I'm dreaming of being able to find some Type II headers to bolt on to my 3.2... Maybe a throttle body from it as well. Went up against one of my friends' Supra and it turns out that not only did it run better after we redid his boost controller, he upped the boost by 3 PSI and got a new three-incher exhaust system. That's all he needed to take me by a car length... And no, I'm not shitting you. He's got the slowest Supra out of the group. Last time we ran, from a stop he had me by a bumper. From a 40MPH roll, I had him by 2 car lengths. Last night, we went only from a stop and the damn TCS cut the fuel for a second and that's all he needed to launch on me. God damn it... 2005 Accord EX with a BPU couldn't hand though, hehe. At least I got that. For the curious, this was a closed road, no one else around.

~Cheers~

 

dude if your talking about street racing... i hope someone kills you in your sleep... if your not... i hope no one kills you in your sleep heres a story that might make someone street racing stop and think tho

“The Longest Night” - Death Case
September 3, 1995
by Denise Bradburd
Denise Bradburd’s husband died two years ago when a silver Camaro going more than 100 mph careened out of control on High Point Road, plowed into his Volvo and pushed his car’s engine into his lap.

Richard Bradburd, a 41-year-old sales manager of an auto dealership, was the victim of a high-speed drag race.
The driver of the Camaro, Tony Maffeo, was found guilty in November 1993 of two counts of involuntary manslaughter and sentenced to five years in prison for the deaths of his wife, Ramona, who was riding with him, and of Richard Bradburd.

Last month, a Guilford County jury awarded Denise Bradburd, 44, nearly $1 million. Jurors said they believed she deserved that much from Maffeo and Jeriel Gaydon III, each in their 20s, who turned a stretch of High Point Road into a race track.

Bradburd’s attorney, Lawrence Egerton of Greensboro, says he hoped for a larger settlement. But he says he is satisfied that his client was awarded $928,750.11 to compensate her for what happened to her husband.

As for Bradburd, the civil award does little to ease the emotional pain of losing a husband and the father of her son Jason.

She will always remember that night. It was May 25, 1993, a night of watching “America’s Most Wanted,” of getting worried about her husband and of driving up to a kaleidoscope of red lights and seeing her husband’s wrecked car on the side of the road. This, in her own words, is her story. – Jeri Rowe


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tuesday, May 25, 1993
It was around 8 p.m. when Rich met Jason and me at All American Sports on Spring Garden Street. Sonny Cashion had been working with Jason on his batting for a couple of weeks. The lesson was over when Rich arrived.

He and Sonny talked for a while about how Jason was doing. When we left, Jason came with me in my car and Rich drove the Volvo.


Jay and I stopped for a soda. Rich was going to go to Drug Emporium for my prescription. We all met back at the apartment a shot time after 8:30 p.m. There was confusion with the painkiller the doctor gave me for my wrist. Rich called the pharmacy and straightened it out.

About 9 p.m. an “America’s Most Wanted” special was coming on. Rich asked Jay if he was hungry for McDonald’s or for a sub. They both decided on a sub from Subway. Rich stood in the door and told me he was going to get me a salad. He said, “I’ll get you something good.”

I told him the special was coming on and he said he wouldn’t be long and wanted to watch it too. He appeared happy, smiling and all, that I asked him why he was so happy. He said he didn’t know and laughed.

I asked, “Did you have a good day at work?” he laughed again and said, “No, I’ll tell you about it when I get back. Love Ya.”

I almost went after him to find out about his day. I wish I had.

Shortly before 9:30 I started to feel queasy. I thought it might be the painkiller I had taken. I began getting very nervous and worried about Rich. At 9:45 I got dressed and went into Jay’s room. I told him, “Jay, I am worried about Dad. I don’t like him going out at night and I’m afraid something has happened. Come out to the living room and listen for the phone. I’m going to go look for Dad and make sure he is all right.”

Jay looked at me funny and said, “You’re not going out alone. I’m going with you.” I told him to hurry and put on his shoes because I was leaving right now. We drove down High Point Road. We saw police cars and fire trucks, and we heard an ambulance leaving. We were stuck behind a line of cars. After a few minutes, I pulled the car off the road as far as I could.

“Jay, stay here. I have to see if it’s Dad.” He started to get out and I warned him, “Please don’t argue with me. Stay here.” He ignored me and walked behind me, telling me to slow down. “OK, Jay. Maybe Dad is stuck on the other side of this. I don’t know but I feel very scared.” We saw Rich’s car at about the same time. I yelled at Jay, “Stay there.” I could hear him saying, “It’s Dad’s car. It’s Dad’s car.” I ran to the back of the Volvo and looked at the plate. I saw the dealer tag. I couldn’t breathe. “It’s your Dad’s car. Oh my God.”

