I have a tale about Ricers.. None of the following to be taken racially, of course.
Back when this took place, my daily driver was a 1954 Massey Harris Pony with an overdrive gearbox. It sported a smokey little Continental 62CI, 11 horse block of iron for an engine. Still had 6 volt Lucas electrical.. great system, eh?
One day, I was asked to take the day off of pulling the "Slow goods" (More on that later), and I was asked to pull stumps at a neighbors. The Pony was a mid-size utility tractor in it's era, though it's now considered large and underpowered. It had a top speed of around 35MPH. The agreement was, I could register it as a roadworthy vehicle, if it could sustain 35MPH, and had a horn and blinkers. The speed was kept up by way of a shoe-string wired to the throttle, and in the call for something unexpected, the horn fitted was a 4 note Cadillac. (What a sound!) And so, after the battery once again failed to start the tiny little N-62, I had hand-cranked it into all of it's mis-firing, snorting glory, and was now puttering down the road at a clip of about 30.
On the way, I started to hear a raspy exhaust note.. thinking the oil pump had once again failed, and the fact that the gauge had, quite literally, exploded the night before, I thought it was about to seize again. I reached down for the added-in-the-1960's hand-crank auxiliary pump, and was about to crank it over, when a little white Honda pulled alongside. It was lowered, had tacky, primer-grey body trim, and nearly pitch-black windows. I let off the crank, realizing that it was that car, I returned to driving. A moment later, the (Not to be racist), black man in the passenger seat cranked down the window, and started shouting insults at me. (Won't say THOSE here..) After a quarter mile of that crap, three thoughts came to my mind.. The auxiliary pump ran to the valve box, the valve guides were toasted, and if I cranked that handle fast enough.. So, I tried it. A plume of blue smoke engulfed the Honda, and spattered it in black spots of oil. The Honda flew off up the road, and I downshifted, overtook them, and wrenched both suicide knobs hard right, hit the right brake, and drifted the Pony 11 into the neighbors driveway, watching the little Honda fly past in a cloud of smoke. The neighbor had seen everything, and nearly fell off his rocking chair he was laughing so hard. He explained that the very same people had smashed his mail box the night prior.
Two days later, I was pulling the Slow Goods again. The Slow Goods was essentially two hay-wagons with lowered sides, that acted as a trolley of sorts when the horse and buggys that normally pulled tourists were overloaded. Everybody loved the little '54 Pony.. they didn't have to know it's problems, did they? The run was normally pulled by a 1927 Fordson, or a 1930's Avery, but they were currently undergoing restorations after a man lit their sheds on fire.. (Never did catch him). The run ran alongside about 5 miles of coastline, and we would stop wherever someone wanted. Normally a shop or a beach. Then a newer (1957) Farmall would take the run down the steep hill into the Port.. while the now-steaming little Pony was re-filled with water and cooled down for the return trip. Sure, it would be much more practical to just use a bus or a trackless trolley, but the public and tourists loved the tractors as much as we did. (In a way, I think of it like the Skarloey Railway). We only used the Pony on lighter roads, as the Farmall used twice the fuel.
..Anyway. I was nearing the last hill.. by now a steady hiss of steam was escaping the radiator blow-off of the Pony. I started to hear that same sounding exhaust again.. I reached for the oil crank. ..Then I realized what was about to happen. The Pony gagged it's way over the hill, and I saw the horse and Buggy that took other tourists out to a light house. The Honda, (Or drivers of the Honda), didn't want to wait another 5 seconds for the buggy to pull over.. No, they cut around it, by running off the road and onto the beach.. At the same time, the throttle stuck wide open. The Honda leaped forward, and slowly lowered its self onto the sand, body trim an inch under the ground. It hit some astronomically high RPM, the engine blew, throwing little bits of god-knows-what through the hood, and that was just as a large wave came in to greet it's new friend.. and that wave gave both drivers a nice, big hug! Cursing and kicking the car, the drivers stepped out.. then cursed the stage driver. ..I was wishing then, that the horse would kick the car.. I pulled the timing lever to fully-retarded, and with a series of gun-shot like backfired, I casually rolled past the stranded motorists.. I tipped my hat and gave a friendly wave, and was about to ask if he wanted help.. but knowing that just as soon as they said something and the fact I was ready to bash his face in for nearly startling the horse, I decided against it. The next afternoon, we gathered a crowd of people to watch three of us triple-head the battered Honda to the scrapyard. Pulled the car, me and the Pony in back, coupled in front was a Dodge 'Lil Red Express, and at the very front..? We had to make a statement.. a Yugo. ..We ended up pushing the Yugo the last half of the way anyway.. but it was better then being behind a Honda.
That's my long-winded Ricer story. There were a few other incidents.. but this is the one I always liked to tell. None of the above was a joke, either.