That's Rallying

Wednesday, 4:00 am
Beep. Beep. Beep. Crash. The sound of semis meeting loading docks has probably been echoing through the shop all night. This one wakes me up. I'm cold, sweaty and sticky. I try to stand up but my legs are asleep. Two hours ago I was chasing electrons through the tangle of wiring that is my dashboard when the exhaustion caught up with me. I fell asleep in the driver's seat, hunched over a wiring diagram.

As the blood filters back into my legs, I clamor over the roll cage and stagger to the couch, lay the wiring diagram on my chest, and go back to sleep. The accommodations aren't exactly four star, but hey, that's rallying.

Thursday, 7:00 pm
Tech inspection
A season and a half of rallying has taken its toll on this poor old car. Getting through tech is always fraught with peril. It helps that most of the local tech inspectors are familiar with the car. They know, for example, that 30-year-old Datsun steering is supposed to feel broken and that a replacement for the windshield I broke during the rollover at the Prescott Forest Rally is impossible to find. They kindly ignore the cracks.

If this were road racing, I'd be kicked out for any one of the beater's hundreds of mechanical and cosmetic maladies. But this is rallying. With no door-to-door racing, there's little worry my mechanical problems will wreck somebody else's car. Here the scrutiny is saved for the safety equipment. Everything else is between us and the road.

Friday, 10:30 am
Stage 1
There's always some snow at this rally, and this year the roads are supposed to be covered. But a week ago, I decided eating was more important than spending my last dollar on snow tires. Staring at the brown lump of a Cliff Bar I've been munching, I begin to regret that decision. As we unload the car from the trailer, the road is only lightly dusted, but on the half-mile transit to the stage, the road goes from dirt to dirty snow to thick, hard-packed white stuff.

Last year, these same stages were covered with mud. But despite an open differential and worn-out tires, we ended up being the fastest two-wheel-drive car. I latch onto that memory for a little comfort. This year I have four times the experience, brand-new Kuhmo rally tires and 40 more hp. What's so scary about a little snow?

This comfort doesn't last long. At the start, I let out the clutch but nothing happens. The tires spin for eternity before the car inches forward. Tip-toeing on the pedals, being as delicate as possible, I do all I can to get up to speed. By the end of the first 2-mile straight, we're only lugging along in fifth gear at about 40 mph, tires still spinning. I have almost no directional control.

Agonizingly slow, sure, but experience tells me we're not the only ones fighting the elements. Some of the least exciting stages turn out to be the fastest.

It's not every sport where your competition helps you finish, but there's a common bond among rallyists which transcends competition. I think it's called insanity.

It's not every sport where your competition helps you finish, but there's a common bond am

Experience also tells me that when the clapped-out '72 Celica that started a minute behind you starts flashing its lights in your mirror, you're having a bad rally. My last shred of optimism evaporates as I squeeze over to the side of the road to let Dennis Chizma and Paul Timmerman's rat-infested rust pile pass. Chizma is a fast driver, but this doesn't seem right. We'll later learn Chizma brought snow tires and Timmerman filled the trunk with rock salt.

Last night we were returning champions. Suddenly we're the hopeless underdogs. Hero to zero in less than one stage. That's rallying.

Friday, 10:41 am
Transit to Stage 2
Last year it was so muddy here, Rhys Millen and I almost collided head-on on this transit. We came so close I could see the goofy grin on his face. Fate put us on the same collision course this year, but there are no grins in either car. Turns out he didn't bring snow tires either.

Friday, 10:45 am
Stage 2 control zone.
Swerving to a stop to avoid hitting Millen would be the last move I'd make for 20 minutes. Sitting on a very slight incline, we're spinning tires again. Ryan Cavalier, my latest in a string of navigators, has never been in a rally. He's about to learn how much pushing is involved. The pushing doesn't work, so I make him jump in the trunk. Then I get out and push. The tires are still spinning with the car idling in first gear. Nothing works.

Our time card is due at the time control. With the car stuck, Ryan delivers it by hand. Now we're officially in the control zone, and not allowed to work on the car. With less than five minutes to our start time, however, I have no choice. Risking a penalty, I try putting on chains. They don't fit.

Throughout this ordeal, I watch countless other two-wheel-drive cars spin their tires, but no one else is stuck. The only difference I see is that we're the only car on Kuhmo gravel tires. Looking at the Kuhmos' big soft tread blocks, it starts to make sense. Each block is polished smooth and slippery from spinning. There aren't enough edges left to grab the snow. We have two tired, used Michelins for spares. They have smaller tread blocks and more edges, plus they're covered with tiny cuts from hundreds of miles of racing through gravel. The cuts, I'm hoping, will mimic the sipes on a snow tire.