I didn’t really remember anything for a few minutes. Then suddenly it seemed as if there were a bunch of people holding me.

A fireman and a man whose name I found out later was Derrick were asking me questions. I could barely hear them. I stood staring at that Volvo and all the blood.
I knew then that it was very bad and that Rich would not be with us anymore. My heart felt so heavy. My ears felt closed yet I knew these people were talking. I just couldn’t hear them. Even with all those people I felt helpless and very alone for the first time in 20 years.

The fireman was telling me to go with Derrick. I remember telling him I don’t even know this man. He said the guy was safe and could take us to Moses Cone Hospital, which is where they had taken Rich. I began asking questions. Jason was asking things too.

“How did this happen?” I asked. “It wasn’t your husband’s fault. Two cars (other than Rich’s) were racing and the one in the white Camaro kept going. They are looking for him now.”

I looked over at the car that had hit my husband head-on. There was no front end left on it. It was still smoking from the fire they had obviously extinguished.

The whole driver’s side of Rich’s car was caved in. The air bags had come out. There was so much blood on them. There was glass all over the road. The lights from the police cars and fire trucks illuminated everything eerily. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. I kept staring at the Volvo. How did he get out of it? Nothing made any sense.


Derrick got Jason and me back into my car and the police to let him through. He told them, “This is the man’s wife and son; the one in the Volvo. I’m taking them to the hospital.”

Derrick kept telling us that Rich would probably be all right and that the air bags may have saved his life. He told us that Rich was conscious when they got him out of the car, but that his legs were hurt very bad.

I asked him how bad. “Very bad,” he said. Time seemed to be at a standstill. When we got to the hospital emergency entrance I went to the front desk. I had to give them information about Rich Doe. That scared me. I thought he had been conscious. Why couldn’t he have given them his name”?

As I was answering their questions, I kept asking them if Rich was OK. They didn’t know. Then someone came and put Jay, me and Derrick in a small room.
I told Jay to call Tim Gales, our apartment’s maintenance man, and to call his brother Mike, one of my adult twin sons from a previous marriage, who lives in Archdale. I couldn’t remember any phone numbers so I told Jay to call Tim and have him get my phone directory from our apartment. I couldn’t think and I couldn’t sit there. It seemed forever and then Mike was there.

It was midnight when Dr. Matthew Martin came into the room. He introduced himself and told me that Rich was not going to make it. “Your husband’s been hurt very bad. He went into cardiac arrest in the ambulance and was resuscitated. Right now he is on the ventilator. We’re going to surgery, but it does not look good.” I signed papers for surgery and also for them to disconnect the life support in the event that there was nothing that could be done. My heart ached, but I knew Rich would not want to be left on any machines. We had discussed that many times. I just never thought I would have to be in this situation.

I asked to see Rich. Dr. Martin took me in. I saw my husband lying there with his left arm over his head, broken and out of shape. He had never been sick since I’d known him. It was a shock to see him lying there with the ventilator and bags of blood and fluids attached. The only place I could touch him was on his forehead. He was so very cold. It reminded me of when Mama died last year. At the funeral I had kissed her forehead and she was cold.

This was Rich. I felt my breath rush out of me. I told him, “Rich, I’m here. Please don’t give up. I need you. I love you so very much. I’m going to stay here while you go to surgery. You try hard and fight this. I love you.”

I didn’t know if he could hear me. I found out weeks later from Dr. Martin that he had been given a drug that paralyzed him from the neck down. He heard, but couldn’t respond. I looked up at Dr. Martin and he walked out with me. I grabbed the lapel of his hospital jacked and begged him, “Please don’t let Rich die. He’s a good man. Please?”

He looked at me for what seemed a long time and gently told me, “I’ll do everything I can.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. I realized I still had his jacket. I let go and told him I knew he would do his best. A woman took Jay in. I asked Dr. Martin if it was OK for Jay to go. I told him he was only 12 years old. He said it was. When he came out of his Dad’s room, he was crying and his face was white. He looked faint. I don’t know why, but I had to get out of that room. I told Mike, Jay and Derrick I was going outside. The woman said she would watch Jay and stay with him. I wanted to stay with Jay, but I just had to get out of there. Mike and Derrick came with me.

