El Torero de los Coches

I was relaxing on the terrace of the Galician beach house when Alberto came to join me. We both agreed that we had enjoyed ourselves the evening before. It had been Carmen’s 25th birthday and we met with some friends of her to celebrate this superb achievement. Amongst them house-philosopher Oscar (Great man, calls me ‘Ome Mortego’ for undisclosed reasons, Batman in Galician) who after much thought claimed that the Partido Popular (the Spanish conservatives) lie so much that they could tell people that they are selling beer while they are in actual fact selling urban buses. From that moment on we were toasting to urban buses.

During these political discussions and birthday celebrations Alberto mentioned something to me about a Car Rally which was to be held the following day throughout the district. I had pretty much forgotten about it when he reminded me the following morning on the terrace that we really should be heading off to the course to find some good spots.

Carmen stayed at home to prepare her birthday lunch and as we left the house we were just passing the midday hour. There was a shrewd type of heat going when we stepped into Alebrto’s navy blue Citroen. One of those heats that you don’t really realize but is certainly there. We stopped at a near by village to pick up José-Maria (a bloke) and our team was complete. (In the car heading to the track I was trying to rattle off some Rally rhetoric, but I think my unknowingness of cars was obvious.)
Upon arriving at the track – which was set out on various Galician back roads – the tension was immediately noticeable. This was a day exiting things would happen. Now, Alberto and José-Maria had already been to many rallies, for me it was my first (well, one time when I was young, I witnessed people thundering down a Swiss mountain road in wheelbarrows, but I guess that doesn’t count). These two boys knew exactly what to do and I sheepishly followed them.

Alberto, taking the lead, decided that we needed to head for the best corner on the track. This is easier said than done at Rallies. The decision to move up the course is a decision which takes you right back to the primitive origin of mankind for ‘looking for a good spot’ means as much as ‘run for your life San Fermin style’ (cars pass every two minutes). Alberto started by asking the local farmers how to get there. Three minutes of shouting, smiling and a lot of patting on the back and we were on our way. “We just need to pass the river up there and we will have the best spot,” indicated - a rather sure of himself - Alberto. I was just happy enough not to have to run on the road.

We headed in the direction to which the rural wise men had pointed us (through a field of mud) and we soon found ourselves in a spot of bother. A thick line of trees, no river, and a cacophony of loud laughs in the distance. A trick had been played on us and a whole village took it upon themselves to chuckle about it. Bless them. Not to be outdone we continued and climbed a fair sized mountain full of Eucalyptus trees until we suddenly bumped into two rally-drivers who were just as surprised at the meeting as we were. We had climbed to a somewhat obscure part of the course where the two drivers had managed to crash their Peugeot and were now standing by the side of the road. We were exited, they weren’t. After a quick “he is foreign and would like a picture with you” from Alberto we decided to take a closer look at the car they had crashed. This is a basic mistake in Rally-watching. I didn’t know this (although Carmen later claimed that she had warned me about it). Cars pass every two minutes and they can get so confused when they see a crash that they make the same mistake. I however, was unaware of this and was not about to give up on such a good photo opportunity. Foolish.

Suddenly, a noise. Shouting. A crowd which I had not noticed up until then was crying to us. “Coche, coche, cruza, cruza!!”. This is Spanish for: There is a car coming, if you don’t cross the road soon it could crash into you. My photo smile turned into a horrible nervous ‘are-they-talking-to-me-I-am-just-a-foreigner-leave-me-alone’ smile. Alberto and José-Maria crossed the road quick as a flash. As I said earlier, connoisseurs.

I remained stuck to the ground, incapable of doing anything. Deer in the flashlight kind of thing. The cries remained but I had long stopped listening to them. Things slowed down, they really did. Right in front of me a Renault (137) was ripping around the corner. I noticed there was a yellow pear with sunglasses on the left-hand side of the car just above the indicator, which I thought was funny. The car spun and was heading for me. The cries had definitely stopped now. ¨Is that a woman navigating the vehicle?¨ Yes it is. The car had left the road and was still moving when it hit some kind of stone or branch five meters in front of me. This saved me.
The bump stopped the car and revived my heartbeat. I had experienced my first real rally moment. Alberto and Jose-Maria accepted me as one of them and were soon calling me ‘El Torero de los Coches’ (The Torero of the Cars) which I keenly tried to spread.

We returned to the beach house where all was tranquil. A world (well only a couple of kilometers) away from the adrenalin filled back roads. Carmen and her parents had prepared a great Chrurasco (Spanish type of barbecue). With Manuel, the dad, I was turning spare-ribs as big as a very big loafs of bread. Whilst sharing a beer. My masculinity had reached a very high point indeed. We had a great time. Congratulations honey!