Tales
Tales
Tales
Tales
THE HANKKI (panki?) RALLI
Report by Alastair Findlay
Helsinki, Findlay, February 17th-20th 1977
It all started at 5.30 a.m. outside the Smith residence on the Wednesday. Five and a half hours to London, we reckoned, but in the event it took a little longer to reach David Sutton’s establishment, mainly on account of the last mile of the M1 involving a little matter of about three quarters of an hour. To pass the time we had a chat with David ‘Chunkey Chicken’ Porter who happened to loom alongside.
A small convoy set out from Sutton’s to Heathrow, and soon Finnair Flight AY830 headed north-east over the North Sea, Denmark, Sweden and the ice bound Baltic to land in a flurry of snow at Helsinki some two and a half hours later.
We were taken to our hotel in a fleet of cars provided by Pentti Arikkala, whose kindness to the British contingent was not to stop at this thoughtful gesture. The fabulous Kalastajatorppa Hotelli was the base not only of the overseas competitors, but of the Hankiralli administration. Words to describe this establishment are hard to find, if only because they would have to convey an impression that will not be found in Britain for another ten years. From the hot tiled bathroom floors to the saunas; from the swimming pools to the simple yet breathtaking tunnel which connects the hotel buildings underground; from the triple-locking bedroom doors to the general air of sumptuousness, all spoke of a country supporting considerable wealth, in spite of having to live under the very shadow of the U.S.S.R. The Pound Sterling does not convert very well these days, so the cost of living was felt acutely on two fronts. Indeed, we only had one main meal in the Kalastajatorppa which ran to about £10 a head for a one course meal. (All right, some of us had to lay in about the reindeer, barbecued on a spit, but even so! The coffee at over a pound a cup put the lid on things). Anyhow, we were there for a rally—not a gourmet expedition.
And what a rally! The annals of East Ayrshire Car Club deserve a supplement all of its own for this one. Thirteen hundred kilometres—over six hundred of stages—narry a hint of tarmac or gravel—just snow and ice, snow and ice, snow and ice, and all compressed into an all-go event spanning Friday, Saturday and Sunday with only a four hour halt at Mikelli which was euphemistically dubbed by the organisers as “the long rest”!
Before this ordeal however, Pentti Arikkala arranged for a patch of sea just outside Helsinki to be cleared off, and provided a brace of rally Avengers and a Peugeot Estate car for practice in the weird techniques of ice racing. The fun lasted half a day with everyone having a shot in the hot seat with Pentti for which experience alone the writer would have made the trip. To come in on a perfect line at over 120 kph and with everything you know telling you it can’t be done and then seconds later drifting gracefully out and into the next bend was a thing of beauty. All the British heidbangers had tuition from Pentti which perhaps explains why Ian and Andy changed their names to Gemmellquist and Smitharikka for the duration (positively ashamed they were of having mere Findlays and McHargs beside them. Incidentally the Finns blessed Big D with the Kelvinsidian McHerg in the rally documentation.) It was a bit of a pity that practice couldn’t have been done with the competing cars, but they were late in arriving owing to excessive ice blocking Helsinki harbour.
Documentation and scrutineering started at 8 a.m. on the Friday, but as we still had the studded tyres to collect and have fitted, it was later on in the morning by the time we had collected the required number of rubber stamps. The first car of Timo Makkinen left the ramp at 16.01 and the British competitors in a bunch spanning the late forties to early fifties left just before 5 o’clock for the longest road section of the rally, which was all of thirty miles.
Only a hint of light remained in the cold, clear sky, as with more than a little trepidation we checked in at the first of 45 stage controls. Crash hats on; tighten belts; check watches; intercoms on; Finnish for five, four, three, two, one, then—Aja; No one just tittered round the first stage, but equally certainly, no one went hell for leather—there was a lot to learn, and a long long way to go. David Lang, however, did manage to stuff it on this first stage, and after several offs in the first few stages, rolled right out of the rally on the fourth.
Gemmellquist gave Findlay his first snow-shovelling session on the second stage, about 30 yards after a brow-K-right, but between the ever helpful spectators and Andy Smith (who stopped to help on the end of a tow rope), we were away again, but down by eight minutes. Andy and David had any makings of a grin wiped off their faces after they too savoured the delights of struggling with a rally car embedded in a snowbank on the very next stage. From then on, the drivers had a better idea of what they were up against, and between Findlay yelling ‘screw the nut’ and Gemmell muttering ‘shut up’, car 52 stayed on the road for at least a while longer.
Speed traps in Finland can be numbered by how many there are to the mile, and with the exception of a scale of point charges for up to 10 kph over the allowed limit, any speeding meant instant exclusion. Ample time, however, was allowed for the short hops between stages, and the system used must surely find its way over here in time.
At the end of every stage control, the last whole minute of the flying finish time is entered in the time card book, to which is added the already printed number of minutes allowed for the following road section. You then have to arrive within the minute calculated—with ten points a minute being added to your penalties for being late, and twenty a minute for being early. This stops dead in its tracks any ‘road race’ between any more than the section being covered, as any time lost can never be made up later between main controls, as in this country.
The organisation and timing was an essay in perfection, and we noticed that over ninety per cent of the marshals were mature men in their late thirties and forties, who, while obviously enjoying themselves and finding time to be friendly with us ‘furiners’, still took the whole business seriously. The end result was no protests whatsoever and a book of results (about 50 pages long) in everyone’s hands within hours of the finish. With many of the stages used also forming part of the ‘Thousand Lakes’, it meant that, even without notes on the secret route, staggering time differentials could be found amongst Finns who were able to drive from memory. The stages envisaged in their summer aspects made one quake at the very thought of the ‘Thousand Lakes’, many being wide, sweeping, yumpy public roads where the speeds must be truly fantastic. At least in winter, no matter what kind of shunt you had, it would be virtually an impossibility to hurt either car or crew.
