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Rallye Sanremo
October, 1981
The Quattro had been sensational on the dusty gravel roads in the days before. 320 turbocharged brake-horsepower driving all four wheels could not be beaten by their rear-wheel drive competitors. But Ari Vatanen’s rear wheel drive Escort would handle better on the high grip tarmac and even the intermittent slippy cobblestone roads in and around Sanremo as the event came to a close. It came down to the final stage. She had thirty seconds over him. It was hers to lose and somehow she had known one of them was going to crash on the last stage.
She remembered telling Fabrizia on the start line as the marshal walked up to commence the countdown, “I will drive this like it is the first stage of the rally. No mistakes.”
The road was treacherous; a tight mountain pass made of old, crumbling asphalt, patched in places with dark tar, patches of leaves from autumn trees or gravel dragged out by the car ahead, causing the grip levels to change corner to corner, braking zone to braking zone.
In most places, there was nothing to keep them from plummeting off the high mountain road into the valley below. If they were lucky enough, there would be a stone wall that was just as sure to save or destroy, whether you bounced off the middle or the struck endstone, respectively.
On the other side of the narrow, twisting stage, there was a steep slope or even the sheer face of a cliff made of craggy stone, reaching out at the car as if with a vendetta against its existence. Car placement from corner entry, to apex, to exit, was critical.
She drove to 90%. Any faster and she feared she would crash, any slower she would lose her rhythm, and that was just as bad. It was a fine line — a delicate balance. Fabrizia called out the notes.
“... Late K right, long, over bridge, into easy left, tightens, damp now, and one-hundred over long crest, into big stop at post — open hairpin left…”
…the Quattro turned in late over a narrow stone bridge, accelerating, then turned to the left over a damp patch of asphalt. The slick tyres slipped, the car running wide, but Michèle had accounted for this, and they came to just an inch of the road's edge, and then they were racing up the slight hill, the Quattro pulling hard. As she crested it she could finally see the yellow post by the side of the road, lifted off the throttle making the turbo chirp delightfully as she slammed on the brakes just before they reached the post, careful not to lock up the tyres even as Michèle and Fabrizia’s weight was thrown hard forward against their harnesses — somehow Fabrizia did not drop the pacenote book or her pencil (she never had dropped them), and then excruciatingly slow and smooth releasing the brake as she heel-toe’d down through the gears to throw the car into a neat scandi flick — the weight transferred left, right and then off the rear, tossing it into an exuberant lefthand slide — foot flat on the throttle through the exit of the hairpin turn…
They were one body, the two of them and the car, even as a deep part of Michèle worried about crashing. Still, Michèle never felt more alive than when she was in a car, and this stage was no different. Then, just as quickly as the stage hard started, there were the yellow boards and then the red ones signifying the stage finish. They flew through them and slowed for the time control. There, they learned that Michèle’s prediction had come true, Ari Vatanen had crashed somewhere in the stage.
She had won. They had won.
“The first lady driver to win a World Championship event and the first all-female team to do so,” a reporter had said into his microphone at the cameraman standing by at the stage finish. She wasn’t thinking about this, the wording or what this meant; she was just happy to prove to herself and the world that she could do it.
She could win.
Fabrizia and Michèle had raised the trophy together to cheers from the crowd. Cameras had flashed, blinding them. Michèle’s face hurt from smiling. Then it was the champagne. As they sprayed the champagne over the crowd, Michèle looked over at Fabrizia. It took physical effort to pull her eyes away from Fabrizia’s smile, and when she did, Fabrizia turned and doused her with champagne. Michèle was laughing. She didn’t notice Vatanen and Röhrl glowering in the crowd.
They got the car back to parc fermé, passed inspection and left the service park. Their smiles had not dimmed even as the sun began to set. They wandered down the old twisting streets and stepped into the first club they found. Michèle had sworn off smoking and drinking when she had signed with Audi but she didn’t even think about that as they ordered their drinks.
“Remember what Ari said at the start of the season?” Michèle asked, taking a sip of her beer.
“You don’t have to remind me,” Fabrizia groaned.