I prayed, as I never had before. Just let Rich live. I will take care of him. Please just let him live. Please, God, help us now. There were a couple of people standing outside the hospital smoking. The woman came over to us and asked if we were involved in the accident on High Point Road. She then said she was the mother of Tony Maffeo, the driver of the car that crashed Rich. There was a man with her. She didn’t introduce him to us.

I told her the doctor had said that Rich would probably not make it. She said her daughter-in-law, Ramona, who was with Maffeo when he crashed, was hurt very bad and was possibly brain dead; they didn’t know why her son had raced that night. She said that Tony and his wife had just gotten married.

It is a blur, but I kept thinking, “It was your son’s fault.” I just didn’t say it out loud. Then something happened because they hurried inside.

A white Camaro drove up and two young kids got out and went inside. They were with Maffeo’s mother. Mike went over and got the license plate number. He gave it to the security guard and then to the policeman. I went back in, got Jay and we all went up to the waiting room by surgery and ICU. Jay fell asleep in the lounge. I went back to the room and began waiting for Mike. The hospital chaplain came over and asked me if there was anyone he could call. I asked him to call Rev. Mark Key in High Point.

Reverend Key got there. Soon after, Dr. Martin came out of surgery. He told us that he had sewn a tear in Rich’s liver. His chances were not good. Rich was still losing a lot of blood. They paged Dr. Martin. I felt my heart sink.

Dr. Martin looked at us, then ran back into surgery. It was close to 2:25 a.m. when he returned.

He said: “He’s dying. Hurry.” The emptiness and sorrow that came over me were unbearable. It was a deep sadness that I had never felt before. Somewhere I would have to find the strength to say goodbye to Rich. I ran next to Dr. Martin.

“Dr. Martin, is he in pain? I don’t want him in any more pain.” Dr. Martin shook his head. He never answered me. Mark and Mike were behind us and I ran alongside Dr. Martin. He was saying, “He was given 15 units of blood, platelets, everything. There is too much trauma.” A nurse met us at the doctor at ICU and said, “He’s not ready.” Dr. Martin told her, “It’s OK. She’s already seen him.”

He hurried us into Rich’s room. I went over to Rich. “Why is his neck so swollen?” I asked. Dr. Martin explained that fluids were collecting in his tissues. I had no idea what he was talking about. I bent down to Rich’s ear and I said, “Rich, I love you. I’ll take care of Jason. Don’t worry. We’ll be together again, I promise. I’ll always love you. Rest, honey.” Again, all I could kiss and rub was my husband’s forehead. His forehead was colder than before. Dr. Martin went over to the ventilator and said, “I’m going to turn this down.”

There were so many tubes and bags of blood, all empty now. Mark said, “Denise, join me in prayer.” We stood holding hands. Mike, Mark and I prayed. Jay was asleep in the lounge. Mike was crying. I was numb. After praying I stood caressing Rich’s forehead while Dr. Martin turned the ventilator down more. Rich’s heartbeat on the monitor was slow and sporadic. Then the line went flat. I looked at the clock. It read 2:59 a.m.

I asked Mark, “Is Rich gone?” Mark replied, “I believe he is, Denise.” He looked like he was about to cry. Mark led us out of the room. I felt like I was leaving Rich behind and I wanted to go back to him. Yet, I knew it was over. (I know now from the death certificate that Rich actually died at 2:35 a.m.)

Dr. Martin was still there with us. He asked, “What will you be doing with the body?” I just shook my head. “I mean, which funeral home will his body be going to?” I just shook my head. “I mean, which funeral home will his body be going to?” I told him I didn’t know any funeral homes. Mark then said, “Is Cumby in High Point all right with you, Denise?” I nodded.

Outside or Rich’s room there was a police officer. He asked me some questions, but to this day I don’t remember what they were. I felt I wanted to run, to hide. I couldn’t breathe and I felt faint. There were so many questions running through my head. Some I said out loud. “How do I go on after being with Rich nearly half my life?” I knew I had said this question aloud. I heard myself. Then I said, “Mark, I don’t know how to do this. I need some air. I’ve got to tell Jay. I can’t think right now.”

In my head I was telling myself: You promised Rich. You’ve got to do this right. No matter what happens you promised Rich that you’d be all right and that you’d take care of Jay. Now do it and do it the way he would have. He isn’t here now and you cannot fall apart. I was outside again. I smoked and tried to pull myself together before I woke up Jay. I wasn’t crying. I didn’t feel I could.