Yes, we all had our bothers too, as might be expected on a rally of this magnitude. Gemmell/Findlay had three excursions in all, the last of which was something of a disaster, in that it was the cause of our not being classified as finishers and taking the fastest overseas competitors award, which went to Peter Clarke/Phillip Boland. The penalty system was devised in such a way as to prevent people from checking out of a stage a week after the event had finished, and demanding a time by the simple expedient of subtracting the stage ‘maximum’ from the actual time spent in the stage, and adding the figure to ‘road penalties’. The end result for us was 1 hr 4 mins less 25 mins equals more than the 30 minutes road penalties allowed in any one half of the event.
Around this same time, Smith/McHarg had their bothers on one of the 47 kilometre stages. Poor David was desperate for a kip and looking forward to having nothing to do with navigation for about half an hour, when out of the corner of a nearly shut eye, he saw the inevitable happening. They were in for quite a while, but made it back into the rally within the time allowed, after some heroic effort.
Every international rally has a flavour all its own, and this was no exception. For instance: a sheet was handed to the navigator in three languages at the start of SS40 to the effect that wolves had been seen in the area, and that if one ‘happened to be under the car’ to inform “absolutely of it to the organisers as wolves are protected in Finland!” As an afterthought, they kindly suggested that in the event of a breakdown, “don’t go far from your car”. And another thing, just before the off, a marshal would hand you some last minute warning, which was very nice of them, but was offtimes in Finnish, and by the time you had screamed “English”, you were off. All part of the fun, and I suppose, in that obscure way, one other part of our addictive sport.
To debrief for a sentence or two, and pass on what advice we can:-
Finland is expensive, but if the organisers and the replacement sponsor of Nortti next year continue to provide the concessions of free shipping, hotel (accommodation only), and entry, it can be not too desperate on the pocket. Studded tyres should be bought in this country, and sensible quantities of food should be taken. (drink costs were nipped in the bud when we paid a visit to the duty free place at Heathrow). Service should be shared as widely as possible, say over three or four crews. Oh, and one final thing, – don’t act the optimist and put the snow shovel in the boot, or even in the back seat, – have it right beside the navigator.
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Tales
42e Rallye Monte Carlo, 1973
in Ford Escort RS1600 (DRR 111J)
Having barely started rallying, and being daft and impulsive, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to pick up the regs for ’The Monte’ at the Royal Scottish Automobile Club in Blythswood Square when I went in there for lunch one day near the end of 1972. There wasn’t much time until the closing date for entries, so I completed it there and then and took it through to Major R. Tennant Reid together with a cheque for the horrendous sum of one hundred quid! There was so little time in fact, that Bob appended a personal note to my application via the RAC in London which said ‘for favour of stamping and urgent onward transmission to Monte Carlo‘, and sent it off by Special Delivery.
“You’ve what!” exclaimed Isabell when I eventually arrived home. “I’ve entered for the Monte” I repeated. Quite reasonably she asked who I was going to do it with; and this had the immediate effect of making me realise just what I had taken on, and thus began weeks of planning and organisation.
Right enough, a co-driver was the first thing on the agenda. I suspected my wonderful co-driver Frew Bryden would be unable to take the time off for it, although I asked him of course, only to receive the answer I expected. So who was to be the brave soul sitting in the hot seat? With the handicap of the passage of time I am not absolutely certain quite how I was lucky enough to avail myself of the professionalism and experience of the late Ian Muir, (who himself dearly wanted to have the Monte on his CV as it were). I think the tracking-down process was via Jimmy McInnes and John Milne.
International rallying was different in those days, and quite unlike the rather pathetic three-day events in daylight only which we have today. They lasted a week or more and involved days and nights without sleep, and pace notes were something a privateer could only dream of. Also, being a foreign event, there was no question of having or affording my trusty service crew of Mid Bruce and Mike Banks, so everything we needed had to be stowed in the car. Big problem – and the subject of many meetings and ‘phone calls between Ian and myself which usually boiled down to weight and to what we thought we might need.
The dining room at Barnsdale was emptied of furniture and the floor given over to laying out every conceivable thing we thought would have to be taken; but after a while it became obvious that what we had spread out just wouldn’t physically fit into the car, (in spite of a few sterling efforts), and thus began the process of starting all over again with the criteria for inclusion being not what we thought might be handy, but that which we just couldn’t do without. There was much to do, and even my entry number, 307, had to be traced out and painted onto self-adhesive white plastic on the dining room floor, as standard competition numerals weren’t allowed.
With days to go, we were as ready as we were ever going to be; and on the eve of the adventure duly reported to the multi-storey car park near Blythswood Square for signing-on, scrutineering and parc ferme.
The big day started dark and freezing, and I can’t remember if my shivering was because of cold or nerves! A few Glasgow friends including Robert Reid and my uncle John braved the elements to see us off, as did that wonderful stalwart of Scottish rallying – the late Ross Finlay. His advice was not to worry too much about the competition, as most of the foreign private entrants were all ‘flashing teeth and eyes and go-faster tape!’ There were only twelve starters from Glasgow – the other three hundred odd starting from nine varying places such as Stockholm, Warsaw, Paris, a few other capitals I cannot recall, and Monte Carlo itself. Among our little group was the maestro himself, the legendary Hannu Mikkola – of which more later.
