The annual Măgura Downhill Sledge Derby was not regulated by any known safety board, mostly because the primary racing vehicle was a detached, rusted hood from a 1984 Dacia 1310.

By 2:00 PM on Sunday, the entire village had gathered at the top of Dead Man’s Slope. The track was a sheer, icy mile of mountain road ending abruptly near the frozen village creek.

Vasile, now fully recovered from his pigsty trauma, stood at the starting line alongside his rival, Ionuț. Between them lay their racing steed: a sky-blue Dacia hood, flipped upside down so the smooth side faced the snow. They had greased the bottom with leftover lard (osânză) from the winter pig slaughter to maximize speed.

"We need a pilot and a brakeman," Ionuț said, swigging a final shot of pear țuică for courage. "I’ll steer. You sit in the back and pray."

"How do you steer a car hood, Ionuț?" Vasile asked, staring at the completely flat piece of metal.

"You lean, Vasile. You lean like your life depends on it."

The village mayor blew a plastic whistle, and the crowd roared. Vasile and Ionuț leaped onto the metal hood and shoved off.

For the first three seconds, it was magnificent. The lard worked too well. The Dacia hood accelerated down the mountain, reaching a terrifying thirty miles per hour instantly. The wind howled, spraying icy powder directly into their faces.

"We are flying!" Ionuț screamed, gripping the front grille emblem.

Then, they hit the first curve.

Ionuț leaned hard to the left. Vasile, panicked, leaned hard to the right. The conflicting physics caused the Dacia hood to do exactly what it used to do on Romanian highways in the 1980s—completely lose control.

The hood began to spin horizontally. They were now traveling downhill at terminal velocity while rotating like a runaway carousel.

"LEAN, VASILE! LEAN!" Ionuț shrieked, his voice spinning past Vasile every half-second.

"WHICH WAY?!" Vasile yelled back, completely blind from the snow and centrifugal force.

The spinning blue metal disc shot off the road, missed a massive pine tree by inches, and launched off a frozen snowbank. For one glorious, silent second, Vasile and Ionuț achieved airborne flight on a piece of Romanian automotive history.

They crash-landed with a loud BANG directly into the bed of a horse-drawn cart filled with loose hay, which the local blacksmith had strategically parked near the bottom of the hill.

The Dacia hood buried itself deep in the straw. The horse didn't even look back; it just let out a bored snort.

A few seconds later, Vasile’s head popped out of the hay, a single straw sticking out of his nose. Ionuț emerged next to him, his fur hat sideways over his eyes.

The crowd at the bottom of the hill erupted into cheers. The judges held up cardboard signs: 9.5 for speed, 10.0 for theatricality. They hadn't crossed the official finish line, but they had traveled the furthest into a farm vehicle.

Mrs. Floarea walked up to the side of the cart, shook her head, and tossed a small bundle of sausages into the hay next to Vasile.

"For the flight," she grumbled with a smirk. "At least this time you kept your trousers on."