It works. We get to the start late, but we're assigned a new minute. Before long, we're inching up the road. We're wet, our hands are numb and we're sweating in our Nomex underwear, but we're still rallying.

Friday, 11:10 am
Middle of Stage 2
Less than five minutes of racing and we're stuck again. There's a hard right ahead, then a steep, bumpy hill. Six or seven cars are taking turns driving halfway up the hill and sliding back down. It looks hopeless, but every 10 minutes or so somebody does make it to the top. It takes several tries and five or six people pushing to get each car up the hill. After a few solo tries, we pull over and help push a few other cars. Then it's our turn. With four panting co-drivers on our rear bumper, we bounce to the top.

It's not every sport where your competition helps you finish, but there's a common bond among rallyists which transcends competition. I think it's called insanity.

At the top of the hill, I'm afraid to stop for fear of getting stuck again. I can't even let go of the wheel long enough to put on my harness. I manage the lap belt, but nothing more. It doesn't matter, I tell myself, since I can't go fast enough to get hurt anyway. To prove my point, I drive head-on into a tree. Didn't hurt a bit.

For the third time in four rallies, I yell "watch the temperature gauge" and pull back into the road.

Friday, 11:40 am
Service
My one-of-a-kind Mexican louvered hood is ruined and I've destroyed my third right-front fender this year, but the Fluidyne radiator has once again escaped unscathed. The water pump is rubbing on the fan, but it's only causing cosmetic damage.

Relieved, we turn our attention to finding some traction. Jeff, my trusty crew chief, puts used Michelins on the front while I head off in search of chains.

All year I had been looking forward to the Ramada Express rally and a rematch with Jim Gillaspy. Last year, we were perfectly matched, tying three out of four side-by-side superstage races, and having very similar times on most of the stages. The first two stages had been harder on him than they had on us, however. He was out already. His first-generation RX-7 had lost its fan and would terminally overheat if he went any further.

That's a shame, Jim. Can I have your chains? Luckily, he's a good sport. We pull the chains off his spares and cross our fingers. The chains will limit our top speed to about 40 mph, but we hope not getting stuck will make up for it.

Friday, 3:50 pm
Stage 4
The chains are working. We're driving through the stages like my grandmother, but we're not getting stuck and our times are improving. There's one long straight on stage 4, and keeping our speed down is difficult. Later we'll learn Alfredo DeDominicis and Alex Gelsomino went 120 mph here in their rented EVO IV. We can't be going more than 45. It's still not slow enough. In an explosion of noise the chain comes loose from the right rear tire, grabs the mud flap, pounds the bottom of the car and disappears.

Returning to service, we're relieved to hear the last two stages are cancelled.

Saturday, 12:30 am
Wal Mart, Bullhead City, Arizona
"You don't have worry, it never snows here in Bullhead City."

The first four Wal Mart team members didn't know what I was talking about, and it takes every bit of patience I have to explain my need for chains to the fifth. She gets it, and sensing my desperation, calls the Wal Mart in Kingman. They're open 24 hours and have three sets of chains in the right size. It's 50 miles each way. We start racing in less than eight hours. If it were just me, I'd sleep now, but Jim's RX-7 will be fixed tomorrow, and I have to replace the chain I lost. Dutifully, we drive off into the night.

Saturday, 9:45 am
Hualapai Nation
This is more like it. Yesterday's narrow, tree-lined, snow-covered hell is a world away as we drive down into the Grand Canyon. We're several thousand feet lower today, the road is dry, smooth gravel, and there isn't a tree in sight. We'll drive 16 miles into the Canyon, turn around, and race back out. Then we have four of the fastest stages in America.

Yesterday's fiasco left us six minutes and 20 seconds behind our class leaders, Tony Chavez and Doug Robinson, but it's not as bad as we expected. The scores on stage two were adjusted. Every team that got stuck on the hill received a shortened time. Any penalties from that stage (like changing tires in the control zone) were thrown out.

Six minutes is a lot of time to make up, but we still have a chance. Chavez and Robinson just won the Production Class national championship. They're fast. But my car is faster and I've beaten them before. I can't make up six minutes, but I can make up two. A flat could cost them four.

I keep playing number games like this, getting excited. Mashing the gas, the car feels stronger than it ever has. The SR20DE is almost stock and it's been through hell, but it's still incredibly strong. In second gear, the car squats, squirms and shoots forward on two rooster tails of dirt. Watch out Tony, here I come. Oh shit.

