Inch forward. The first staging light goes from inky blackness to a brilliant blot of bright yellow. It's telling you to keep moving forward just a little more. There's the second staging light, playing the same game as its partner. Trip and now you're ready to test the limits of your machine. It's been prepped and so have you. Your mind is ready and focused on the tree of lights waiting to tell you that it's time. The first set of yellow lights enter your vision like the sun rising in the east. Before the green has time to wake up, you're already on the throttle and staring 1,320 feet down the tarmac...

...but you don't make it that far. The rear end of your beautiful 1966 Plymouth Belvedere has other things in mind. All of that power. All of that torque. It has nowhere to go once the entire rear end of your car takes itself out of the equation.

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Before the car even passes the tree, you can hear something terribly wrong starting to happen. Something is collapsing. Something is destroying itself. Those somethings compound until the rear axle is detached. Just past the 60-foot mark, the action comes to an end. The engine can roar all it wants, but is has no way of making any purposeful use of all of its mighty power. It can only roar in defeat.

We imagine the driver (who was unharmed, by the way) is also the face of the builder of this car. Unless he built it himself. Then he has no one to blame but himself.


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