Joel Nicolosi
“Left five, then right six tightens, sixty, then small bump, hairpin right*
The nose of the car pointed briefly down the mountain pass as the tires rotated fiercely against a slick combination of snow, gravel, mud and a decades old cracked asphalt that hadn’t seen maintenance since it was first hastily laid by one of Solaris County’s various logging companies in the postwar boom. Joel’s hand worked the shifter, just a quick pull with every change up through the gears as the car charged down the hill spraying the loose contents of the beaten roadway in a rooster tail behind. The hairpin turn approached rapidly and he could see the break in the road where Max, his co-driver, notes denoted a bump- a deformation from years of water running over the same area, creating a shallow channel. Beyond there was no guardrail and a picturesque view of the open landscape that expanded east in all directions. He kept his foot down, cut the turns and squared up to hit the divot in the road evenly.
Driving the car had become nearly as natural as piloting the 300, perhaps moreso, though the physical demands were different. There were no real straights to pause and take a breath. Every section was an intense twenty to thirty minute drive that required complete focus. The little VW Rally Car was a simple machine. It just had to be driven. He didn’t operate the controls as much as he simply thought about them in rhythm with the pacenotes and the melody of the rise and fall of the rpms. His hands and legs moved naturally with the pitch and roll of the suspension while his mind kept mental notes of the gear position. They jumped the small channel and he rocked the wheel hard giving the handbrake lever a quick tug watching the nose briefly as the tail came around. The right front dipped only slightly into the ditch as the car rotated the corner, but Joel’s eyes were already watching down the next long descent section as Max called out another line of notes. The exhaust howled against the mountainside as he again put the pedal on the floor.
The winding trails of Mount Atlas were more akin to the Whales or Monte Carlo Rally, but as the Team Principle emphasized, if they could master car control on the old backwoods logging routes, Jamaica would be a cakewalk. In his mind, Joel only wanted to get on the podium, if nothing else, just getting there would place him as the first American to ever make it. If he could win, he would also be the first man to ever win the Sol City GP and a WRS event. Simply being in the running had ramped the media attention considerably. He was sure they had a winning car, the German engineers from VW tinkered with them night and day, when he and the other team weren’t busy ramming then through the woods, but so did everyone else with their entries: Factory teams from Citroen, Toyota, Hyundai and even a British-based team with Ford backing would be competing with much more experienced drivers. They were effectively the black-sheep of the group with an aptly named sponsorship.
The road ahead dipped under the public drive up to the observatory. A sweeping right hander under a bridge and Joel was driving through the side window as they drifted the long turn, however an unusual splash of white above caught his eye as they passed under the bridge. Bright sunlight glinted off the surface though he could tell it wasn’t snow. Joel pulled the handbrake again cutting the turn short. Max glanced up from his notes, sensing the motion of the car not in agreeance with his commands. He looked at the GPS unit in the center of the console then quizzically at Joel as the car slid to a stop facing the inside of the curve and a rock wall. “What is it? What’s wrong?” He asked. His South African dialect evident.
Joel craned his neck slightly and looked up against his harnesses and pointed. “What the hell is that?”
Max regarded him strangely with a raised eyebrow and turned his head likewise looking up the steep escarpment. “That’s a car.” He nearly didn’t believe the words as they came out of his mouth.
Releasing his restraints and removing his helmet, Joel opened the door and stood looking up for a moment cupping his hands around his eyes to shield away the light of the sun. “Shit, it’s a Bentley.” He said with some astonishment. The scene reminded him of the aftermath of the T-Rex attack in Jurassic Park when the Explorer was pushed over the side of the embankment and sat precariously downward in a tree. A few sturdy branches cradled the front of the car, but the silver wings and the letter B across the nose were unmistakable. He squinted looking harder through the dark windshield and immediately felt his stomach tighten. “Fuck, call the police.” He said turning back to Max. “There’s still a body in it.”