Five, four, three, two, one – the Saltire was lifted from the windscreen by Bob Reid whose parting words were, “See you in Rosie’s!” We were off……
There were only three main controls in the UK – Scotch Corner, Watford Gap and Dover. These were easy runs with ample time, and had none of the snow around Carnwath and the Borders that I remembered seeing when I watched the Monte competitors on several occasions before. We only had a little bother, (with the twin down-draught Weber carburettors), which was sorted out in next to no time thanks to the kindness of Norman Masters of the Ford works service crew.
Boulogne, and another freezing early morning, and the start of more serious road sections with shorter times between main controls than allowed in the UK. There were crowds in every town and village willing us to go faster, which we refrained from doing until we saw even the gendarmes urging us to ‘sink the welly’. In France, quite unlike rallying in Britain, where cars seem to be studiously ignored by the general public, but not by the police (!), we could at last let things rip a bit. I remember our first control point in a small town in northern France where we were served breakfast by the mayor who turned out to be an Englishman! He insisted we come with him to see a Norman archway which had recently been discovered in the local church; and although we were in a bit of a hurry to be off, good manners dictated we paid a visit to his pride and joy.
The run south through France was fast but uneventful until we reached the hillier regions around Clermont Ferrand. There was one small incident however which marked out Ian as one of the countries greatest co-drivers and navigators. We were speeding along in convoy at the tail end of about eight competitors, (which included Mikkola), when Ian told me to take a left even although every other car had gone straight on. Just as with Frew, I did as I was told, but did wonder just a wee bit! I needn’t have worried, as about ten minutes later I saw them all come up in my rear-view mirror! (I learned only recently that Ian once co-drove for Stig Blomquist in an RAC Rally and learned Swedish for the event).
In the Rallye Monte Carlo in the old days, there was only one special stage on the first leg between one’s starting point and Monaco itself, and which had to be completed before being allowed to compete on the subsequent two mountain sections for the real meat of the rally. This for us was the Col du Corobin.
I don’t think before or since in my rallying career have I ever known such out and out fear. As I mentioned at the beginning, I was very much a learner driver, and it would be nearly two years before I was third in the championship, and had yet to master even that most basic of rally-driving skills – opposite lock! The stage started down in a valley and climbed way up above the snowline. That was bad enough – but going down the other side was nothing short of terrifying. The road was narrow, there were no crash barriers, and the drops were awesome. I was close to tears with fear, and but for Ian’s comforting words I might have stopped there and then and run home to mummy! We did have a minor prang though when I stupidly braked on an icy hairpin instead of hitting the loud pedal, and we hit the side of a spectator’s BMW; just the other side of which was a chasm, the depth of which I still don’t want to know!
It was at the bottom of this ordeal when I first met Geraint Phillips, aka Verglas of the Motoring News – and I was in a state. Gerry saw this quivering wreck and sussed what was up: so he came over, stuck his head through the window, and in his lilting Welsh accent uttered the words I shall never forget – “You don’t want to worry about these drops boyo. Just imagine it’s a ploughed field out there!”
We made it to Monaco, and, as arranged, Isabell flew out to Nice to meet up with us. We all stayed with a Madame d’Estrange in one of those houses built on the edge of a cliff which seemed to feature all over Monaco. (As an aside, Madame d’Estrange was very friendly with the staff of the Onassis household, and on our first morning with her we found her in tears as she had just heard that Alexander Onassis had died in a ‘plane crash. Even then, just hours after the tragedy had happened, Aristotle himself privately announced to his staff that he was sure his son had been murdered).
A proper sleep before the first of the mountain sections was completely out of the question, and I sweated, tossed and turned all night. That made it about sixty hours without anything approaching a decent kip – but adrenalin is an amazing thing!
We were not to know it as we were flagged off for the second section of the rally, but this Monte was to turn out to become one of the most famous in its long history.
The trouble all started after we had completed only a few special stages, (which didn’t turn out to be so bad, because it was dark, and I couldn’t see the drops!). I also discovered that Ross Finlay was absolutely right about the boy racers as we had to pass dozens of them on the stages.
The next main control was in the village of Burzet high in the mountains, and we drove into what can only be described as a rally circus. There were hundreds of vehicles in the square – rally cars, services wagons, spectators’ cars, tyre trucks, the press – you name it. Ian got out and went to the control point with our road book for stamping, but returned very soon after and told me the marshals weren’t signing in anybody, and there would be an announcement later. The announcement duly came in the form of a marshal who poked his head in the window of every car that bore rally plates, and saying, none too politely, – “Pour vous c’est finis!”
While I went off to find something for us to eat, Ian tried to discover just what the hell was going on, (and thank goodness for his fluent French).
It turned out that a few dozen of the leading cars had made it through what would have been our next stage, but then an avalanche had blocked the route. As the then leading car was French, a Renault Alpine driven by Jean Claude Androuette, co-driven by Michelle Petite, aka ‘Biche’, the organisers decided not to declare force majeure on the stage and thereby effectively put an end to our rally. (We found out not much later that the Clerk of the Course was a twenty-three year old Frenchman who had never even seen the inside of a rally car in his life!)
We three hundred or so privateers hadn’t gone to all the time, trouble and expense to be illegally kicked out of a rally because a young Frog didn’t know the rules! Something had to be done!
