The Sound and the Silence: My First DNF at The Southern Ohio Forest Rally

The date of this year’s Southern Ohio Forest Rally will be etched in my mind for a long time. Not for a win, or even a podium, but for a first. Our first DNF. Our first major off. An experience that has left me with aching bones, a new perspective, and a memory that plays on a loop every time I close my eyes.

Rally is a sport of total commitment. You trust your notes, you trust your car, and you trust your co-driver. Heading into the stages last week here in Ohio, that trust was firing on all cylinders. My co-driver, Boyd Smith, and I were in a good rhythm. The car felt alive underneath me. We were pushing, finding that magical place where speed and control intersect on the edge of a gravel road.

And then, in an instant, it was gone.

It happened on Stage 5. An open hairpin with a surface so loose it felt like driving on marbles. I turned in, felt the rear begin to step out, and knew immediately we were in trouble. I corrected, but the momentum was already won. We were just passengers as our Mustang slid off the stage and into the dense Ohio woods.

Then came the sound.

It was a sickening, violent thud as a tree met our roof. It’s a sound I can’t unhear. It ripped through the car and through me, a brutal, instantaneous stop to everything.

Then came the silence.

The engine was off. The woods were still. The only sound was the ringing in my ears and the thumping of my own heart. In that quiet, adrenaline-soaked moment, the first and only thing that mattered was hearing Boyd’s voice. The relief that washed over me when we both confirmed we were okay is a feeling I can’t properly describe. We were able to unbuckle and walk away. Just like that.

I’m writing this now, just days later, and my body still bears the signature of the crash. My shoulders are deeply bruised and sore from the safety harnesses that held me in place. My bones ache with a dull, persistent throb. It’s the kind of soreness that serves as a constant, physical reminder of the immense forces we were subjected to.

But the physical part, I was ready for. It’s the mental echo that’s caught me by surprise. It’s the image that flashes behind my eyelids without warning. The tree. The impact. The roofline crinkling. It’s so vivid. I knew a crash like this was violent, but I never envisioned how an instant, a single moment of impact, would stick with me, replaying itself with such clarity. It’s a haunting souvenir from the rally.

Well, this wasn't the plan. We're sore but safe after our rally-ending off. Thanks for capturing it, @DirtFish.

While Boyd and I have had minor offs before, little excursions that you can quickly shake off and even laugh about later, this was different. This was impactful and sudden. It had to happen at some point, I know. Every rally driver has this story. But it doesn’t make the reality of it any less jarring.

Yet, through the soreness and the replays, there’s another feeling that’s starting to emerge: pride. I’m proud that every safety system we painstakingly put in place did its job perfectly. I’m proud of how Boyd and I handled the immediate aftermath. And strangely, I’m proud to know that I can experience this, feel this, and still say without hesitation that I want to get back behind the wheel.

This DNF is now part of our story. It’s a chapter about humility, about respect for the chaos of this sport, and about the incredible sense of safety you feel knowing your team has your back. It was our downfall at this event, but it will be the foundation for our comeback.

Here's the hit. A direct impact to the roof that ended our rally. The safety cage did its job. Thanks for the detailed shot, @DirtFish.

This one hurt. But we’re not lost, we’re just learning. Thanks for being on this journey with us.