The Midwest summer sun is setting as a battered old pickup pulls up to the desolate farm house. Alone figure exits and strides toward the concrete block garage on the backside of the property, his tall frame silhouette by the orange-washed sky, footsteps accented by the rhythmic crunch of gravel under his rattle snake boots.
A credit card like shape is removed from his wallet and entered into the alarm box. Keyboard numbers are depressed and a green bulb lights signaling the sophisticated security system has been deactivated two more punches of the keyboard energizes the full width fluorescent lights, illuminating the very clean warehouse interior.
The figure walks across the polished concrete floor with long rhythmic strides, heading past the work benches, tools and racks of engine parts towards the far side of the garage. He stops at the flowing shape hidden under the black car cover, reaching down to remove the mask of invisibility. the cover is quickly removed and folded away. The nasty glint of chrome and highly polished midnight blue lacquer reflecting the figures image in its muscular sides. The driver's door opens as the figures settles into the supportive recaro seat, fastening the racing harness and cinching tight. The cockpit of this road machine is unlike any other car on the planet, a veritable maze of switches, lights, gauges, scanners jammers, communicators and other high-tech devices expressly designed to let him beat the system.
A gloved hand reaches down towards the ignition, twisting the key to bring forth the wicked, barely muffled sound of hungry horsepower, emanating with a raspy lope from a fully built 455-CID powerplant. The garage takes on an eerie, menacing countenance as the idles, filling up the stillness with it methodical, long-arm lope.
The figure fine tunes the motor through a bank of knobs and gauges housed in a special overhead cockpit, precisely setting up the voracious motor's timing, fuel mixture and spark control. A look around the interior verifies this as a serious road machine, the perfect projectile for triple-digit running. Everything you see flat screams performance. Augmented by the underhood roar of 500 horsepower, Hurst 4-speed and tall 2.41:1 rear axle, this modified Indain will see the better side of 160 mph with no sweat.
A check of the instruments indicates the Trans Am is ready to roll. The figure slides the shifter into gear and coaxes the snarling Pontiac out into the atmosphere. The last bits of sunlight reflecting off the horizon and then vanishing as the now black TA heads for the interstate.
The driver maneuvers the Trans Am through the small town traffic, activating the dual radar detectors as he approaches a stoplight. To his right is a big-block Chevelle, to the left a late model corvette. All eyes scan the Trans Am and its pilot as the rumbling Bird comes to a stop.
The Corvette's driver leans over to challenge the Trans Am, but his passenger stops him, noting the embroidered "RPM" on the pilots black leather jacket. "That's the guy Rob told us about. The one who blew off his 'Cuda then vanished into nowhere when the cops blocked the road". The 'vette driver looks over again, this time met by the Trans Am drivers icy stare. He backs down. The Chevelle driver is not enlightened and revs on the TA as the cross-lights go yellow. The R's came up on the big Pontiac motor, the driver's razor-sharp reactions side-stepping the clutch the instant the light hits green. Both cars take off in a haze of tire smoke, the Chevelle's 4.11 gearing giving it a slight edge as they cross the intersection. Sixty, seventy, eighty miles per hour, both drivers are slamming gears as their powerful road rockets do what they were built for. Running past the town's city limits and on out towards the interstate. The Chevelle gives it a good try, but it's apparent he's all done by 125 mph and now it's time for the Trans Am to perform. The gloved hand activates a console-mounted toggle switch, electrically opening the headers. Another switch is armed, a dialed turned, and the 455 is fed a richer mixture of racing fuel, matched by an increase in ignition timing and fuel pressure to awaken those additional sleeping ponies. The Chevelle keeps trying as the Trans Am sprints ahead, putting three lengths on the struggling Chevy.
Now is the time the Trans Am pilot usually backs off...he's proven his point. But not tonight, not yet anyway. The radar detector's going crazy as the two cars crest a rise, the state trooper's short-range "K-BAND" radar gun aimed directly at the racing duo. The Trans Am's radar jammer does its best to convince the officer of their innocence, but he's not buying that "55 mph" reading on his screen, pulling onto the pavement and giving chase as the dueling pair fly past.
The driver's right hand reaches over and pops the dashcover off above the glove box, revealing multi-channel police scanner. With the push of a switch it comes to life informing him of the troopers every move. The troopers were waiting for him tonight, it seems, with two behind, one coming from the opposite direction, and a fourth waiting 5 miles ahead. Time to say bye-bye to the Chevelle.
The Trans Am shifts into forth and accelerates for all it's worth, bending the stock speedometer needle way past its 140 mph limit and resting on the trip odometer reset knob at the bottom of the gauge. The officers' voices fill the vehicle's interior as the scanner barks out their communications, unaware their every move is being monitored by the one they want so much to catch.
A glance in the rear-view mirror reveals the hard truth...two state police cars directly behind the unlucky Chevelle, escorting him to the shoulder and to jail. Their illuminated images shrink quickly from sight at this speed, a buck fifty-five, but the ride isn't over yet. They're still two more uniformed hunters ahead.
A center console is opened and a series of switches flipped, dousing the mega-watt aircraft lights and blackening the Trans Am's tail lights, leaving only a jet black figure nearly invisible against a quarter moon lit landscape. From an overhead hanger, the driver gets his special infrared goggles.