Right in the middle of one of my chest-pounding burnouts, the engine turns off. Then comes back. Then turns off again.

This is my favorite stage of the whole season. Don't die here.

We have four minutes before we have to be in the control zone. I pull over and dive under the hood. The engine idles, but it won't rev. The problem is clearly electrical, and it's coming and going randomly. Everything looks fine under the hood, so I dive under the dash. Cavalier climbs onto the rocks to smoke a cigarette and wonder what he's doing riding around in this pile.

I'm chasing wires with my hand when suddenly the engine dies. Cavalier starts the car.

I touch the wire and it dies again. A butt connector has worked its way loose. I don't even know what the wire does, but it goes to the ECU, so it must be important. I plug it back in and pull into the control zone right on our minute.

Saturday, 10:30 am
Stage 5
Finally. All the time, the money, the hammers, the dozens of sleepless nights, freezing our asses off yesterday, it was all for this. This is what rallying is all about. We're flat-out, engine screaming, sliding sideways at 80 mph in the freakin' Grand Canyon!

Sucking yesterday means racing in the back of the pack today. We start a minute behind Richard Byford and Fran Olson's BMW 2002, but less than five miles into the stage we're already seeing their dust. The adrenaline of the pursuit is like a shot of nitrous. I practically mash the gas pedal through the floor. Using every bit of road to maximize speed, bouncing in and out of rock-strewn washes sideways with all four wheels off the ground, we pull up on Byford's rear bumper and, well, do nothing.

Passing on a rally stage is a delicate maneuver. With narrow roads and the driver in back blinded by dust, the driver in front has to move over and make room. That doesn't work if the driver in front doesn't see you. Being only a few miles into the stage, Byford hasn't bothered to check his mirrors yet.

Why is this man smiling? Because for once, I didn't crash on his side of the car.

All I can think about is the six minutes I have to make up. I pull to the inside and try to pass. He still doesn't see me and squeezes me against the rocks. I drop back into the spray of rocks coming off his rear tires and try the other side. Again, no room. I try again and again, all the time going 60 or 70, sliding sideways, bouncing across ruts and bumps. Where is Speedvision's helicopter when you need it? The front of the car is taking a beating. Rocks are pelting the nose, the hood, and the broken windshield. One of the driving lights takes a hit and the plastic cover flies over the windshield.

Finally, we reach a wide, straight stretch, I put my foot down and he's gone. A minute later, we pass Chizma and Timmerman changing a tire on the Celica. Snow tires have their downsides.

At the end of the stage, we hand in our timecard and the stage worker gasps. That's always a good sign. We lost three headlights, all the paint off the nose, and got five more cracks in the windshield, but we finished ninth fastest on the stage, beating seven turbocharged, all-wheel-drive cars. Tony Chavez is still five minutes and 49 seconds ahead.

Saturday, 11:40 am
Stage 6, Sprongle Straight
The Ramada Express International Rally is famous in the rally world for its varied terrain, but most of all it's known for its high-speed straight. Named after Dan and Karl Sprongle, the five-time Canadian champions who reportedly took their Quattro to 145 mph here on the first running of the rally, this smooth, wide highway of dirt stretches more than four miles, and allows every driver the rare and sometimes frightening chance to finally answer the question, "how fast is it?"

Last year, with a tired, old, 95-hp L18 beater, we reached 101 mph. With 135 hp at the wheels and fuel injection that knows what to do at high altitude, we now have the chance to go much faster than we should.

At 7000 rpm in fourth gear, we hit an aerodynamic wall. As we fly through the desert, the dry dirt slowly gives way to a dusting of snow with two tire tracks showing the line through the few high-speed sweepers. We pass the crumpled hulk of a recently rolled SUV on the outside of a turn. Apparently there's ice out here, too. It'll be weeks before I pull out a calculator and learn we passed that ice at 124 mph.

We post another top 10 time, but Chavez is still five minutes and two seconds ahead.

Saturday, 12:35 pm
Stage 7
Last year, on this very stage we ran head-on into fame and notoriety. Sliding into a ditch directly in front of Speedvision's cameras turns out to be a great way to get on TV. After airing more than 20 times, Josh Jacquot's car-pushing skills are a thing of legend. Hoping to spare himself the complications of celebrity, Cavalier highlighted the offending corner in the route book and gives plenty of warning. This time, I even listen.

The stage is getting slicker with every mile. When we reach the corner, I slow to a crawl, turn the wheel left, and start a painfully slow pirouette to the right. For no apparent reason, the car goes exactly the wrong way and slides down the road backward. We manage to get going again without getting stuck, but the spin hurts us. Chavez increases his lead by another 16 seconds.

