Set free by the polished ice, our little car’s rear wheels jumped suddenly sideways as we crested the rise. Brummy corrected the slide, but as he did the rear-engined Fiat fishtailed enthusiastically back the other way. One more desperate attempt to regain control, and all was lost. Helplessly wedged in the back seat, I looked over my shoulder and watched in horror as we hurtled backwards towards an icy fjord, its dark surface brooding ominously in the half-light.
“Brake!” I yelped.
“I am F**king braking!” Came Brummy’s stoical reply.
We flew off into the night, our speed slowly being scrubbed off, the fjord looming ever closer. Our wheels clipped its bank, nearly spinning us into the depths, and we careered off the road onto the only bit of flat grass for miles. Wheels glissading over the soft snow, the Fiat finally slid to a halt less than twenty feet from the water, and a similar distance from the very solid looking pine trees which had loomed up in our path.
After a few minutes sat in silence, my heart rate dropped sufficiently for me to speak again.
“Right, that’s it. I’m driving.”