I think I can safely blame this whole thing on a fit of winter madness, and deflect any questions about my sanity. I was in an odd situation: I’d spent the last two years driving an old BMW with way too many miles on it, racing it on weekends, and it died right before I had to leave the country to spend a bit over a year working at the South Pole. I missed my car, I missed racing, and I was at the end of the earth where the fastest thing I could drive topped out at a bit over 20mph. It was August and the first faint glimmers of the sun were on the horizon, the first I had seen in months. And out of the blue, while taking advantage of a satellite pass to absentmindedly browse the specialstage classifieds, there it was. A small pickup, a 1992 mighty max. Rally proven, logbooked, and ready to go. I had to have it, despite its issues. Never mind I couldn’t afford to ship it, I haven’t done a road trip in a long time! It’ll be fun, right?
I drove a lot of things down on the ice. I drove Deltas at McMurdo, I drove dozers, skidsteers, and loaders at Pole. I became a reasonably competent operator, and a surgeon with a forklift. But as much fun as 18 tons of american steel can be, they were all, well... slow. Racing is what I do. And you can really only open up the snowmobiles in the short window between station close and when it gets too cold to run them. So what to do? Go home and buy a race car, of course! And so I find myself crammed into a full 737 at 34,000 feet somewhere over the midwest, back on an airplane after 35 hours of planes last week and wonderng just what the hell I've gotten myself into.