Our retarded chant rang out over the unkept surface of lakes, “Kiiii-mi RÃ¤i-kkÃ¶-nen, KimiRÃ¤ikkÃ¶nen!” The engine sang back. Harder, we heard, ripping at its lungs, harder, we heard, revving and rioting in its cage. Hear. Hear. Where. Where. There!
And Kimi flew into sight, into corner, and out onto flight! He spat rocks at us, then disappeared almost before he had appeared, left us in a dusty haze. We loved it. This was not your ordinary F1 driver. From our amazing ant-riddled and mosquite-frequented inside apex vantage point, we had just come about ten centimeters away from being touched by the mirrortips of a driving god, and our response was animal alike; cackling like hens, grinning like hyenas, we butted heads like bison and went woo. Fucking WOO! “Did you see that!!?”
Rallye! Or ralli, as it is spelled in the land of the bravest. You gotta love it. Let the furiously posing poseurs choke on their crackers and champagne. Us ugly barbarians are not made of silicone. We’re steel-shitting people without manners. Unruly, epileptic, loud – give wide berth, display warning signs.
That was this summer. And now we hear that Kimi RÃ¤ikkÃ¶nen has fired lousy Ferrari, and moved onto cooler pastures. Open the gates, the iceman is coming to rallyetown! I’m so thrilled I want to butt heads again!
Now, I usually predict that Kimi will win every race of the season. For 2010 I predict he will not win a single race. But a wheelman is a wheelman is a wheelman, and I stick my dick out on the line and profess roundabout a fourth after the fearless frog, babyface Hirvonen and the Latvian gangsta. You may laugh now – but I nearly touched his mirrortips in a tight corner somewhere in the big forest up north. I know things. Fourth. Ok, fifth. As a best finish. After all, he up and ended on his ear in JyvÃ¤skylÃ¤… like so:
Parting words: Ralli is adventure. I’ve attended the Grand Prix in Monaco, sat on the balcony across the McLaren people, been hosted by loveliest Rykiel girl. It was nothing like this summer. Ah, I feel an anecdote coming:
We were somewhere around Barstow when, no, in fact, I picked up my lawyer Dr Gonzo at the airport. He had, in turn, on the airplane, managed to pick up a blonde girl with humongous honey melons. I nodded in kind approval, and the three of us drove straight from airport to JyvÃ¤skylÃ¤. Here, miss Unbelievable Boobs steps out of the car. You may think it was because she didn’t want to sleep with two strangers in a small car way out in the forest. Who knows? We missed her and her big bumpers already. Anyway, we pressed on, Gonzo and me, gps:ing our way out in the forest – until we got quite lost. It is late. Dark. We drive for what seems like miles along tiny gravel roads, half expecting some MÃ¤kinen to suddenly come over the bend at full tilt. In the middle of nowhere, we spot some signs that indicate that there might possible maybe perhaps be a rallye in the area. As my lawyer, he advises me to follow these signs. We do. For long awhile. Just before we think it is a prank and we’re being led to Russia, we find the stage and the adjacent camping/parking area. Admist much hurrah we park our chariot next to fellow anoraks. Some people are on the better side of intoxication, and play bad music in loud fashion. We brush our teeth in Beck’s, and fold the chairs back. I don’t know about Dr Gonzo in the passenger seat, but the quest for sleep in the driver’s seat is like being questioned by the CIA. Well, Gonzo already snoring. I feel like slapping him. Some goon outside decides to, uh, train for tomorrow’s race. Yes, he is wearing his hat like a farmer. You may also suspect he is a bit unstable on his legs. And you’d be right. He climbs into his frightfully battered red Sierra. The “car” has the biggest damn auspuff anyone can imagine. You could hide a horse in that exhaust. The sound it makes is naturally just what you’d expect from a diameter like that. He proceeds to do some donuts. Some other morons of same sordid tribe cheer him on. Soon he is racing back and forth in the field among tents and cars. I am completely petrified every time I see the Sierra headlights coming for our car. He manages to miss us. Many many many times. This goes on for hours. Did I already mention how impossibly easy it is to hear the car? Lawyer sleeps like a baby. My eyes have never been wider. At one point the donkey in the Sierra drives off. I praise the lord for finally answering my frantic prayers. But he’s back in five. Probably went home for more Kossu. The donuts continue. Around 6:45 the halfwit gets tired, and parks in a ditch. I fall asleep. We wake up at 7:00, when my alarm clock rings. Time to Rallye!