"'The day I will be beaten by a woman I will stop racing,’" Michèle recalled, grinning. “You think he will quit?”
“Not a chance. He’s a good driver; he will have his revenge; as we all get in this sport.”
Michèle hummed in agreement and took one last swig and set down the empty bottle. “Shall we get out there?” she asked, nodding to the dancing and twisting bodies making strange silhouettes on the dance floor.
Fabrizia smiled sweetly and nodded. “Let's go.”
Dancing Queen came on and Michèle scoffed but followed Fabrizia out. Fabrizia was the better dancer, but that didn’t mean Michèle couldn’t try to match it. The exhilaration and exaltation mixed with the music and Michèle could not keep the wide smile off her face. Immediately, they found the same flow as they found in the car as driver and co-driver. They twisted around through the crowd together under the swirling lights, the stress of the day forgotten. Only joy and the warmth in her cheeks from the beer.
The music transitioned into If I Can't Have You , but the version from that bleak disco dancing movie with Travolta. Michèle smirked and leaned in close to Fabrizia.
“You know I think…” Michèle started, but Fabrizia shook her head and pointed to her ears. Michèle leaned in closer. “I think you’re the best of the co-drivers that I have ever had the opportunity to have had especially when I am on the—”
“You’re not usually this inarticulate,” Fabrizia interrupted, practically yelling to be heard over the loud disco.
“I’m a little drunk,” Michèle yelled back, grinning, “and very tired.” Their faces were close, their breaths mingling. They had to be so close to be heard over the thumping music. That was the only reason. Michèle sank into those brown eyes until Fabrizia shocked her out of it.
“So am I,” Fabrizia laughed, then sobered slightly. “What were you saying?”
Michèle had almost forgotten, as she couldn’t tear her eyes away from Fabrizia, but then she was speaking without even realizing it.
“The song, it made me think of you,” she said quite loudly even though they were just a few inches apart. Just then, the song returned to its chorus. Michèle pointed up.
If I can't have you, I don't want nobody, baby
If I can't have you, oh, oh
Fabrizia’s expression turned deathly serious, but her eyes were shining with mirth. “You’re lucky to have me as your co-driver.”
They both giggled, pushed closer by a growing crowd on the dance floor. Michèle found her eyes drifting down to Fabrizia’s lips, and then she was leaning towards Fabrizia without a thought to propriety or her boyfriend, or anything at all. Perhaps it was the heightened emotions for their win. Their lips met, and for a moment, she felt Fabrizia stiffen against her, and Michèle was cursing herself for being impulsive again and not thinking before acting, and why was she even kissing her at all but then to Michèle’s surprise, Fabrizia was kissing back and she forgot everything. For a moment it was, them together, like the flow they'd find together in the car on the stage was the barest of what they could be together, and this was just a hint of their greater potential. Fabrizia’s lips were soft against Michèle’s and beneath the sweat and beer was the vaguest hint of perfume Fabrizia must have put on so so many hours ago. Together, it was a collection of heady sensations. It felt… right.
Then someone bumped into them, knocking them apart. Michèle turned, but Fabrizia was already speaking to them.
“Ari?!” she yelled. The man turned and remarkably or perhaps not so remarkably — there were only so many clubs in this city — Ari Vatanen was there, standing, surprised at their presence. He smiled weakly. “Ari!” Fabrizia said in greeting.
“Congratulations,” he said in English, with little energy, almost too soft to be heard over the pumping disco.
“You didn’t say so earlier,” Michèle replied. Ari eyed her critically. He had hung back during the podium celebrations and quickly disappeared afterwards. Michèle had glimpsed him later, when she was walking back from parc fermé, talking to his engineers over his wrecked Escort.
“We were just wondering if you were going to quit rallying,” Fabrizia cut in as if they, Michèle, and she hadn’t just been kissing in this club, something they’d never done and Michèle had honestly never thought of doing and had only done so in a moment of bizarre impulsiveness. Not that part of her wouldn’t mind doing it again. But then what Fabrizia had just said finally entered her mind, and Michèle turned to admonish her (even if she would have said the same) for being so… but Vatanen was already speaking.