The leading light of the rebellion was a Swiss driver who turned out to be a forceful character with a command of most European languages. Our ‘council of war’ centred around a map of the south of France spread out on a car bonnet. We knew we had to stop the rally in its tracks in order to bring about a status of force majeure for the entire complement of competitors, including ‘the ones that got away’. It became apparent that we would have to block several junctions at scattered locations such that the cars still in the rally couldn’t possibly make it to their next main control in time thereby disqualifying them too. Ian and I along with about sixty other cars set off in a high-speed convoy to a junction twenty miles away with instructions to snarl up the route. The blockage we arranged was by parking about thirty cars up the road from the stage and the rest from the junction over the bridge which was the road out to the next special stage control. We sat and waited.
We had the radio tuned to Monte Carlo, and suddenly Ian pricked up his ears. It was the news, and the first item was about competitors blocking the route of the Monte. Here were we thinking we were on a secret mission when every man and his brother knew what we were up to! It didn’t take long for the gendarmes to arrive – and arrive they did. Truckloads of them, and mob handed. They were nasty. Vary nasty indeed. The was none of your ‘good morning sir, would you mind moving your vehicle’. No – it was out with the truncheons, screaming and shouting, demanding our car keys, and generally behaving like a shower of thugs. It was scary enough to make us move.
We then made our way down the route of the rally and came upon a long straight with a bridge in the middle of it whereupon was parked a service van with its wheels removed! We had to laugh! Other competitors and some spectators were parked with us beside the road, and we all wondered just how the gendarmes were going to sort this one out as the driver of the service truck had taken the keys out and flung them into the river along with the wheels!
And then it happened. The most amazing bit of guts and driving skill I have ever witnessed.
The first car down from the stage was the works Escort of Hannu Mikkola. He stopped about four hundred yards from the bridge, and we could hear the throaty snarl of the powerful engine as he stopped there, revving every few seconds, wondering what to do. Suddenly we heard the deafening roar of the RS1600 bursting into life, and with squealing tyres hurtled towards us. About a hundred yards from the bridge he flicked the car right, blasted through the roadside hedge, literally flew down onto the field several feet below, gunned the car towards the river, drove right through it in a cascade of water and noise, roared across the field on the other side, did a wall of death manoeuvre up the banking, blasted through the hedge again, off down the road, and away……! When our dropped jaws returned to normal, all we could do was clap, cheer and salute! Having seen how it could be done, many others then completed the same trick.
The heavy-handed gendarmes soon arrived along with a handful of members of the press and some more spectators. One poor bloke was taking photographs and was immediately pounced on and had his camera ripped from him and the film torn out. Another was manhandled pretty badly. Ian sought to intervene, and for his troubles finished up with a policeman’s pistol thrust into his gut. It was the photograph of this incident that finished up on the front page of The Daily Mirror. Fame at last Ian!
The gendarmes unceremoniously dragged the offending service van off the bridge, and the road again became clear. A little later, and a bit further down the road, the mayhem continued. In a massive field of several hundred acres we witnessed the cream of the world’s rally drivers milling around aimlessly in desperate attempts to find a way out and back onto the route. The first to try was Tony Fall in a works Datsun 240Z who blasted through the hedge quite close to where Ian and I were standing. His effort was in vain as he belly-flopped onto a banking which rose from the hedge to the road. He was right royally stuck!
Tony pleaded with us and the others who had gathered around to get him out of his predicament; but it was Ian, who knew Tony well, who told him there was no way we were going to help him unless he used his position in the Rally Pilots Association to help us. He eventually agreed to take the position seriously and promised to help, so we dragged him onto the road and let him go. (Fortunately his Datsun was an ex-Safari car with lots of grab handles).
Eventually we all finished up back in Monte Carlo and into one of the stormiest meetings of any kind I have ever attended. The organisers were sticking to their guns by saying we hadn’t clocked in at Burzet, (studiously failing to mention that they wouldn’t let us!) We for our part were screaming back saying that the Clerk of the Course hadn’t followed his own, and standard, rally regulations! But it was no use. We were denied further participation, and for the rest of the event became mere spectators.
On a lighter note, two days later was the rally dinner and presentation of prizes which was held in the splendid Sporting Club d’Hiver in Casino Square. Before that event we had to of course pay a visit to the world-famous casino and lay the many one-pound bets we had been given by friends and relatives! Entrée to the best areas of the casino was smoothed by the concourrent badges which Ian and I had to wear on our lapels – and it was truly amusing laying five-franc bets with us resplendent in our dickies and Isabell in a magnificent mink stole lent to her by Madame d’Estrange, beside the seriously rich laying bets for a king’s ransom! James Bond – Eat your heart out!
There was more. One had to arrive at the dinner venue either by car or taxi; so we had to pile into a taxi for the hundred yard journey from the casino to the winter sports club! The reason for this was so that the band could play the appropriate national anthem for the arriving competitors’ grand entrance! Now I know what royalty feels like!
Our last day was also the festival of St. Devota, the patron saint of Monaco – and in addition to the most amazing fireworks display I had every seen, we were within five feet of one of the most beautiful things on the planet: Princess Grace. On the silver screen she is certainly lovely, but close up in the flesh she was a memory that will forever sear my mind.
Postscript – The long journey home was a high-speed blast which we did ‘in a oner‘, with poor Isabell sandwiched into a corner of the back seat between roll cage struts, studded tyres, crash hats, tools, and all the other paraphernalia.
