Co-driving for two-time WRC champion Marcus Gronholm

Moya’s words of encouragement, which have all been spoken in fluent English with a gentle Spanish accent, should be filling me with enthusiasm, but mixing up a flat-out right with a hairpin left is just one of many concerns circulating my cranium.

Thankfully, today’s road book is relatively straight-forward to read because, unlike the ones used by professional co-drivers, it’s a pre-written, well-illustrated booklet. It features photographs of landmarks and road features that should help a novice guide Grönholm along SS11 and SS12, the two stages we’re due to take part in. Sitting in VW’s awning beside its support lorry, I skim its pages to familiarise myself with the illustrations and begin to mouth the instructions. Maybe this won’t be so bad, I think. Then again, it’s easy when your surroundings aren’t flashing past at 100mph…

Minutes tick by and one of the mechanics instructs me to get suited up and head over to the car. Nerves make time pass in a blur, and before I know it, straps are being tightened over my shoulders and the low-set bucket seat of the Polo R has wrapped around the edges of my field of vision.

The co-driver sits lower in the car than the driver to help with the centre of gravity, so as Grönholm’s slender figure slips into the seat to my left, I have to peer around the edge of the seat’s side protection and look up to see him. My view of the road ahead is narrow, with the dash top located directly ahead, but a co-driver’s job isn’t to look out: it’s to look down at the book.

The engineers plug in a laptop and begin the car’s start-up procedure. The engine up ahead is a turbocharged 1.6-litre four-cylinder unit that, even with an FIA-spec 33mm restrictor, produces 314bhp and 317lb ft of torque and can surge the Polo to 62mph in 3.9sec. It’s connected to a proper sequential six-speed gearbox and controlled by a pedal box that’s so top secret that we’re banned from photographing it.

Lots of buttons are located on the centre console and a digital display offers information for everything from the car’s drive modes to cabin blower settings. For someone who has just jumped into the car for the first time, it’s a bit overwhelming, but the way Grönholm flicks switches and cycles through menus shows it’s just another office for him.

Car warmed up, helmet secure and intercom connected, it’s time to face the rally. SS11 is a 4.62km stage called La Ciarulla – The Legend – that circles an industrial estate a short drive from the service park where we start. While I’m carefully directing Grönholm to it, I already begin to sense that his mind isn’t focused on setting the course on fire.

“Ah sh*t, it’s all dry now,” he says in a sharp Finnish accent, staring at the tarmac ahead. “Our wet tyres will overheat a lot but, hey, at least we can do some big slides for the people!”

The excitement in his voice helps me to release some pressure. Clearly he’s not bothered about stage times; he wants to have fun. The start line marshal grabs our time card through my side window’s slim opening. It’s handed back to me with our start time scribbled on the front, so I check my watch and let Grönholm know that we have two minutes and 30 seconds to go.

When there are 30 seconds left, he edges forward to the start line and we wait. “Ten seconds,” I say. His eyes are locked on the start marshal ahead who is counting down with his fingers. Grönholm switches on the anti-lag and pins the throttle. The start marshal’s fingers count ‘two, one’ and we surge forward, wheels spinning and vibrating as they bite into the surface below.

“Right around here,” I shout, as he fires up a slight gradient and into the industrial estate. “I think it’s a left here… yeah, there’s a jump ahead, I think.” I’m barely 10 seconds into the stage and my eyes are lost on the page.

My head is thrown side to side in the seat and my neck desperately tries to hold my gaze steady. I look across at Grönholm. He’s smiling, arms thrashing at the wheel and right foot prodding at the accelerator. He’s not even listening to me. The guy is just having fun.

“Watch – jump!” I hear him shout through my headphones. Now he’s instructing me…

We launch, the revs dull and, for two seconds, there’s no sound. Then bam! We land flat and Grönholm tugs the vertical handbrake bar to slide us 90deg left around the next corner. I suddenly remember I’m meant to be guiding him, but I’m on the wrong page and he’s too busy showboating for the crowds who line the edges of the road in their hundreds.

“Ah, the tyres are gone,” he laughs, as the Polo’s rear slides around with fading traction. “They love it!”

The spectators are going wild, jumping and leaning forward to feel the rush of air blow over them as we fly past. Dust is thrown up behind the car and the stones scatter into the wheel arches. The engine’s tone is continually changing, so short are the gear ratios and so jagged are Grönholm’s inputs. I put my hands over the road book and forget about it. I’m a rubbish co-driver, but who cares?