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Every week day, at about 4am, a neighbor down the street starts his car up before his morning commute. Under normal circumstances, this wouldn’t be a problem. It would simply be a mundane part of someone else’s routine that would go unnoticed. However, this gent is a gearhead, like many in the neighborhood. One who likes vehicles with exceptionally loud, throaty, large displacement engines. As a fellow speed freak and car lover, I get the affinity for such creations. I’ve worked on Nascar level race cars at Irwindale, and clung to the chain link fence at Pomona while top fuel cars fly by at hundreds of miles per hour. It’s more addictive than sugar, and twice as sweet. What I don’t get is people who feel the need to drive the loudest car in the neighborhood when they’re one of the first to get up. It wouldn’t bother me as much if he didn’t sit there warming it up for at least 20 minutes before heading off. Idle? More like a minor earthquake!
Again, I LOVE cars, and understand and respect the importance of properly warming a car up before driving it, especially one with a proper motor that sounds like it eats first borns for breakfast. I’ve never seen this beast, as the Witching hour usually finds me groggy, and the few times I've looked its been too dark to see. But my gearhead/diagnostics ear never fails me. I can usually guestimate the type of vehicle from the way it sounds. It’s like a musically trained ear being able to replay pieces by sound alone - you can almost see what you’re hearing. A straight six sings a different tune from a V6, a Toyota V8 sounds different from a Chevy V8, loping cams that require fuel to breathe every moment sound vastly different from standard grocery getters. Many-a-time, mid-conversation or while driving, I’ll pause or roll my window down to take in the sound of some street beast rolling by. It feels good, like the pleasantly relaxed feeling one gets while lying in the sun. Or listening to music.
It does not feel good, however, when it’s some ungodly hour. It feels like a home invasion five days out of every seven. Every weekday morning, my tired ears “see” a massive eight cylinder behemoth breathe to life. It’s definitely naturally aspirated, because the throaty rumble lacks the “vree vree”-like hums of forced induction. It sounds like some stroked out V8, because the fullness of those motors are akin to the rich depth of a symphony, rather than the shallow, tinny tunes emitted from a radio (which in this metaphor would be a smaller, less torquey engine, like a Honda Civic).
I’ve lived in several neighborhoods over the years, and there always seems to be one of these guys. The one who gets up before everyone else, and for some reason feels the need to commute in a gas guzzler loud enough to wake the dead, when it's both “too early, and too late,” to quote the great Katt Williams. I once lived in an apartment complex with a neighbor who did this with a Dodge-fucking-Viper. My beef with these guys is this: I love a giant engine as much as the next gearhead, but for the love of all that’s holy, don’t commute in it. Our planet is way too fubared for that. Get a commuter car, even a turbo diesel, and drive the beast on weekends.
And let the rest of us sleep in peace until at least dawn, like civil human beings.
Again, I LOVE cars, and understand and respect the importance of properly warming a car up before driving it, especially one with a proper motor that sounds like it eats first borns for breakfast. I’ve never seen this beast, as the Witching hour usually finds me groggy, and the few times I've looked its been too dark to see. But my gearhead/diagnostics ear never fails me. I can usually guestimate the type of vehicle from the way it sounds. It’s like a musically trained ear being able to replay pieces by sound alone - you can almost see what you’re hearing. A straight six sings a different tune from a V6, a Toyota V8 sounds different from a Chevy V8, loping cams that require fuel to breathe every moment sound vastly different from standard grocery getters. Many-a-time, mid-conversation or while driving, I’ll pause or roll my window down to take in the sound of some street beast rolling by. It feels good, like the pleasantly relaxed feeling one gets while lying in the sun. Or listening to music.
It does not feel good, however, when it’s some ungodly hour. It feels like a home invasion five days out of every seven. Every weekday morning, my tired ears “see” a massive eight cylinder behemoth breathe to life. It’s definitely naturally aspirated, because the throaty rumble lacks the “vree vree”-like hums of forced induction. It sounds like some stroked out V8, because the fullness of those motors are akin to the rich depth of a symphony, rather than the shallow, tinny tunes emitted from a radio (which in this metaphor would be a smaller, less torquey engine, like a Honda Civic).
I’ve lived in several neighborhoods over the years, and there always seems to be one of these guys. The one who gets up before everyone else, and for some reason feels the need to commute in a gas guzzler loud enough to wake the dead, when it's both “too early, and too late,” to quote the great Katt Williams. I once lived in an apartment complex with a neighbor who did this with a Dodge-fucking-Viper. My beef with these guys is this: I love a giant engine as much as the next gearhead, but for the love of all that’s holy, don’t commute in it. Our planet is way too fubared for that. Get a commuter car, even a turbo diesel, and drive the beast on weekends.
And let the rest of us sleep in peace until at least dawn, like civil human beings.
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