Many weekends of my formative years were spent in freezing temperatures, sitting by the side of gravel D-roads waiting for the sound of rally cars echoing through the trees to make it all worthwhile.
This was mostly due to the boundless enthusiasm of my late one-time co-driver, Mum, and despite this sounding like child abuse, aside from the cold, mud and early starts, it was a great way to spend a winter morning. I still maintain the only time 4.30am actually exists is during rally season.
New Zealand's rally history is an impressive one, and one that has made people like me life-long fans.
During those shaky days when tobacco sponsorship was being stubbed out, it looked like we would lose one of the greatest sporting events that ever took place on Kiwi soil. This was after we'd had the gorgeous Group B machines taken off us.
The Smokefree-era had Rally New Zealand's future looking quite dicey as well - and then we lost the wonderful four-day format that saw truly intrepid journeys in pitch darkness into legendary stages like the mighty Motu near Gisborne.