Our Monte fiasco finished up at the FIA in Paris for their adjudication, and not surprisingly they ruled in favour of the privateers. The rally organisers received a severe ticking off and were told to provide us all with free entries for the 1974 event. However, 1974 was the year of the fuel crisis – and the event never took place.
Naive souls that we were, we presumed that we would have our free Monte in 1975 – but the organisers, with a completely straight face, told us that our free entry was only for 1974!
Do the damned Frogs ever change….!!!
Alastair Findlay, April 2010
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Tales
Motorsport Stories: 1960-1970’s
submitted by Peter Shankley
Lancia Stratos:
Every November four of us used to scoot down the highways and byways to watch the RAC Rally when it covered the whole country. We would watch the scrutineering in York then rush off, along with many, many others to find a nearby stage. These were the days when millions of spectators would follow the rally, before the days of spectator stages. On one occasion we saw the Lancia Stratos team being checked over. The rear of the car had been removed exposing the (racing) Ferrari engine with its huge drainpipe exhausts. Then the scrutineer came to the noise test, and we watched in amazement as a mechanic turned his back to the scrutineer and slipped enormous wire wool baffles into the exhausts. Engine started – all OK, then the sound deadening filters would be quickly hidden away in their service van. Later on when deep in a Yorkshire forest we heard the four cam Ferrari engine getting closer and closer. Coming towards us was the amazing engine “whistle” then the roar of the open exhausts as it passed. When it arrived it had lost the rear bodywork leaving engine exposed. All we could see in the darkness were the front lights, then the glow from the red hot multiple exhausts as it roared by – not a sound nor vision to forget.
Sandro Munari:
At one point we arrived back at the main control in York very, very early in the morning. The hotel in use was full of drivers and really tired and smelly spectators… Suddenly the inane babble began to fade as the Lancia driver Sandro Munari walked to the control area. The silence was not for him but rather his model girlfriend who walked with him looking fresh as a daisy. As she passed all you could hear was the sound of jaws (male of course) hitting the floor.
Rauno Aaltonen:
After criss crossing the country we ended up in deepest Wales at, again, the main control in an hotel. I think it was in Machynlleth or Llandrindod Wells, (it was a long time ago!!)
For some amazing reason the hotel was still open and functioning so we managed to order pots of tea and some sandwiches – all this at some ungodly hour in the morning. We were just about to tuck in when the guys at the next table leant over and asked if we could spare a sandwich – we looked up in amazement as the guys were Rauno Aaltonen and Tony Ambrose. Claim to fame – we fed a rally crew.
Stage watching:
On leaving the hotel we looked for a nearby stage, but this was when The RAC got sneaky and renamed stages with no map refs. However they named the stage after a nearby mountain so we eventually found it. We were not alone as the road leading to the stage exit was lined with abandoned cars for miles. We eventually found a space and went into the pitch black stage. It was pitch black and we had no idea how many others were there. This was the time when smoking was still PC, and as the (many) smokers took a draft of their ciggies all we could see were hundreds of red pinpricks of light – amazing. During one particular RAC Rally there was a fuel shortage and we spent the event rushing from garage to garage being allowed only a couple of pounds worth of fuel. We arrived at a lonely welsh garage and asked how much fuel we could take – “it’s OK guys” said owner “take all you can, the tanks are nearly empty”, so we did.
On another year we were in the lake district and went to Dodd Wood, just west of Skiddaw. Dodd Wood is either up or down – very tricky. As we walked out we heard a car behind us and there was a works SAAB in bright red – as were the front brakes and most of the lower suspension. Unfortunately the only way for the SAAB to go was through a huge puddle – car vanishes in large cloud of steam then zooms off to next stage. This was the year (possibly 1973) when Barry Lee (hot rod racer) drove for Ford. He came to grief in Dodd Wood when his car overturned on a steep downhill section and slid over the edge of the road. His windscreen came away leaving the body frame to act like a huge scoop and fill the car with soil – nasty. We eventually saw Barry in his sparkly overalls waiting for a lift…
When in deepest Wales at a service halt we spoke to one of the Scottish drivers – Drew Gallagher (?) We asked how he was doing so far, but he grumbled about the fact that they have driven hundreds of miles from York to Wales but had only completed 2-3 stages – not impressed !!
Pitfalls:
Driver and self had just completed Burmah Rally and were on run home top Aberdeen. Again it was half past dark, when the Escort suddenly locked up and slid across the road. We fell out of the car and looked underneath to see what had happened…..oops, we had managed to knock off the nut on the diff thus losing all oil – eek. After some phone calls – pre mobiles days, we got home and the next day we took the back end to bits. As you can imaging the half shafts were a lovely shade of blue from the diff to about an inch from the brakes……………….oops.
Hillclimbs:
Having given up being scared witless on stages, I began my hilclimbing career. I started with a lowly 1300 Escort Sport, then an Escort RS 2000, finally the ex-Alex Graham 12175S Mini Jem. I was never the skinniest of guys, and getting into the Mini Jem was akin to putting a banana back in its skin… Whilst all the Scottish events were fun, Rumster (south of Wick) stands out. At that time the events were held on a holiday Monday weekend. This meant a post event party !! on the Sunday night. Arriving in Wick on the Saturday afternoon there would be a rush for (a) getting a hot bath, then (b) hitting the bar… On the Sunday a journey down to Rumster hill. Putting on crash helmet with hangover not a good prospect. After the event there would again be a rush back to Mckays Hotel, Wick – again rush to hot water… Then the evening event would start with a meal, prize giving, then an all night rammy. One year, well past closing time there was a knocking at the door and when the owner opened the door there were two local Bobbies..eek. However given that the streets around were full of hairy racing cars all they really wanted was to show off their new Granada patrol car. After showing off the blues and two’s they left us to party on. On some(many) occasions the staff and some competitors who were a bit worse for wear would sleep where they fell. At breakfast there were a few grey faces who could barely keep down a cup of tea. Of course then there was the journey home. Bad enough in a road going saloon, but for those in really noisy cars – Harry Simpson’s Imp springs to mind, the journey must have been really, really noisy – ho hum, such is life. The really funny thing is that to the back of the Hotel was a very old sign which indicated that we were staying in what had been a Temperance Hotel.
