The air is still and brisk; the skies a bit northwest gray. The birds chirp delightfully juxtaposing the murmurs of the crowd still waking up from their extremely early pilgrimage to a place where wild beasts storm through the forests. The murmurs and chirps are broken as the muffled roar of an approaching beast is heard from afar. The louder it gets the more electric the air becomes; the crowd eagerly anticipating the beast's emergence. As the beast gets closer, its roar is accompanied by the machine gun-like sound of gravel being shot out from underneathe its feet. The beast emerges in a flurry of gravel and dust trails. It commands the crowd's attention. They cheers and the cow bells ring out. The beast charges passed leaving the crowd in a cloud of dust and adrenaline. The moment is pure and time stopping. The beast races off into the distance as quickly as it had come. The dust settles and the crowd eaglery awaits the next one to show itself.
This is what it is to be a rally fan.