The Deep South...
Top climbs in behind the wheel of a dusty '73 porsche. He stares at the Grant steering wheel, gritting his teeth. Placing his hands in the 10 & 2 positions, he squeezes the wheel, trying to release every bit of frustration that's mounting with the heat of the afternoon...
"Hey, Mac," Top yells. "I mean, what gives? There's got to be more grip in this thing."
The elder mechanic looks up in repose from his lawn chair. He runs his hands through his gray hair in frustration, then shakes his head.
"You got me, Top." he says. "Why are you fooling with this old Porsche in the first place?"
Top releases the Grant wheel and swings out of the Porsche. He casts his eyes at the hazy white September sky. "At this point... I honestly don't know, Mac."
McQueen, itching to let loose an I-Told-You-So, grins at Top.
"We had a perfectly good Z/28 trailered up..." He says.
Top drops his eyes, studying the hot top, and mutters, "Don't remind me."
Working with the '73 Porsche, I slid to a 132.525. There's some more grip in that thing, but I've yet to find it. Suggestions, Bimmer? Fndr? Fit? Bueller?