Tales
“How’s this for coincidence?” . . . . .…
Many years ago, very early seventies, I was spectating at a stage start somewhere in Fife. I believe it would be a Saltire Rally as organised by St. Andrews and District CC.
A Mini Cooper “S” arrived at the stage start and duly “conked out” stubbornly refusing to restart. Much fettling about under the bonnet finally saw the distributor cap being removed, revealing that the small fabric washer in the points set up was either sheared through or missing altogether. Thus the car would go no further!!!
What did I have in the right hand pocket of my new shiny red “Burmah” jacket but said fabric washer. To say the crew were delighted was putting it lightly. New washer fitted the car fired up and away they went.
They probably did tell me their names, but I do not recall them or indeed the car number or actual stage. If the crew are members of the VSMA, they may read this short story and recall that day in Fife, and perhaps respond to memory of mine.
Charlie Young
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The Yukon Daily News
For a period over the winter of 1968/69 I rejoiced in the title of Publisher and Proprietor of the Yukon Daily News. The rejoicing period however lasted only about a week, and then it was just plain hell of a kind I have never know before or since. It was a time in my life when I did not acquit myself well, and I behaved badly in many respects; and although I have had more than a few failures in my life littered among my few successes, my time at the Yukon Daily News must surely rank as my lowest ebb.
Even how I got into the thing is in retrospect something of a mystery. At the age of twenty-four I had no experience of newspapers, no great desire to be a press baron, no mechanical skills of any kind, and was blessed with a political naivety that makes me now blush when I think of it. It was one of those situations that I have too often had to put down to the notion that ‘it seemed like a good idea at the time’.
Ken Shortt was the Proprietor when I bought the newspaper with the financial assistance of two partners, Jim Murdoch and Jim Horwood. Ken was a good and decent man and a character of fair proportions and with printer’s ink in his veins. He had been trying to run dailies, weeklies, magazines and goodness knows all what under some Yukon News title or other in an attempt to find the magic formula of what the people of the Yukon wanted combined with that all-important ingredient – profitability. It was obvious to anyone who wasn’t hell-bent on acquiring the business that the profitability just wasn’t there, as I had seen Ken on many occasions going through the mountain of mail that every newspaper seems to receive; and with a deftness that was amazing to watch, he would place the huge pile of mail on the layout desk and without opening anything, pitch the envelopes containing cheques and advertising copy to the right onto the table and everything else straight into the huge waste paper chest to the left. When I asked him ‘what about the bills’ he said ‘oh, they phone when they’re desperate’. I was there too when desperate creditors did indeed ‘phone up demanding payment only to be met with Ken’s standard line – ‘look, any more threats like that and you wont even get in the draw!’ He would then momentarily go into a paroxysm of despair then bounce back, grin, and get on with things.
I was not a worthy successor to Ken. For one thing, I was no journalist, and for another the daily scramble to keep the paper afloat financially brought out the worst in me. We started by employing a sour-faced professional editor who turned out to be interested only in his colossal pay cheque and precious little else, so it soon befell Jim Murdoch to get into the editor’s chair. He had the energy and the humour to make a go of it and was easy to work with. There were however no demarcation lines, and everyone involved just had to dive into whatever needed doing. Most of the time I seemed to be nursing recalcitrant equipment back into life; be it collator, camera, Vari-Typer or printing press; and I have forgotten the number of times I was in tears late at night trying to nurse something back into life when all I really wanted to do was to kick the living shit out of it and throw it in the Yukon River! Fun it was not.
For the main journalistic content we relied on the daily flight arriving from Vancouver on time.
Let me explain….. The ‘plane contained the daily deliveries to the Territory of the Vancouver Sun and The Province and they in turn contained the blessed articles and stories that would shortly be cut out and pasted and photographed for the off-set printing plates. It was plagiarism which hit 12 on the Richter Scale; but so long as we remembered to cut out the sources such as Reuters or AP or whatever then we were as pure as the driven snow. This may be a good time to thank those various press agencies for never suing us on those numerous occasions when in the mad panic to get the paper out we forgot to use the scissors; but maybe it just wasn’t in their hearts to crucify the only daily newspaper north of the sixtieth parallel with a circulation of under three thousand. Another who deserves thanks is Chris Van Overon of the old ‘202 Club’ who was always at the airport and brought the Sun and the Province to the News building if we were running late. (He was after all a KLM pilot before his sight let him down and started the greatest little steak-house in The North). While on the subject of saying ‘thank you’, special mention has to be made to those young boys and girls who often had to wait for far too long in the dark in 30° or 40° or 50° below, (and in real money – none o’ yer metricated Celsius nonsense) to receive their little bundle of papers for their rounds. How they put up with it I’ll never know. Bless their souls.
