Snow Rally
-- Scott Perry

A light snow falls between the trees. Trees already heavy and quiet with ice. Muted sunlight filters through the thick alpine forest and reflects off the blanket of snow that covers everything.

A group of three men stand around their small fire, chatting quietly so as not to break the silence of the forest created by the damping effect of the snow. They’re cold; stamping their feet, or blowing into their hands to help keep warm. One man pulls off his worn mittens to tend to the tall coffee pot left just on the edge of the coals. Topping off his thermos with fresh, steaming brew, he rejoins the conversation with his comrades, pulling on his mittens and hugging himself for warmth before carefully sipping his hot coffee.

A timid jackrabbit peaks his head over the lip of a small trail that curves through the woods near the men’s campfire. It glances quickly around, and seeing nothing, ventures closer to the top of the snow bank.

Then in the distance, an echo of a growl. The jackrabbit senses something and bolts for the safety of the trees. Then the men hear it too, a grating bra-a-a-p echoing through the trees in the distance. Now closer, the trill of a referee’s whistle, and cheers from other people up the road.

The men halt their conversation, and turn to face the trail, their anticipation now palatable. In a flash of blue and yellow it’s upon them.

The little blue rally car leaps over a crest in the road to the short segment of trail in front of the three men. They howl with excitement, jumping and waving, flashing huge smiles and thumbs-up at the two brave men barreling through the trees at lethal speeds.

Inside the car there is perpetual activity. Pages of notes flash before the co-driver’s eyes. The instructions are relayed with a precise language developed between driver and co-driver. In the driver’s mind, a mental image is created of the road ahead. He can see through the trees and over the crests, and plan his vehicle's trajectory. Then practiced flicks of the wheel, and deliberate stabs of the pedals guide the furiously sliding car down the narrow snow path, missing trees by mere inches.

The silence of the forest is shattered by the reverberation of twelve-thousand explosions per second. Flames leap out of the tail of the car, and air surges through the blow-off valve as the driver lifts the throttle to slide the car in preparation for the next turn. The car yaws towards the cheering men. The driver’s head looking out the passenger-side window never sees them; the co-driver’s head is buried in pace notes and inertial mileage data, and likewise is oblivious to the three cold men in the middle of the forest. The driver stabs the throttle.

Underneath the skin of the beast, a two liter, turbo-charged, aluminum block of high technology surges mechanical power to a sophisticated, computerized transmission. Which ferries the power into fluid controlled active differentials that send the power down drivelines and half-shafts to forged magnesium wheels wrapped in high silicate rubber and inch long stainless steel spikes. The rubber blows the snow out from underfoot, and the studs grab the ice below, spewing it behind the car in a rainbow of water and ice, creating a force that sends the car along its destined journey.

Then as soon as it came, it was gone. The silence of the forest returns with more force than that of the car’s arrival. A few braps and pops are heard down the road away from the men, but they’re quickly quieted by the snow heavy trees. The blown snow from the car’s passing floats down towards the ground, already covering the tracks of the car that only exists as the smell of exhaust and as a memory for three men.

The men smile and excitedly return to their conversation. They no longer feel the cold, their chill cured by the brief, yet powerful connection to the two men in the blue and yellow rally car. Now they speak with loud voices and exaggerated gestures that mimic the motion of the car they just witnessed. They pat each other on the back and sing songs of victory.

The three men will forever remember the day they stood in that forest and saw their heroes for six seconds. And they will remember those six seconds as if they were six years. And even though they know the drivers probably never even saw them, they will believe they helped their favorite team on to victory, simply by standing in a snow drenched forest to watch.

And they will be right.