Raising the Gold Standard

With a little forethought, the oft-quoted traumas of the very first stage rally can be avoided. Through personal experience, Ian Harden now relates the highlights and - thankfully - only occasional pitfalls.

"Hello, is Ellya Gold there, please? Yes, I'll wait. It's Ian Harden. I'm his rally navigator." It was with this simple 'phone call to my driver-to-be that the first feeling of combined excitement and apprehension hit.

With three weeks to the intended debut at Bournemouth's Avon Park stages, progress was steady except that our Peugeot 309GTI was too noisy for the stipulated limit of 100 decibels.

Ellya rang PB Motorsport in High Wycombe to see if they could suggest a cure. "Shove some wire wool up the exhaust, they'll never know " came the advice. A very practical idea no doubt, but not in the 'permanent fixture' category which the rules stated for silencing. And what if it came loose during the event? The thought of shooting marshals with hot Brillo pads sent a shudder through me. Been there, done that, got the scars.

In the end a 'Supertrap' silencer was purchased and Ellya's local tame mechanic welded a pipe to the existing exhaust to carry the jigsaw of plates and screws that make up the trap. The noise measured at scrutineering was well within the limits but it taught us a first lesson, which is to ensure that the car is properly prepared before you enter an event. There is nothing so galling as to lash out over a hundred quid in entry fees and then not to be allowed out to play because your personal rocket ship is too loud.

With ten days to go we went looking for crash helmets and fireproof overalls. Whilst investigating prices I visited AWS in Ashford where I was accosted by a creature with a tape measure. She assaulted my inside leg whilst her male colleague assured me that I should buy a made to measure Nomex suit for about three hundred notes. My enquiry about the much cheaper Proban overalls brought forth a tirade of hate. "You don't want them, they're no good, Proban's barely good enough for underwear". I asked him why, if they were apparently so dreadful, did his company stock them. Silence, then this: "With these (picking up a Nomex suit) you can rally all over the world". I left, after pointing out that I only wanted to get as far as Bournemouth and take it from there.
(Since this article was written in October 1997, AWS Racewear have come under new ownership and are happy to supply either Proban treated or Nomex overalls to their customers.)

For the record, Grand Prix Racewear in Chiswick supplied two Proban suits for about £80 each, plus underwear for another £45 and Croydon Race and Rally supplied the crash helmets, each costing around £100. This is perfectly adequate for up to National 'A' level. The down side is that Ellya now looks like a garden gnome and I a bright blue Michelin man. No change there, then.

And so to The Big Day. Getting scrutineered on Saturday afternoon removed most of the early Sunday morning worries. We arrived, sans service crew - PB Motorsport announcing at the last minute that they were unable to turn up - and set up camp next to 'the main drag' in and out of the venue. Parking on tarmac -sorry, on Tarmac™ - makes tasks such as tyre changing much easier.

First stage: Having remained calm up 'til this point I suddenly decide to disengage brain. All memories of how to deal with rally timing elude me. We somehow get a stage arrival time but I get GBH of the ear'ole from the marshal for turning up late. Decide that telling her to "Quit naggin' an' just give me the boggin' time" would Not Be A Good Idea.

Then:- Helmet on. Seat belts. Intercom. Fifteen seconds. No backing out now, sunshine. Scribble 'Left' and 'Right' on the stage diagram as a reminder of which way is which. Ten Seconds. Prayer time "For what my lap may be about to receive, may the Good Lord not put too many lumps in it". Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Mayhem. The world contracts into look down at stage diagram, look up and try to make sense of it. I endeavour at least to warn of chicanes and major turns until I get used to the speed.

Halfway round the course Ellya lets a faster car pass. Sensible move. We then try and keep up with him. Not so sensible. Into a section called the 'bus stop' at an unholy rate of knots. I spot David Walton at the roadside. Decide to wave next lap. Back to the diagram. "Short straight into slow left, tight exit, then very long straight. Keep going, Ell. All the way to the end then square right". We keep up with the faster car to the finish. Elation. We've finished in one piece! I calculate the time. Four minutes Twenty Two seconds. Hold on; for an eight mile stage? Deflation. I've sent Ellya the wrong way. Hands up all those navigators in car 78 who weren't concentrating? Thank you. Hands down.

Stage two: This time we get it right. Discover we should have turned left and done another lap instead of going straight on. Also discover my 'Left' and 'Right' scribbles were the wrong way round (Note:If you're reading this, Ellya, it's all lies. I'm only making it up for the magazine. Everything was under perfect control, really. Now, what's our next event?). Near the end we round a fast left hander. My head goes with it but my stomach doesn't. For the first time ever I realise that I may be car sick. By keeping my head up and breathing deeply we get to the end and I don't embarrass myself but I now sympathise with anyone who has ever suffered from this malady. Decide to wear the 'Sea Bands' loaned by Chrissie Chorley for the rest of the event. This didn't cure it completely but takes away most of the symptoms.

