Is it fast?" asks the guy leering at me from above in his Honda Civic. At least, that's what I think he said. I can't hear him because my visor's down and the engine's throbbing behind me. So I just nod, shoot him a quick thumbs-up, and punch it, because it's my turn to make a left.
The rear breaks sideways, but I keep my foot in it. This is my second day with the car. Day one taught me what happens if I release the throttle even the tiniest bit: We immediately snap back in line. At first, I marveled at the on-off grip, now that I'm comfortable probing the limits, I keep my foot steady. We make it through the intersection reasonably straight, and in the vibrating side mirrors, I can see Civic guy pumping his fist and hollering something that looks like, "Yeaaaah!" Day one taught me to expect a lot of that, too.
This thing draws rubberneckers like no other. On the freeway, commuters creep up and box me in for a better look-dangerous stuff, but funny: I've seen the most jaded L.A. drivers actually hang up their cell-phones to snap a picture. Kids especially dig the arachnid-Erector-set styling. They make a connection between minimal bodywork and maximum velocity without being told. One small child with eyes as big as hubcaps asks me if it transformed. Older, more educated car fans recognize the car-or at least think they do: "I've seen it on the Internet, driven by thatBritish dude with the floppy face."
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