Well, I wouldn't start initially by saying that I'm a pornstar. I'd like, pretend I have a third gen, and post a few threads about getting stains out of the leather, asking how to fold the seats all the way back, wondering if there was a way to keep fog off the inside of the windows... Then after a week of asking random stuff like that I'd post a "thank you" thread, and get a couple of my buddies to pose in a third gen in quasi-homoerotic poses so everybody could get a glimpse of my work. And then everybody would wonder "is he making gay porno movies in a Dodge", and I'd follow up by posting some Cummins Erotica, and everybody would finally understand that the name "Lee G. Bee" is "Begle" backwards, and good fun would be had by all...
The hour was late and the Cummins purring along every inch of the haul. The signs forsaw the struggle of the climb as we neared the pass; the Cummins acted as though it was ready for the grade; breathing through enlarged exhaust and turbo, it anticipated any exertion. I myself was nervous; it was my first time, never before being behind the Cummins; the buckets held me firmly, yet gently; the heat of the engine poured as liquid over my face and legs; the noise smoothingly drowned out the outside wind; the gauges coyly shone their light into my eyes, every sweep of their lights and arms indicating that they were ready for my action.
My mind cleared as I soothed off the cruise control, intent on feeling every moment of the climb; I began by slowly brushing the throttle, which responded with a whispered squeal against my movement; as if to contradict my concern, the engine was nigh-imperceptible in it's response, but a note from deep within its lubricated inner workings implied that it too was anxious over releasing something it rarely had been able to display.
The grade began and I inhaled in time with the slowly, confidently arching boost gauge; the engine purred through the stacks close to my ears, responding in parallel to the mountain's stimulation; I could feel it's vibration through the wind, and the steady, delicate reciprocation's of heated air began to quicken against my flesh. In my last moment of anxiety I glanced around us: the silver-lit highway was ours alone; it was the last time that night I would be distracted.
After bare moments of sudden exhilaration the tone of the engine had wavered; still strong and steady, the Cummins' echos through the canyon came to my ears in increasingly louder, deeper, quaking and resonant vibrations that tremmeled through my mind, and the pedal quivered my body through my foot. I slowly, inconfidently, moved for the transmission lever; but the sliding whine of the gearbox below me seemed inadequately satisfied. Ever smooth upon the asphalt, the Cummins' tempo was slowing due to my own indecision; the lights glaring upon my eyes confirmed that it was ready for my push, discretely begging for a greater output of power. I moved my hand back to my grip on the wheel; tonight was a time for release; the engine's limits of endurance and ability beckoned for my demands. My foot pushed harder and deeper into the floor; the engine approvingly appealed for mercy.
The Cummins, still composed, dictated its pleasure with a screaming turbine, burning and crying within the bowels of the growling engine. The heat of the high pressure and fuel cascaded through the valves, swelling the cylinders and burning hotter, faster and longer; waiting to crack a head and wanting to continue, the engine was in my power. The agonizing heat and noise blissfully united us, my left hand found a switch, and firmly pushed on the water injection; fluid flowed into the engine, glistening over it's rigid ports and valves and entering six pumping cylinders, cooling the fires while elongating the bliss. The pyrometer found a steady rate of increase; the engine ached with power, straining with every stroke against the brutally rigid motor mounts, struggling for a passionate release; the engine screamed with torque, thrashing against the torque converter; but it was too tight for an easy escape; the fluids within swirled, pushed and transferred the power and anguish to the road, propelling us through the night faster and faster and faster.
1990 D-250 Regular Cab: Tweaked injection pump, built transmission, a cataclysmic charlie foxtrot of electronics, the most intense street-ran water injection system in the country, and some more unique stuff.
by Begle1 » Wed Aug 01, 2007 4:18 pm 
You ain't right in the head, boy. 
