We’re standing on a frozen lake in Älvdalen, Sweden, questioning our sanity as the temperature drops to minus 27. What on earth are we doing here?
The six of us have enrolled for two days of driving in front, rear and all wheel drive cars on a nicely manicured frozen 10,000 hectare lake. With three coaches between the six of us, we know we’re about to travel a steep learning curve. Fortunately the lake is as flat as a dance floor and we’re as keen as Torville and Dean.
The coaches are here to help and to show us how it’s done; something they do it with despicable nonchalance. They glide into view floating above the surface and then melt into the next corner. Their movements are barely perceptible and all is concealed beneath an expression that is so relaxed it could be mistaken for boredom. Then somebody lets me have a go and there are flailing limbs, a blur of counter-co-ordination.
We are presented with what appear to be simple tasks in simple cars on a vast area of ice. We learn how to re-calibrate our worlds and we become surprisingly familiar with sliding around a bit. Actually we hardly notice we have become comfortable with the fact that there is grip, not a lot but where there is grip there is control.
It turns out that there are three important things to focus on. The first is steering. Then there is steering. Finally, yes, you guessed, steering. If you’ve got that sussed, it seems, you’re well on the way to a little waltz even if you’re not ready for the ballet just yet.
Now that we have a feel for the music and the dance-floor, it’s time for some serious fun. The slalom we are presented with soon brings us up to speed. It also sends us head over wheels. How did that happen? Well, we were cruising past the first cone all smiles, the next cone was a bit tighter, the third was hair-raising and the fourth got run over. No curtain call for these bruised egos.
Coffee is served and the coaches attempt to lend structure to the mess we’re making of our understanding. We’re then directed round a long slippery corner to a tight turning into what they call the ‘tricky track’. This track defied science. I swear the first two bends were at least 490 degrees. Our contortions tied us up in knots and only frustration got us out of there in one piece - via a snow bank or two.
Lunch gives us a chance to compare just how foggy it is in our heads. Every now and then a figure emerges from the fog and a revelation is shared. Almost as soon as the last fork hits the plate, we’re crowding out of the door to put that latest revelation to the test. Our quest to become “driving gods” in ten minutes flat knows no bounds.
Back at the lake, the coaches challenge us with some new dance routines. One such dance is called the ‘wobbly’ and seems to involve two special cars. There’s the whiff of a subversive plot as we’re told to get in them and find out why. We drive a cautious slalom. The first cone looms, all seems well. With a little steering and a gentle lift off throttle for the turn in, all is revealed. The back of the car has lost the plot. There is absolutely no justification for this behaviour and yet the rear of the car has gone off on its holidays all by itself, forgetting that the front is still attached.
The wobbly cars are front-wheel drive. They have winter tyres at the front and summer tyres at the rear. We career around the place randomly, learning. A few tantrums and shovels later, we’re beginning to get a feel for the wobbly front-wheel drive cars. The coaches are here to help. Allegedly. So they put us in a 960, a rear-wheel drive. Off we go, with the rhythm of the front-wheel drive echoing in our heads. If you play that music in a 960, you end up in a snow bank very quickly.
At the end of the day the Swedes get in the sauna. Then they have a cold shower, then they get in the hot tub, then they have a cold shower, then they get in the sauna. I don’t know what this does to their head but I do know that there’s a phenomena called ‘sauna chat’ that accompanies these antics. Sauna chat deals with deep and meaningful questions of the like ‘why doesn’t the river freeze when it’s minus 17?’ and ‘why do ballet dancers wear tights?’.
We are going from a car that oversteers if you’re arrogant enough to turn the wheel to one that understeers unless you booked your turning three months in advance. And back to the understeery one and then the oversteery one and then the understeery one and so forth. By the end of it we’re asking our own deep and meaningful questions such as ‘why doesn’t it go where we point it?’ and ‘why do we keep hitting the snow bank?’. Word from the sauna is that we aren’t going slow enough and we’re pointing at snow banks. This troop aren’t ready for tights or a tutu.
By afternoon tea, we retired still determined to succeed and conclude that blind faith is no justification for impressive over-commitment. We’re now on a collision course with the orchestra. Occasionally the shovel isn’t enough and we have to be rescued by the all wheel drive all terrain instructor vehicle and tow-rope. Every now and then a wink from a coach would correct our over-enthusiastic steering and bring us back on course. After a while, the movements are forming a comfortable and familiar rhythm. The magic is in the movement and the car is doing what we want it to do.
We’re starting to pay attention to where we are pointing. We’re also starting to notice which direction we’re likely to fall and we’re doing it much earlier. You can’t balance if you don’t know where the weight is. If we’re on the throttle too much, we have to swallow our pride as we lose grip and fall headlong into a snow bank. If we’re on the brakes or lifting off throttle without subtlety, we’re going to crack our egos on the ice.
Now that we know how to do it, that glorious slide round the corner in full control is within reach. We know how it feels, we just have to do an action replay, no strings attached.
The mist rises and the sweat falls. As the day draws to a close, we’re trying harder and harder yet the grace and poise we strive for eludes us still. The more we try, the clumsier our movements. It really is time for a rest.
The evening is spent grasping for beers and metaphors as we try to compare experiences and describe the details of our challenges in words that generally fail to describe movement and co-ordination. Nothing adds up but the sum becomes greater than the parts as the disparate pieces come together in our sleep, ready for the dawn of act two.
With some basics under our belts, we are introduced to a new track that will make good use of our newly honed skills, provided we can string them together to deliver a carefully choreographed sequence. Naturally this is going to take a little practice.
It may have seemed impossible yesterday but we’re now switching between cars with ease and we’re just about managing to switch from the ballet dance to the samba and back again. This is fun.
On cue the coaches retreat gracefully leaving us working in pairs; one in the driving seat, the other propping them up with moral support and mutual giggling. There’s a lot of enthusiasm and not all of the dancers and members of the orchestra escape without bruises. The coaches appear whenever we need to be rescued with shovel, tow-rope and always with timely advice. Our steps are soon falling into place. We gather round for coffee and the focus begins to shift to fine-tuning.
Fine-tuning requires a whole new level of subtlety. How do you find just the right amount of push and just enough grip and just enough direction to get round quickly, safely and smoothly?
The question is asked and the reply is deceptively simple. “You have to go just slowly enough”.
The next routine has most of us tiptoeing around, testing out our own interpretations of this new piece of advice. Can we really feel when we are about to lose grip? How much grip can we afford to give away for the sake of a smooth glide before we’ve lost it completely? There are many interesting footfalls in the next few sequences. Eventually, in a fit of frustration, one of us puts a foot in it; “How fast is slow enough?!”
We can’t mark it on the speedometer. Too fast is what happens when you stop noticing. Without knowing how to get it right, we do know that everything depends on everything else and we just have to keep watching and keep listening and keep sensing the movements and keep responding.
And, all at once, we finally know how to respond.
Enlightenment arrives when we discover the right question; “How slow is fast enough?”