“He’s only 12 years old. I’m so scared.” Again, I was thinking. But I must have said the thought out loud because I heard Mark say, “I’ll tell him.” I shook my head and said, “No, Mark, I have to.” He nodded. “I’ll stay with you.” We went back upstairs. Mike and Mark stayed in the waiting room and I went into the lounge to get Jay.

“Come on, honey.” He didn’t say a word. He just looked dazed and confused. I carried his sneakers with me and he sat in the chair in the waiting room and began putting them on. I bent down to my knees and looked him in the eye. I told him in as soft a voice as I could muster, trying not to let my voice crack, “Jay, Daddy didn’t make it. He died a little while ago.” He just stared at us. Then he got up, but he was not steady on his feet. I wondered if he was awake. We went down the stairs and a nurse rushed up to give me a bag with Rich’s belongings in it. It contained his walled, a $20 bill, his automatic teller card, a receipt from a cash withdrawal; his shoes and a pair of socks that I’m sure were put in the bag by accident. They were cut and had blood and tissue still on them.

Outside the hospital, Tony Maffeo’s mother saw us. She asked, “How’s your husband?” I stopped walking and turned around to face her. The two kids from the Camaro were with her as well as the man I had seen earlier. I stared at her, trying to think. Then I just said, “He died.” My voice cracked. Her face crumbled and she covered her mouth and said something I couldn’t hear for certain. I just stood there staring at them. The man came up to me and hugged me and then she did. Or maybe it was her and then him. I am not sure. I felt stiff. I couldn’t feel for them with any sensitivity. I felt drained. All I could think was: Your son killed my husband.

I looked at the two kids, a boy and a girl. They wouldn’t look back at me. They continued to look at the ground. I walked away. I said to myself (I thought), “I’m sorry. I’m trying, but right now I feel so angry.” Mark said to me, “It’s all right. So do I.” I realized I had spoken out loud again. Mike got into the driver’s seat and Jay in the back. We pulled away from the hospital, and I heard Jay crying. He cried, “Mom, I was so mean to Dad.” And he began to sob. “No Jay,” I said, “All sons and fathers argue. You and Dad loved each other. He knew it, now you know it.”

I guess I said the right thing because his crying seemed to stop, or maybe I stopped hearing him. As the three of us drove, we tried to figure out where we were. We made it, but I’m not sure how. We came into the apartment. Everything was dark. Jay said, “Mom, I’m so tired. Can I go to bed? Come with me and leave the lights on.” I tucked him in and he fell right to sleep. It scared me. I wondered if he was all right. I went to the kitchen and made coffee. Mike called Les in Connecticut, his twin brother, and told him. It was 4 a.m. Then I called Scott, Rich’s younger brother. He said, “Ah, Denise, please don’t tell me that.” He began to cry.

I went into Jay’s room and sat next to his bed while Mike went to get my friend Maryann Crawley to stay with me. I could hear him sleeping. He would screw up confusion. I sat there praying for the Lord to see us through this and to help me be strong for our little guy. “Mom?” Jay looked up with sleepy eyes. “I’m right here.” “Don’t leave me.” I assured him I was going to sit right there with him. I heard his soft breathing that told me he was asleep again. Maryann and Mike came in. I don’t know what she said, but the next thing I remember was the phone ringing and ringing, which it continued to do for days. I began to vomit and cough and choke. I thought my head would explode. Maryann was asking Mike if the doctor gave me anything to sleep or for nerves. He told her no. It was getting light out. She put a cold cloth to my head and we sat drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. The phone continued to ring. I wouldn’t answer it. Either Mike or Maryann did. Then people began knocking. I sat feeling frozen. I thought: This is all a nightmare, and I will wake up. God, please wake me up. Don’t let Rich be dead.

Thursday, May 27, 1993
It was early when my brother Beau came over. The phone was still ringing. It was the funeral home. Beau told me we had to make arrangements. Beau, Rich’s brother Scott and I went to Cumby’s. I picked out the casket. The man told me that the casket had to be wide because Rich had broad shoulders. I picked out the vault. I never knew you needed one. The final goodbye was going to be at the church, Covenant Methodist in High Point. Rich had been the audio technician for the church and I asked for someone to sing. Rich had liked that so much at the Sunday services. Family and friends would be able to come to the viewing Thursday night, then Friday morning would be family. There would be a church service Friday at 1 p.m. followed by burial at Guilford Memorial Park. We left Cumby’s and went to Guilford Memorial Park and I picked a family plot for Richard and me. We came back home.