Others were not so understanding though, as one time Jim used the word ‘thermos’ just as I have written now, and the repercussions were frightening. Within days we received a letter from some high-powered lawyer in Ottawa threatening us with everything short of a hundred lashes and ten years in The Tower for not using a capital ‘T’ and for not having the registered name symbol thereafter. Thermos® (There, you legal lot – happy now?)
Everything comes to an end – sometimes slowly and benignly, sometimes in a frenzy. For me, the end of my stint owning the The Yukon Daily News couldn’t come fast enough as I had already lost two stones in weight and was more grey-faced and gaunt looking than I have ever been. I got out of that hell a lot poorer, but a little wiser, and headed for Alaska……and another story.
(Last February I visited the Yukon News of today, and a splendid and profitable set-up they have. I was made most welcome by the ladies in the office, and Steve Robertson, the owner today, showed me round his new press building at the bottom of Two Mile Hill. They all remembered hearing the story of me……the daft Scotsman!)
By Alastair Findlay.
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The Alpine Rally 1964
On paper this year’s Alpine looked tough; on the map it looked impossible and it seemed it would take a good crew to go home in triumph carrying one of the coveted ‘Coupes des Alpes’.
The route was divided into three stages, or Etapes: Marseille to Cannes, Cannes to Chamonix and Chamonix to Monte Carlo. Each stage had 3 kinds of timed section: a liaison section, would be from, say, A to D and within this, from B to C might be a Selectif which would cover a difficult part of the route, timed separately and with crash hats worn. Instead of a Selectif there might be an Epreuve, a test to be covered as fast as possible. All rather complicated and I was glad that Pat Wright who was co-ing with me, would be having the timing job.
We arrived a few days before the start and before long rumours were rife about a nasty little col just north of Marseille. Accordingly, we went to investigate one night. It was 9 km long and we had 11 mins in which to do it. When we stopped the stop watch it was showing nearly 14 mins; not a very encouraging thought for when D-day arrived.
Scrutineering was held on the Sunday and Monday in Marseille and the weather, which hadn’t been too good, did its best and we wilted in blazing sunshine. My entry had been messed up from the start; we were running Group 1 in Class 5 but we had been accorded the number 15, amongst all the Coopers, and put down as Group 2. This resulted in slight chaos but finally we were allotted number 22. The rally plate for this number bore a French flag – more outcry as I refused to accept unless they replaced the tricolor with a Union Jack. After promises that this would be done we returned to our base at Cassis. By now the cars were in Parc Fermé so it was no good thinking about all the things we should have done. Instead, to try and relax was the best thing.
We were both glad when, late on Monday evening, we were allowed into the Parc Fermé; had a quick look to make sure that ‘Emma’ had no flat feet and soon we were leaving the glaring lights of the starting ramp, on our way to our first Selectif up the Sainte Baume. Directly behind us was a very fast Group 2 Alfa, very well driven by a racing driver, and this car would catch us on almost every long Selectif and Epreuve. Geoff Mabbs, running one of the Works very fast Group 2 Cortinas, would also pass.
I drove the Sainte Baume very badly and missed the bogey time by around a minute which didn’t make the idea of the dreaded Mimet Selectif (the one we had tried) very hopeful; however, strangely enough, I only missed this by 13 seconds.
Heading northwards and taking in various Selectifs and Liaison sections, some very difficult to even try to do in the time allowed because of stretched mileages, some not so hard, the hours of night flashed past and in the early dawn we had our first troubles. Emma showed every sign of acute petrol starvation; at times we almost came to a halt. Our nearest possible assistance was not until Bedoin where there was a Ford service crew and that was still 80 km away. Suddenly inspired, I switched over petrol tanks and this seemed to do the trick. At Bedoin we had our first Epreuve, a long climb of 21 km up Mt Ventoux; it was near the start of this that Pat Moss went out with engine trouble. The view from the top is always awe-inspiring and in the early morning the banks of cloud looked like long rows of pyramids; it was very beautiful.
As the day wore on it got hotter and hotter and on one of the few easier Liaison sections we did a crafty change into shorts – much cooler. Before the rally I had taken the precaution of making some old towels into seat covers and this stopped any sticking to the seats.
Many of the Selectifs were over small, twisting roads covered with treacherous, deep layers of loose chippings. It was wicked stuff to drive on as it made control of the car extremely difficult. By now the heat was really on: the sun blazed down, the tar melted and the liaison sections became very hard work as col after col came and went. In the middle of one of the Liaisons there was an Epreuve up and down the Col de la Cayolle and on the descent I had the first indication of brake fade; there was a little there but not enough for comfort and it slowed us down considerably. Unfortunately for us there was no let up in the cols and so little chance to let the brakes cool off and about 5 km short of the end of the Col de Valberg Selectif finishing at St Sauveur, coming on a rock tunnel, on an acute left-hander down the col, I put my foot on the brake and it went straight to the floor boards. There wasn’t much time to think; the mountain-side was on our left, a few trees and the usual drop on our right. I slammed Emma into 2nd, grabbed the hand brake and we proceeded to do the most perfect hand-brake turn, ending up facing the way we had just come! Pat jumped out to slow any other traffic while I shunted backwards and forwards to get Emma facing the right way. Miraculously we had hit nothing and just as the first Mini appeared we were ready to carry on, using only the hand brake. Mercifully, one of the Ford service cars was at St Sauveur and in 12 minutes they changed the pads (which were red hot and down to the rivets) and bled the brakes; we pushed on furiously but were 4 minutes late at the next control. Later in the day the exhaust tried to fall off but while Pat and I were tying this on the Ford team boys stopped and helped us. By the time we reached Cannes that evening we hadn’t eaten even a sandwich from the time we left Marseille, 24 hours earlier. We were both out on our feet but forced some food down then fell into bed and knew nothing more until 7.30 the next morning.
