There's a strange calm as the car leaves the ground. There's nothing ahead but blue sky, there's no road noise, no gravel hitting the floor, nothing but the sound of the unloaded engine and Amar gasping, over the intercom, what he fears is his last breath.
Strangely, he seems to trust his own co-driving less than I do. He said "Left 5, 70, big jump, 300" and I believe him.
That 300 means I have 300 yards of straight road ahead when gravity inevitably notices we've slipped its grasp. Of course, that 70 should have meant we only had 70 yards to build speed before the jump which, being nothing more than a crest of a hill, shouldn't be that big. That "big jump" label was surely for the open class cars with so much power and grip they can actually get up to launch speed before they hit it. The six feet of cold, mountain air under my tires should cast some doubt on this analysis, but I'm stubbornly optimistic as the horizon rotates into view and a wide, smooth gravel road unfolds in front of our hood.
The road slopes mercifully downward like the landing ramp of a ski jump and the front tires seem to reach down and just kiss the gravel. We land solidly on the tires, never bottoming the skidplate. Fear turns to pride and I scan the road for photographers. None. No cameras, no video, no helicopter, not even a cow as a witness.
In a normal rally I'd never have time for so much thinking during a single jump. We would have been in the air just as long, but most of my mental faculties are usually tied up trying to shove the gas pedal farther into the firewall. This time, though, I'm playing a different game. This time it's a thinking man's race. In the classic tale of the tortoise and the hare, I'm always the rabbit. Just this once, I've resolved to be the turtle. There's a championship up for grabs this weekend, and I want it.
BeforeThe relief was palpable. I was free, unpressured by points, unencumbered by opportunity, incapable of victory. I couldn't fail because I had failed already. Perfect.
This would be the fourth time I'd raced at the Ramada Express International Rally in Laughlin, Nev., the sixth time I'd covered it for Sport Compact Car, and until I made the above realization, the first time I'd seriously considered not going. This may be the year's most spectacular, most challenging and most rewarding rally, but it's also at the end of the season when drivers, teams and cars are weary. Hauling your tired, demoralized ass to some remote border town in the corner of the Nevada desert ranks right up there with Tabasco contact lenses on the big to-do list. It didn't help that my last two races here ended with substantial body damage and shattered championship hopes.
My only motivation, after a season of disappointments, crashes and ever more tiring repairs, was the memory of my first race here in 2000. I was a fresh, new rallyist then, with a hopelessly old and underpowered car. I didn't even know how to keep track of my score, and had little reason to learn. I was here for one simple reason: to drive really fast on really cool roads without getting arrested.
That attitude made my first year the most fun I ever had at a rally, before or since. My accidental class win that year ruined everything, giving me a hunger for victory that can never really be satisfied. But now, after throwing away my championship hopes by brilliantly crashing out of the lead at the Gorman Ridge Rally earlier in the year, I could once again focus on the fun.
This newfound freedom shaped every aspect of the car's preparation. There would be no all-nighters for me. I had time to replace the steering rack with a quicker one so it would be more fun to drive, I could reshape the bent skidplate well enough by parking my van on it, but there would be no changing of head gaskets. No, in spite of the fact that it was clearly starting to leak, that the cooling system was losing half a gallon of water per stage, and that I ended most stages running on three cylinders since one plug was coolant-fouled, I would ignore the problem. Replacing head gaskets is hard work, and hard work is not fun.
I lashed a gallon of water into the trunk with a bungee cord, borrowed a truck to tow with (driving a '77 Chevy van across the desert isn't fun, either) and headed off.
Then, on the drive out, Amar started doing what any good co-driver would. Looking at the points. "You know," he said, after testing a few possible scenarios, "we could still win this thing."
Damnit!
Suddenly our plans for a haphazard free-for-all were dashed, replaced with the need to drive smart, finish each day, and be willing to lose stages or even entire days when the points strategy dictated. It was time to stop pretending we were fresh-faced newbies reveling in the sanctioned bedlam of rallying and put our many hard-learned lessons to work.