I ironed Rich’s clothes for the final time. I picked out his favorite striped shirt, Beau picked out the tie, and I got out the lamb’s wool jacket that I had liked on him so much. We had bought that jacket five years before. He never liked to shop for himself. A pair of brown pants and brown socks made it complete. Beau and I brought the clothes into Cumby’s. I also had made sure that they had Rich’s wedding ring, watch and the silver cross that he always wore. I was thinking that I wished Rich had gotten the watch that we had looked at the week before. He thought it was too expensive. I was going to get it for him on Fathers Day. Now I couldn’t.

On the way home Beau said, “Dee, you have to find an attorney and it needs to be done now.” Back at home, he went through the phone book and placed a call. We got back into the car and he looked at me, “Hon, I hate for you to have to go through this, but it has to be done.” We arrived at Lawrence Egerton’s office. Mr. Egerton asked me, “What can I do to help you?” I replied, “Make sure Tony Maffeo is punished. He killed Rich. Can you try to find the other Camaro?” He told me then that he would see if he couldn’t get a second-degree murder charge against Maffeo. And he would also hire a private investigator to find the other driver.

Beau and I left his office and went to Kmart for clothes for Jay and myself. We had nothing to wear to a funeral. Beau picked everything out for me. The viewing was difficult. Rich’s neck on the left side was still swollen like it was on Wednesday morning. He didn’t look like the man I knew. The nightmares began that night. I see Rich trapped in the car, screaming for someone to please help him. I dream of the hospital and that damn ventilator hissing. I wake up sweating; crying and wishing this would all go away.

Having that said.... Im JASON BRADBURD... my father was killed by idiots doing what this dude is talking about. street racing is the stupiest shit anyone can ever do. your not only putting your own life at risk.... your risking someones FATHERS by showing your boys you got a faster car. how more fucking retarded can a person possibly get! if you wanna live on the edge... go smoke some dust and boot some thick ass dope into your arm... at least youll only kill yourself. leave the ppl who are worht something out of your destruction

 

uhhh cliff notes???? basically don't street race.. its stupid...

 

I understand all of that and have a few stories of my own, however, it was a closed road, no through traffic, and just between three friends. I normally don't do it, but last couple times were after having an argument with my boss. I know that's not an excuse, but it's my reasoning behind the rash decisions.

~Cheers~

 

and u my friend are at least honest. granted ppl make dumb choices at times and we all do and theres no escaping that. just think next time! but shit man. on the track.... now were talking!!!

 

good luck... i have been looking for a TYPE II intake manifold for 2 yrs now... those are rare let alone TYPE II heads...

 

uuhhhhh.... to make a point.... read the story.... THE WHOLE STORY!!!! thanks for being the most heartless mod ive ever seen man. im trying to show someone to make a better choice and u say shorten it. its the world wide fucking web man. theres room....ok? thanks

 

You REALLY need connections.. they get taken away the same day they come into a junkyard.

 

dude... its a story that my mom wrote (while dying from cancer) about her husband (my dad) getting hit by some assholes who were street racing. how would you feel if someone on the bored suddenly didnt come on any more because hes dead from making a stupid descision? would you say "cliff note" his memorial if i started a thread rip'ing him? that was pretty heartless kam, if that story helped one person not street race anymore then my job was done. sorry but cliff notes dont work on changing someones ways

 

That's sad dude. Sorry to hear that you went through that.

 

I'm sorry that you had to go through that Copy/Jason... I've been through similar things although not related to street racing. I don't like to think about it too much, but my uncle was shot and killed while taking his laundry from his car to his house. The reason? He was there. My cousin was 2 years old at the time and now she doesn't have a father as well. Now my office is in the same god-forsaken city with the same type of people roaming the streets. Two blokes got robbed outside of my shop at gunpoint at 1 in the afternoon. Two women got their purses snatched next to my shop at 5 in the evening, two days in a row. A restaurant manager was shot in the head in a robbery a few weeks ago. 3 shops next to me were robbed at gunpoint a couple weeks ago. Unfortunately, that's what I deal with everyday...

~Cheers~

 

This link isn't about street racing, though the new law law in Oregon was meant to target the problem in Portland. I really don't think I would want to get caught going over 100 since the law requires impound of the car, 1103 bucks in fines and a mandatory 30-90 day license suspension.

http://www.kgw.com/news-local/storie...s.b4a2c71.html

I live in Wyoming and it seems that every idiot in a mustang and pontiac want a piece of my car. I smile, wave and keep my cruise control set on my TL. I just tell the kids at school that racing away from a track is stupid and dangerous, and that I am definitly too damn old for the track.