Saturday, 4:07 pm
Stage 9
I've been looking forward to the last stage of this rally for a year. It's the longest in America, stretching more than 48 miles as we run the previous three stages backward without stopping. The treacherous conditions, dropping temperatures and setting sun have forced the organizers to shorten the stage, however. We'll run less than half of it at competition speed.

Stage 8 had been a spectacular mix of dirt and snow, forcing a switch between two distinct driving styles every time the terrain changed. Every blind crest seemed to hide a patch of ice or a surprise turn. More than once I entered a turn too fast, started sliding toward the ditch, and managed to coax a tire or two onto a patch of dirt. Even a few square feet of gravel are enough to point the car where it needs to go.

After dancing on the edge for almost 22 minutes, I was sure we'd moved up on Chavez, but at service we learned he beat us by another eight seconds.

At the start of stage 9 it's clear there's no way to win our class, but we do have second place locked up. That means prize money and enough points to win the California Rally Series championship. The smart thing to do is to drive a quick, but conservative pace and maintain our position. What fun is that?

Disappointed with the shortening of the stage, I'm determined to make the most of the few miles we have. Within a few minutes, we catch and pass Robert Olson and Conrad Ketelsen's beautiful Porsche 911. A minute later, we see the giant rear wing of Julius Vasari and Stuart Gater's Open Class Eclipse GSX. Another pass. The adrenaline is pumping. I'm pushing hard on the dirt sections, and summoning all my self-control to tip-toe across the snowy parts.

Then, like so many times before, I enter an easy right one or two miles per hour too fast and start sliding to the outside. I search for my saving patch of dirt, but it's nowhere to be found.

The line between glory and gloom is a fine one. We just crossed it.

We hit the bank with both left wheels, bounce off a watermelon-sized rock and land back in the road. My foot is on the floor before we even hit the ground. A year of crashes has taught me never to give up. I'm expecting some handling problems now, and the car delivers. The steering wheel is 45 degrees to the left just to go straight. We have a long, snowy straight ahead of us, and the two cars we just passed suddenly appear behind us. It's decision time. Logic says slow down, drive at their pace and finish the stage. There isn't enough rally left for anyone to catch us, and not enough speed in the world to catch Chavez. Unfortunately, the red mist has already put my foot down. We reach about 80 mph, crabbing slightly, as I learn the car's newfound quirks. Then, without warning, the car turns hard right.

We're passengers. The car is 90 degrees to the road and the world outside the windshield is going by sideways. I reluctantly turn my head to see how much this will hurt. We mount a 2-foot high berm littered with football sized rocks and slide sideways on the floorpan at 70 mph. A bump catapults us into the air and the car tilts. Here comes the roll.

No. The snow on the berm is slick enough to keep us from going over. We slide to a stop in a ditch. The snow is a foot deep.

We're close to the end of the stage. If we limp to the end and somehow manage to survive the transit, we still might not lose. I start the engine. It sounds awful. The exhaust system is sitting on the berm behind us.

Ryan manages a heroic push and we limp back onto the road. The steering is erratic. Something is clearly broken. We limp along, darting from berm to berm as the left front wheel changes its mind. The entire field passes us. Even the slightest hill is nearly impossible to climb. It takes all of Cavalier's strength and the occasional push from a spectator to climb each one. Finally, less than a mile from the end of the stage, we bog to a stop.

It's barely a hill, but the left front control arm is broken in half and the front wheels are pointing in opposite directions. I was hoping for a broken tie rod--I have two spares in the car. The rear tires don't have enough grip to overcome the disagreeing front tires. Chains would save us, but I left them at service. Desperate, I remove the left front wheel, hoping to climb the hill on three. Ryan jumps in the trunk to counterbalance the car. It doesn't work. We're out of options. Reluctantly, we give up. Cavalier lights a cigarette. I sit in the snow and think about Tommi Makinen.

Sidelined with a suspension failure after hitting a minor pothole at this year's Rally of Great Britain, Makinen sat in the ditch, his face showing the flood of emotions he was battling. This crash marked the end of his last chance at the 2001 driver's championship. It was also his last race with the Mitsubishi team on which he had been a fixture for most of his career. A camera crew ran up and asked the inevitable questions.

Gathering all his stoic Scandinavian resolve, he let out a choked "That's rallying." And after a long, contemplative pause, added "Sometimes..." Another deep breath. "It is hard." Amen, Tommi.

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