The troopers are expecting him to head for the interstate, to run for the state line, and they make their move to block him. The driver smiles as he hears the directives come over his police scanner, then suddenly becomes serious as he realizes what he must do. He slows to 120 then hammers the brakes hard, the massive four-wheel discs decelerating the Trans Am with the G-force of a roadracing car, dash-mounted readouts monitoring the steadily increasing brake pad temps as the powerful TA comes to a stop, still completely disguised in its cloak of darkness.
The driver's hand moves to activate the header cutout switch, returning the exhaust note to a quiet rumble, but is it too late? The scanner again comes alive with the anxious voices of the troopers, wondering what happened to their quarry. They regroup and begin to converge on the exact spot he's at and the driver knows it's time to move. He swings the Trans Am across the median and onto the opposing lanes of traffic, heading back towards town... and into the path of the pursuing patrolman.
Traffic is very light this night leaving the Trans Am very little room of hide. The driver will have to use all his tricks to "avoid the noid" which hasn't happened in his many years of banzai running. He's been chased dozens of times, but never captured; not since building his stealth-racer Trans Am. He can't let it happen now.The TA cruises at 65 mph until he sees his target, the red lights of the patrol cars on the opposite shoulder, escorting the Chevelle driver into the back seat of the lead cruiser.
The Trans Am pilot waits until the precise second before instigating his final assault, listening intently to the trooper's commands over the increasingly busy scanner. A helicopter is called out to aid in the search for "the perpetrator", described only as "a fast, dark car, heading west on old 140 near the interstate, possibly driving without headlights." A gloved hand moves to the center console, opening it and re-actuating the header cut-out switch, disrupting the still night air with the unmistakable din of big time horsepower. Instantly the driver's boot slams to the firewall, opening up eight barrels of Holley induction, throwing the engine into a high - pitched roar and sending the tach needle soaring towards 7000 rpm.
The four officers on the opposite shoulder look over with total surprise as the dark, black road machine screams past, engulfed in a torrent of intake and exhaust noise that lets you know this car's moving, and moving hard. Two of the officers run to their unit and give chase, screaming into their police radio that they've sighted the villain. Their smog laden 351-powered Ford Crown Vic struggles to accelerate, barely reaching 60 by the time the Trans Am is at 130.
The chopper is radioed into position, arranging to intercept the Trans Am at Gallman Bend, five miles ahead. More fuel is fed to the big 455, the myriad coolers and backup systems serving the duties they were designed for, keeping the motor alive. Tonight, an overheated engine, failed part or seized bearing would mean instant penalty and the game would be lost. Suddenly, a flashing red light appears on the car's dashboard, alerting the driver to the problem. Quickly, display buttons are pushed and the exact temperature is given on the screen. The oil temp was on the rise, and it was a number the driver didn't want to see. A green button on the overhead is depressed and the temperature drops off, quickly the auxiliary oil cooler kicks in to give the necessary relief.
Though the police cars are nearly a half mile behind, the time for running is over. The city limits are approaching, and with that, traffic, not to mention innocent people. The driver's mission is with the police, he doesn't want to involve hapless citizens. He looks intently for backroad that he uses on occasion such as this, hoping the helicopter won't come on to the scene for at least another minute.
Even with the excellent illumination provided by the night vision goggles, the driver is having trouble seeing his turn-off. Light wisps of fog, unseasonably early for this time of year, begin to cloud his perspective, something which could spell disaster in a hurry. He catches sight of the small Pontiac crest emblem on the mile marker denoting the entrance to his final back road, and stands hard on the blinders to slide the Trans Am around the turn. The fog is becoming increasingly heavy as he nears the river, fortunately reducing the police chopper's effectiveness as evidenced by the futile tones emanating from the scanner's speaker.
In the Trans Am's mirrors the driver picks up the distant light of the patrol car, sticking on his tail with amazing prowess. the driver likes a good posse, and tonight he's meeting his match. The scanner again alive with the chase car's comments " ...if he makes it to Six-Road Crossing we'll never catch him, there's a million miles of road he can disappear into. We've got to get him now!"
The Trans Am rockets down the dirt and gravel back road like a champion Baja racer, becoming airborne occasionally as small dips act more like large jumps at the car's 105 mph velocity. As he approaches his destination, a blue button on the console is depressed, opening the high security garage's door. The driver manhandles the F-Body around the final bend and into the darkened building's interior, shutting everything down and closing the bay door with another push of the same button.
He quickly exits the car and walks to a trap door in the building's floor. The hatch is opened and the figure still wearing his racing jacket and driving gloves, disappears down the short stairway.
The police chopper lands at Six-Road Crossing, anticipating the arrival of their most notorious enemy, keeping track of the other units' progress by radio. Within seconds the patrol car races into view and slides to a stop on the east side of the intersection. The officers hurriedly exit and sprint over to the chopper. "Where is he?" asked the patrol car driver. "We couldn't have missed him!" "We sure didn't see him" answered the chopper pilot, "just vanished into thin air... just like last time." The patrolman is infuriated, ordering his partner back to the car. "I'm not giving up, I'm gonna get him!"
The officer runs back to his car and floors the throttle, sending up dirt and gravel from the roadside shoulder. A lone vehicle, a battered Chevy pickup has to brake sharply to avoid colliding with the patrol car as the big Crown Vic sedan pulls in front of the truck during the dramatic U-turn. The police officers never give the pickup a second glance as they fly throttle-down towards town. Inside the truck's cab a slight smile came from a lone figure sitting behind the wheel... with the embroidered letters "RPM" visible on his black racing jacket.

Copyright © 2005 Pontiac Power
This Home Page was created Monday, October 7, 1996
Most recent revision Thursday, January, 30th, 2003