Lesson number one: make the conservative tire choiceThe weather on Friday's stages is severe and wildly unpredictable. In 2000 it rained, creating a relentless mud that rendered steering useless. In 2001, it was snow that turned co-drivers into push mules. For 2002, I learned my lesson and brought snow tires, so it was perfectly dry. This year, as always, speculation the night before was rampant.
There is no way to know the road conditions before you get to the stages, and little chance to make setup or tire adjustments once you get there. The nearest weather report is for Kingman, Ariz., more than 100 miles and 3,000 vertical feet away. That report says cool and dry. You can ask stage workers who were there the night before. That report was light snow on the ground and more falling from the sky, but at 6,000 feet, the weather is never the same two days in a row. You can check the webcam on the roof of the Peach Springs High School halfway to the stages. That shows dry pavement in the foreground and snow-free mountains in the distance. But the webcam points the wrong direction. Even when you start racing, you still don't know. The first five miles are in the sun, but the rest of the day is in the shade. The first corner in the trees is always a shock.
We can either run Falken RS01D rally tires or Bridgestone Blizzak street snow tires. With a good layer of hardpacked snow, the Blizzaks are grippy, progressive and easy to drive on. Compared to the rally tires, though, they're like running a marathon barefoot-there is no protection against rocks. The Falkens will be faster in the gravel and over the rocky sections of Stage 2, but if there's snow, we're likely to get completely stuck.
The conservative choice is easy, then. Sacrifice speed for reliability and don't get stuck; drive on snow tires and go slow on the rocks. Even better, carry two gravel spares and pre-mount chains on both of them. Nothing will stop me from finishing this year.
The strategy works, to a point. The road turns out to be mostly snow with patches of dirt. The Blizzaks are amazing in the snow, but the compromise makes itself very clear. There's a treacherous, rocky hill on Stage 2. Two years ago, it was covered in snow and we lost 25 minutes trying to climb it on gravel tires. This year, it's just as snowy and we climb it in less than 10 seconds. Right at the top, though, the hill gets its revenge. With a bang and a hiss, the left rear suspension bottoms out on a rock. I spend the rest of the stage arguing with myself about whether or not the tire is really flat. It is We don't lose much time, but we're quickly faced with another tire choice: What do we use as a spare?
I only have three snow tires now, and the rally tires are significantly taller. Running two rally tires in back could make it frightfully tail happy in the snow, but running one will I have no idea what that will do.
When you don't hit trees, there's a lot more free time in service, so I spend it seeking advice on my tire dilemma and notice the solution everybody is wishing for.
Even those with real rally snow tires aren't properly equipped for today's conditions. The rally snow tires Michelin sells here are designed for Scandinavian events where the snow coverage is complete. They're skinny, require unique, expensive skinny wheels, have terrible grip in mud or gravel, and they can't handle rocks either. Only two cars here have the right tires. Keith Roper and Masayuki Akaba both have Falken RX04E snow tires. They seem to have the same structure as Falken's gravel tire, but have snow compound and tread. Both got their tires straight from Japan.
Rhys Millen is running skinny Michelin snows, he has an easy 100-hp advantage over Akaba, and he has two victories and two second-place finishes in the five times he's raced on these very roads. Akaba has never been here, and is opening up a steady lead. Everybody wants Akaba's tires.
Lesson number two: FocusNot every lesson has to be learned in person. There's a piece of footage from the '98 Wild West ProRally in Washington, shot from an in-car camera in Ralph Kosmedes' Supra Turbo rally car. Ralph's on a tear, driving a fast, smooth, effortless pace and leading two-wheel drive. Then, in the middle of a tricky turn combination, his dome light comes on. He reaches up between turns, flips the light off, enters the next turn slightly late and promptly rolls, ending his rally.
Next to that lesson in my head is another in-car shot from Acropolis several years ago. Richard Burns was driving desperately fast, trying in vain to look like the world champion he still was in the face of Marcus Gronholm's consistently faster performance in an identical Peugeot. Then he passes a split board on the side of the road telling him some critical bit of strategic information. He breaks his concentration for a split second to process the information and promptly drives off a cliff.
The lesson here? Don't lose your focus.