“Don’t you ladies worry,” he said with a grin, in that strange Finnish cadence, some of his signature confidence coming back. “I will beat you next time and the time after. No girl will ever beat me again!” he boasted loudly over the music. Michèle held back a derisive scoff. She wasn't one who really hated anyone but some managed to make it a near thing.
Vatanen was already pulling away. He pointed with a thumb over his back, “I have to get to my date. Näkemisiin. Enjoy the win.” Then he was gone — his blond hair disappearing into the blend of colors formed by the other dancers. Michèle didn’t let her thoughts dwell on him. Fabrizia turned to her.
Michèle feared Fabrizia would mention the kiss of moments ago and try to make something of it when it was something she hadn't even had a hundredth of a second to try to understand or rationalize. Instead Fabrizia leaned in.
“Do you want to keep dancing?” Fabrizia yelled, her breath hot on Michèle’s ear, making her shiver in a way she never had around Fabrizia. Was that intentional?
“Sure,” Michèle yelled back, hoping that Fabrizia would forget her brief indiscretion and never consider co-driving for anyone else.
Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight) came on over the speaker, and Fabrizia grinned wildly, cute little dimples forming, and Michèle wanted to see that smile for the rest of her life. Fabrizia leaned in close to yell:
“I love this song!” And then she was pulling away and they were dancing until they could barely stand.
Michèle woke up early the next day and had wished she hadn’t. Rally car suspension was some of the best in the world but it couldn’t remove every bump in the road as you rushed over it at upwards of 180 km/h and resultantly her spine still ached. There was also the lack of sleep and just the faint edge of a hangover. She repromised again to herself to swear off alcohol until she was done racing. She needed to be sharp and she had a flight in a few hours. First to the Audi factory in Germany and then to Wales to start testing for the next event which was little more than a month away.
She rolled out of bed and turned to the faint glow on the horizon illuminating Fabrizia’s sleeping face. She stood there for a minute watching her before she composed herself and put this and whatever had been that kiss at the discotheque out of her mind.
She was first in the shower, then brushing her teeth and taming her wild black hair, not that it needed it; Fabrizia would always say her hair looked excellent no matter how disheveled she was. Michèle pushed the dangerous thought out of her head. After she had put on her dress, Fabrizia finally joined her in the bathroom, looking far groggier than Michèle. Fabrizia smiled weakly and then her eyes scrunched up in thought.
“What was that last night?” she asked.
Michèle tried to play it off with nonchalance or perhaps ignorance but Fabrizia could see right through her even as their partnership as driver and co-driver was only seven months old. (To be fair they had spent much of that time together, racing, testing or at the team’s factory).
Still, Fabrizia clarified, giving Michèle little escape, “That kiss at the club?”
Michèle turned away even though it pained her to do so and pulled out a tube of mascara.
“I… We should talk about this later,” she managed. “The driver to the airport will be here in a little less than an hour so you need to hurry.”
“Right…” Fabrizia said, looking skeptical and maybe even a little… hopeful? “So?”
Michèle had been working with the mascara around her eyes but pulled it away, schooled her features and turned to look at Fabrizia. Fabrizia was just looking at her, analyzing her like she might her pacenotes or a competitor. Michèle’s eyes passed from Fabrizia's feet to her messy blonde hair. “Are you going to get ready? You can’t go to the airport looking like that.”
There was a moment of awkward silence, then Fabrizia sighed.
“Are you done in the shower?” Fabrizia asked even though it was obvious that Michèle was.
“Yes,” Michèle said, her voice colder than she intended, and returned to the mirror to finish her makeup, ignoring the strange tightness in her throat. She had promised herself that she would put her driving career ahead of anything else. She thought of her father. After all he had done for her she had an obligation to make him proud. So it was best not to dwell on the events of the night before or any feelings, new or latent or otherwise, no matter how much they made her heart ache.
She had to win, and that meant, for now, that she couldn’t miss that plane.
And she couldn’t let herself be distracted.
She would win.
She would.
She would show the world that she could win to prove herself to them, not as a woman but as Michèle.
And she'd have Fabrizia by her side.