Summer 2003: A Jag XJS convertible cuts in front of my Club Sport as I'm taking an entrance ramp on to I-64. The driver is a textbook example of Mid-Life Crisis Man: comb-over hair, gold chains, and wrap-around sun glasses. His companion is a flashy blonde trophy wife/girlfriend/bimbo. The guy simply cannot stand for me to pass him, so the faster I go, the faster he goes. I settle in to a cruising speed of 85, trusting in my V1 and the fact that the Jag is serving as a "rabbit" in front of me. After several miles I notice the Jag is starting to smoke a bit. I speed up so-of course-the Jag speeds up. More smoke. I catch a whiff of antifreeze. This is just too good, so I turn up the wick a bit more; I can't believe the idiot hasn't noticed any problem. Oh well, I continue to push him up to about 95. At that point, the old Jag has had enough; clouds of steam suddenly billow out from under and around the hood. The sled finally pulls over to the emergency strip. My Club Sport now has a film of coolant covering the windshield, but it was worth it...