141 Duramax diesel 6.6L V-8 turbo

His speculations provided clouds on the clear day. Professor Trois-Rivieres, a great friend of Ross Valley, was lost in them yet had clear sight of the road. He was at the very top of the speed limit but was not exceeding it, twenty-five miles per hour up Goodhill Road in his “Bodacious Bad Boy” (the fond nickname with which he strayed away from precise language, a single indulgence like some haughty Chairman of the Board/CEO’s trusty old fishin’ hat), hoping to be not too late to the impromptu celebration for he knew not what at Ross’s eagle’s nest. At something of a blind curve, three mountain bikers chose to cross the center line to bank their downhill turns. There’s no doubt what was going through their energetic, dull minds came to “Whee!” The Bodacious Bad Boy was a Chevrolet Silverado 3500HD LTZ, maxed beyond belief. It had no less a presence than one of the trucks which delivered designer boulders for landscaping the newest and gauchest “homes” in the upper reaches, but it was swifter. The professor was so, so, so very tempted not to swerve away, to let gravity, velocity, and all other components of collision take a natural course. It was the right thing to do. But there would be practical though archaic consequences, questions by the authorities, possibly detention, and petulance from all the Bicycle Boys and Bicycle Girls, possibly nationwide. Suffering their shrieks, he’d be a martyr, quaint as that was in Western civilization these days. It wasn’t exactly the thing for a radical semanticist holding a chair at a very prestigious university. In any case, if he did run over them, he’d have to stay while the police jotted down their report. And then, if he was allowed to proceed on his merry way, all the lemonade would be gone.

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