"Seat Safety Switch" (seat-safety-switch)
08/07/2015 at 11:33 • Filed to: bob lutz, mach 1 mustang, hill valley
8
0|
"Seat Safety Switch" (seat-safety-switch)
08/07/2015 at 11:33 • Filed to: bob lutz, mach 1 mustang, hill valley | 8
| 0 |
When I first got the Mach 1, I found out that doing a burnout would make the world outside seem to slow and tinge brown. One day I accidentally hit the launch control, and I saw everything slow to a complete stop and then go backwards . Trapped in the car due to my defective Takata eBay replica harness, I was unable to halt the process. When I had successfully kicked the under-dash fusebox loose and stopped whatever was happening, the eight-lane highway I was on had disappeared, replaced by a dirt road.
I drove the Mach 1 back to town, finding many stores missing and many fewer but inestimably more stylish cars. My trained eye couldn’t help but pick out tons of classics that were immensely valuable - was this some kind of Hemmings meet? Was I being catfished by the vintage car insurance agency for my callous disregard of authentic patina?
Before long, I had settled in with these people. Turns out it was 1955. I attended a local drive-in with the intent of showing postwar kids what nine hundred and seventy three wheel horsepower from the motherfucking future could do.
A man stood, put money into a payphone, yelled excitedly. “Bob, it’s your cousin Marvin. Marvin Lutz. You know that new sound you were looking for? Well, listen to this.” He held the receiver to the intake plenum of my twin-screw Roots supercharger, which ingested it and the cord immediately in a howl of detonation.
Angry people surrounded my car, wondering if it was some kind of Communist agitator plot to destroy America via street racing. I had these strange twinkling lights and green rectangles inside my car, they reasoned. I decided to beat a hasty retreat, and did, handily outrunning anything that local law enforcement could bring me.
I had to do a burnout in reverse in order to return to my own time, I figured, but I had chewed up the tires I came with driving on the minty new macadam roads. I drove to a local tire shop. The attendant was there. “One set of Mickey Thompson drag radials, my good man,” I said while leafing through my Velcro wallet for bills old enough to have existed at this time.
He turns to me. We lock eyes, and I know immediately that I am repaying some horrible karmic debt.
“What’s a radial tire?”