The Cliffs of Death
WHAT IN THE NAME OF THE MOTHERF-ING BLACK JESUS WAS THAT!?" I bellow as my car starts to spin out of control, mud splashing up on my windshield, shocks creaking to absorb foot deep slime-filled potholes, the sound of ten thousand tiny gravel meteors flung up by spinning wheels at 70kph streaking through the air and denting the hell out of the car body. Tennis jolts straight upright in her seat desperately grasping for poor monkah (sent flying through the air from his vantage point on the dash as soon as we hit the gravel road) with one hand and the emergency stabilization handle above the door with the other. For one second, as the car starts to power slide (most unintentionally, let me assure you) through the gravel and mud towards a very painful looking ditch on the side, we catch glance of each others' panicked faces and I imagine this is what rally car drivers and their helpless navigators must feel the second before they lose control around a hairpin loop and crash head on into a tree or catapult off the side of a cliff.