My First Stage Rally Co-Drive: A Dream Come True with Valuable Lessons

It didn't involve quickly approaching a tree as my driver desperately pulled the handbrake or speeding at full throttle on a damaged tire that had me reconsidering my dream of becoming a rally co-driver. In fact, those moments were among the best parts. The real danger came from the tornadoes and forest fires near our rally route through the Missouri Ozarks, which put both the competition and the whole area at risk. I was riding in the passenger seat of a 2007 Subaru WRX STI for the Rally event hosted by the American Rally Association at the 100 Acre Wood The American Rally Association's gathering in the 100 Acre Wood A rally organized by the American Rally Association taking place in the 100 Acre Wood The 100 Acre Wood rally presented by the American Rally Association An event held by the American Rally Association within the 100 Acre Wood area had, in contrast, a mild encounter.

This tale first was published in Issue 29 of Road & Track.

There's an allure to working behind the curtain. For quite some time, I've respected dispatchers, train engineers, air traffic controllers, and everyone else who silently ensures everything functions smoothly. In rally racing, this position is held by the co-driver.

I've always wanted to try co-driving, but without a car, equipment, or any experience with pace notes, I was three times as cautious, which kept this desire stuck in "someday" limbo. However, a sincere proposal about this topic for the Bucket List edition convinced my editors, changing the course of things. Road & Track The production timeline aligns with the two-day, 17-stage Rally in the 100 Acre Wood, leaving sufficient time prior to the event for a fire-hose training session at Team O'Neil Rally School in Dalton, New Hampshire.

Securing a spot with just two weeks' warning proved difficult. However, William Petrow, a friend and proprietor of New Jersey's most lively race car store, Broken Motorsports, Connected me with one of his customers, Niall Donnelly, who would soon serve as an extension of my voice during countless miles driven on loose surfaces using pace notes. Donnelly has experience in rallying, having spent about ten years driving everything from standard Volkswagen Sciroccos to highly modified Eagle Talons after moving to the United States from Northern Ireland in 1986. However, this will be his first competition back behind the wheel since 2004. His reason for returning to the sport stems from the passing of a close friend and ex-rally driver. Yet, his ambition to climb from our No. 46 spot in the start order into the twenties—or perhaps even the top tier—revives a deep-seated competitive spirit.

Delivering the instructions for Stage 11, the Southern Loop, requires speed, attention, and passion. "Double caution dip over water into left two then immediate left four no cut," I say as quickly as my dusty mouth can manage. The bumps and curves ahead have the potential to ruin our race if not executed properly. Every bump shakes my spine, making my sight blurry as the suspension compresses completely. Yet my eyes snap back just in time to relay the next instruction and briefly look up to check the upcoming turn. Water sprays through my open window as we fly past a mile marker labeled “!! dip/water into ][" on the Jemba-inked pace notes. The double exclamation marks tell me to yell "Double caution!" as we near a dip leading onto a bridge (which is essentially high risk for both car and driver).

As we progress further into the race, Donnelly's worried voice comes through my helmet-mounted speakers, informing me about a punctured rear driver's side tire. He questions how much more distance remains. "Two miles!" I shout back, getting confused among the numbers and fearing the quick tire replacement that lies ahead. Our speed decreases, and the rear of the car sways out, adjusting for the deflated tire with stronger bursts from the powerful four-cylinder engine. We push the Subaru all the way to the finish line.

After passing the last checkpoint, we stop to install our sole remaining spare tire, and within under five minutes, we set off again. We have to regain lost time before reaching the next destination, yet driving fast on regular highways could lead to significant fines—a thought constantly lingering in my mind as I instruct Donnelly via the intercom to reduce speed. I closely check the route guide to remain on track, and we reach our destination with some extra time left.

Sanity and self-control the essential mental traits of a rally co-driver. The task: to act with clarity and precision through both thought and speech, swiftly and calmly, in the most chaotic setting possible. Your role is to manage and direct the high-energy driver, preferably without needing to unbuckle your race seat. This "control mindset" is what defines Chris Cyr, CEO of Team O’Neil Rally School It's said that he is perfect as a navigator. At the school, Boyd Smith, a co-driver who has been serving as a passenger for many years, and Jamie Beliveau, a native New Hampshire resident and experienced rally driver, both helped prepare me for the role of co-driver during the two days before the rally in the Ozarks.

"Staying clear of major mistakes, let alone small ones, comes down to the details," Smith stated. "This is your domain. You're responsible for every aspect both inside and outside the vehicle." Sitting behind a classroom desk and within a modified Ford Fiesta ST prepared for rallying, I discovered how to handle extended reconnaissance drives, move efficiently between stages, provide pace notes quickly, and follow strict time rules. We trained in changing tires, delivering snacks, giving instructions, keeping track of various navigation tools, and identifying dangers during slow passes over icy practice sections in New Hampshire.

Could I manage reading three times faster while in Missouri and still handle my essential responsibilities? Rally co-drivers are more than just co-pilots; they serve as counselors, technicians, and occasionally even role models. Some drivers believe that holding the steering wheel in one hand, the gear shift in the other, and having the pedals beneath them means they're in charge, yet according to Cyr's observations, it's actually the co-driver who guides both actions and emotions.

The last time Donnelly competed, His co-driver referred to a "tulip" route guide featuring ball-and-arrow illustrations for direction. Modern computer-generated (and manually adjusted) Jemba pace notes overwhelm Donnelly, as their constant details about corners and surfaces leave little space for the driver’s own adjustments. During the first stage—a highly technical section called Martin Cubb West—Donnelly hesitates when applying the accelerator, often not aligning with my calls during turns. As tension builds, he requests me to track our stage timing while I have difficulty navigating the 71-page route manual and correctly entering our time-card figures. There are numerous distractions—from searching for a carton of milk within the vehicle to deer suddenly crossing the road—that lead to calculation errors, missed exits, and penalties due to arriving too soon at our checkpoints.

However, our teamwork gets better. The extended and quicker stages on the second day allow Donnelly to grow more accustomed to the STI's performance curve, while I become more confident. We achieve an honest level of comfort; Donnelly shares Irish jokes with me, and I tease him about keeping his turn signal on for miles. By Stage 13, we really connect, managing to gain three seconds over the leading vehicle. Due to accumulated damage — the fuel tank shield continually came loose alongside half of the exhaust system — we struggle through dirt and despair to complete the stage, which feels like a holy miracle at any rally, particularly one near a 120-mile-per-hour tornado.

A firm sense of self-assurance is essential for individuals aiming for and attaining success in motor racing. This holds true for rally driving as well. Walter Röhrl Colin McRae, Michèle Mouton, and Sébastien Loeb are legends, yet their co-drivers remained less recognized but played just as vital a role; confined to their seats without any real authority, they might have been even more courageous. There's a justification for why these reserved, private individuals stand alongside their drivers on the podium.

In the final phase of the race, I'm tormented by memories of the wildfires from the first day—the images of firefighters speeding across the terrain on ATVs and dousing blazes in the woods mix with the sounds of tornado alarms signaling unseen spirals in the sky that evening. However, as the sun sets and the Mark Twain National Forest becomes completely dark, my partnership with Donnelly reaches its peak. I fasten my helmet and adjust my safety belt, my breath transmitted via the headset as the countdown begins for our departure into the unknown. Following 7.41 miles and numerous verbal cues, we clasp hands in celebration before I return to leading us through the 36-minute journey back to the pit area. We've completed the course—a feat achieved by only 17 out of 56 competitors. In official standings, we placed 31st. Yet, surviving and having the will to compete once more makes this outcome feel like a win.

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