Sometimes it just doesn’t go your way. Sometimes Friday’s just not your day. Just ask M-Sport.
That second stage wreaked havoc, but it hit the British-built Pumas especially hard. By the day’s end, all four had fallen foul of a clearly deceptive 11 miles. Thierry Neuville and Takamoto Katsuta kept them company in bouncing off the scenery on the road from Telti to Berchidda.
As you know, DirtFish prides itself on delivering the detail behind these moments. And we pride ourselves on doing that from the side of the road – sometimes before the dust has even had chance to settle on a broken car.
Our pre-event recce highlighted the potential for drama in the second of three Friday stages, which meant we would lurk, ready to leap into action should anybody deviate from the straight and narrow.
Sure enough, the call came. In what was an astonishing two minutes of M-Sport misfortune, coffees were left half drunk, second-breakfast marmalade croissants half-eaten.
Mārtiņš Sesks was out of reach. We knew exactly where he was and we knew there was no way we could get to him. Same with Josh McErlean. When we recce the stages, we’re not just looking to understand the terrain, the surface and the nature of the road, we’re looking for ways in if something does go wrong for somebody.
Our primary Puma target became Grégoire Munster, who had limped to the finish with significant right-rear damage.
In moments like these, you become utterly fixated on GPS locations and the layers of Google Maps. Your immediate environment’s secondary, it’s not about Sardinia, Greece or Finland, it’s about getting to that pin on that map.
Until a snake crosses the road in front of you.
It was big, black and about the only thing capable of shifting the in-car focus. I conveyed the news of Italian wildlife on the move as carefully and considerately as possible.
“SNAKE!”
Colin Clark’s head rose from the map, roadbook and iPhone combo he was juggling. In the back and already preparing a video edit, Alasdair Lindsay was inside his headphones and oblivious.
Miffed that he’d missed it, Colin directed us to a parking space alongside two of Sardinia’s friendlier policemen. We were around a mile out from the finish and Munster’s car.
Run.
Fortunately, the temperature had dipped slightly from a mid-morning high of 36 degrees and a recently fitter Lindsay led the charge. Left to lock the car and tidy up the parking, I was last to leave and surprisingly caught an ailing Clark quite quickly.
Limping.
For those of you who didn’t know, Colin’s a former Scottish international on the hocky field. I think he won the world cup for them or something. Regardless, he can still shift when he has to.
“Snakebite?” I enquired.
Apparently not.
“Something in my calf,” he said. “I felt it tighten, then it pinged.”
That wouldn’t be the last time I heard the word ‘ping’ on Friday…
“SNAKE!”
And there it was. The brother or sister of a road-crossing friend. Col’s dodgy leg was forgotten as he moved into social-creation mode and went with an insta-friendly commentary of what sat in the grass.
We arrived at Munster’s car pretty much at the time he and Louis Louka were calling it a day on the fix. Interview done, we’re about getting pictures and words away before it’s back to the car and on with the edit.
Hours later and we’re lurking again. The afternoon run at Arzachena’s been and gone and it’s all eyes on the loop’s middle stage. Lightening couldn’t strike twice, could it?
It certainly could.
Over goes Katsuta, out goes Neuville.
We’re off again. First priority is the world champion. He’s staying stage-side and we’re chasing him down. We’ve found him, virtually. And good news… there’s a road and only a half-mile hike across a field to the car.
Putting thoughts of black snakes (further research had uncovered our Sardinian serpents as relatively harmless grass snakes – but we were still mindful we were in their backyard…) out of our minds, we headed for the gravel road. Only to find our nemesis: the double-padlocked gate.
Pivot. Let’s grab Katsuta at the post-stage re-fuel for pictures of his twisted Toyota. We arrive just as Sami Pajari’s leaving.
Gone.
Sometimes Friday doesn’t go your way.
