the difference between victory and defeat. The apointed time is at hand; as if there were bomb threats drivers scatter to their cars and make any last minute adjustments. Then, lke pack of wolves they travel fearlessly to a secluded road deemed as the strip. These racers are not worried about police enforcement because the law has a fear of wild wolves when they run as a pack. The majority of the cars are faster than cop cars; the racers are experienced reckless drivers, and most importantly the racers out number the few courageous cops that try to intervene. .
Finally it's race time; elegance of the roadster means nothing.