Third stage: Some changes to the course but I feel more confident of guiding my driver correctly. We wait our turn. And wait. And wait. There's been a crash, we are told, and are ushered back to the service area. I check our times and discover we are last on the road. Get into very 'bloody minded' mood about not finishing last. Ellya seems to take it in his stride. The stage is eventually cancelled and the navigator is taken to hospital. This, funnily enough, doesn't affect me adversely but definitely brings home to all of us the inherent dangers of the sport.

Stage four: Same direction as Stage Three. Good confidence builder, even when we see the wreckage of the car that caused the stoppage. On the second lap we come over a crest into a chicane. Unfortunately the tyres have been moved since the previous time and we clip them, shattering the wing mirror and giving me a seat full of glass, even though my window is only down a couple of inches.

We run side by side at about 100 m.p.h. along the top straight with a Vauxhall Nova before both drivers remember to brake for the sharp right hander at the end. The Peugeot negotiates the corner, Nova gets into an almighty tank slapper. I wonder which of the two co-drivers was shouting the loudest warnings.

Fifth stage: All change for the remainder of the day, as the course now runs clockwise. Decide I feel hungry and wonder if I dare attempt a banana in case of its hurried return. Ellya announces that "I'm starting to get to grips with the driving" and devours a Duckhams 'burger with added 'wring out the grease' factor. Garden gnome to heartless git in one easy move.

On the course, we come down the bottom straight looking for the stage split, into a large dust cloud caused by a competitor spinning. Suddenly we are the wrong side of the line of cones. Ellya drives straight through them and we emerge from the cloud and hope nobody spots what happened. Airborne through the 'bus stop' a cone drops out from underneath the car like a bomb being released. Dead giveaway. Stage maximum for wrong route. Down the snake before we'd got halfway up the ladder. We're last again.

Stage six: Another confidence builder. I manage to get to stage arrival on the alloted minute. The Ice Maiden's face cracks into a sort of smile. I decide this is merely a trick of the light. Apart from an enormous skid at the first right hander, we have an uneventful journey. The correct route at the split appears to necessitate driving across some very rough ground starting less than halfway along the bottom straight. I have this awful vision of my dentist draining all the life blood from my credit card on Monday morning. She and the Ice Maiden should have been sisters.

Seventh stage: Sixteen miles to that first signature on our licences, I remind Ellya. A very long queue at the start means I get out of the car and go to Arrival. Get the time and jog back to where I believe the car to be. No car. Don't panic. Look round. There, almost into the start area, is the Peugeot. Panic. Fourteen stone of hurtling 'relaxed muscle' throws itself into the left hand seat. The start marshal helps me do up the belts. With ten seconds to go, the flag man shouts "Wind your window up" to Ellya. My driver replies "I can't, I'm strapped in. Open the door and do it for me." I think back to how many times I have heard the same conversation over the years.

Suddenly the partnership starts to gel. I read the road better, Ellya has the measure of the enormous amounts of grip afforded by the slick tyres. We set a time in the top twenty five. We celebrate with a cup of coffee from the Botulo-burger bar. The smell makes me feel sick again.

Stage eight: "Let's keep it on the island, no mistakes, drive to finish, don't throw it away now". Ellya must be fed up with hearing me. In true Jersey Rally style, we are given whatever time we want at Arrival and pushed straight through to the start. We remember to thank all the marshals.The bottom straight is very dusty but the car flies through the twists and turns up the hill to the hairpin. I can virtually do the stage from memory but am still over-cautious. The car gets sideways at the second split and the marshals wave us on to even greater speed. We negotiate the last chicane and drive at a steady but quick pace to the finish. Lucy Clift, the finish marshal, uses my thigh as a support for writing the time on the card. Someone tries to set up a scout tent in my underwear. Back in the service area we nearly run over the lady collecting the cards. All that's left is to hand in the Damage Declaration. Dear God, it's over.

Post-event: We attend the prize giving even though we have finished last but one on the road. Personally I believe this is important as the club is good enough to lay on the event so we should support it.

The marshal involved in the stage three incident is widely applauded for his decision to stop the stage with the red flag. Bloody right, too.

We leave just as the visiting Jersey crews are warming up to a good booze-up. Shame we can't stay but we've both got to drive back to our respective homes.