It was a depleted field that left Cannes; two of the Fords: Geoff Mabbs and Keinanen were out; of the females both Pat Moss and Anne Hall were out so now we could take advantage of the fantastic service that Fords had laid on. The first thing was getting the exhaust dealt with, which we did shortly after leaving Cannes, after the first Epreuve of the 2nd stage, a climb that I thoroughly enjoyed. Now we were getting the brakes bled just as frequently as needed; the Ford mechanics were marvellous and we even got some food! In comparison to the first stage the second one was certainly not as hard, though the pattern of the roads and loose ball-bearing surfaces still continued. Alas, even a reasonably easy Liaison section can prove to have its hazards, as we found out during the late afternoon.
By now the rest of the Ford team, Henry Taylor, David Seigle-Morris and Vic Elford had closed up with us. Generally they went past but on this particular stage none of us was hurrying and they were all behind us.
I don’t suppose we were doing more than 55 when suddenly there was a vast hole in the road, very deep and taking up nearly the full width. Frightened that I would break the suspension and springs if I went in, I tried to swerve. What happened then was just so quick that I really don’t know. We clouted a bank on the left and then Emma landed my side down. Pat was suspended above me but with her usual calm she asked if I was OK. I think I must have been slightly stunned for things are a bit hazy. The boys were with us in a flash; they were marvellous and so coping. They had Emma on her four wheels in no time. Henry spotted a farmer and yelled the magic word ‘tractor’ and ere long we were towed out. Henry then disappeared under the car and announced that the tie rod was bent but if we turned the track in a bit we could probably make it to the next control at Orpierre, 20 km away, where just beyond it was a Ford service car. The boys then had to push on and Pat, always superb especially in an emergency, together with the farmer, turned the track. Finally we decided that we had done enough to get us going.
Our farmer, who had been so helpful, refused to take anything for the trouble that we had put him to and so we pressed on. At the first right-hand bend there was the most awful bang and the steering wheel was snatched out of my hands. We both thought that the suspension must have collapsed but though we searched under the car nothing seemed to be falling apart. Then we saw the reason; the nearside wing which had been prised up to free the tyre had come down again. Out with the crow bar, but no matter how much I heaved and shoved nothing happened. This time another farmer had been standing watching; now he ambled over with two pieces of wood in his hand, went ‘tweak’ to the wing and the thing was free! If only he had come to our rescue right away we might ….. Ah well, he didn’t.
We pushed on, with Orpierre still around 10 km away when Geoff Mabbs flashed past us, in the opposite direction, looking for us. We couldn=t stop but I saw his brake lights going on and knew he would catch us in no time. And then our final undoing: there was a level crossing and it was closed! Geoff caught us here and told us everything was laid on at the service point. We waited for at least 3 or 4 minutes before the crossing lifted then with the tyres kicking up the most hideous din, we screeched our way into the control. We were late of course and by the time the boys had done a wonderful job of putting in a new tie rod and tracking up by eye, a further 25 minutes was added to our lateness. However, we pressed on. Unfortunately it was a difficult section in which to try and make up time and of course we now found ourselves up amongst all the hairy motor cars, like the Porches and the Healeys.
Our lateness didn’t increase during the rest of the stage to Chamonix but we had a nasty feeling we were 5 minutes outside the lateness allowance and this, alas, proved to be correct. It was rather heartbreaking. Determined, however, that we shouldn’t be out of the rally atmosphere we then followed the 3rd stage route, going to all the Liaison controls where the Ford service boys were, cooking for both the remaining team and the mechanics. This helped to restore our spirits a little. The bitter disappointment we felt can’t have been a fraction of that of David Seigle-Morris and Tony Nash who, with only 20 miles to go to the finish, leading the Touring Category and with a Coupe des Alpes almost in their hands, had it all snatched away; it was too cruel.
Any finisher deserved their laurels and it was marvellous to see Don and Erle Morley collecting yet another Coupe. What a superb team they are! What we did of the rally was very hard work but well worth while. Now poor Emma has gone for a ‘face lift’ – happily not a very serious one.
Tish Ozanne – 1964 Retyped by Pat Smith in 2001
Tales
Danger! Safety at Work
In 1957, during the Mille Miglia, two drivers and eleven spectators were killed and ended forever that truly magnificent spectacle of man and machine. By my calculations, the ban of this great race has cost the lives of many people, and my conclusion is based on the fact that, on average, two more people were killed on the same stretch of road every day of the year than lost their lives on that fateful day. Anyone therefore who was truly concerned with the saving of lives should have been moving heaven and earth to have had the Mille Miglia run every day of the year. I know this is an argument which doesn’t hold water, as a parallel road would have to have been built to accommodate the traffic for those going about their daily business: so let us imagine that if the race had been run on say, four days a year, then the people living along its route would have had three more opportunities to enjoy the spectacle and eight lives a year would have been saved. To date that would have accounted for thirty-eight lives. (I have excluded the lives of drivers likely to have been killed, as I feel sure they would rather have died in a glorious race than exist in their senile dotage in twenty-first century Britain scoffing at their grandchildren for wearing goggles while playing conkers, or slowly dying while connected to countless tubes in a hospital – but that is only my assumption).
The greater part of my life has been spent managing projects on construction sites and oil fields from the Canadian north to the deserts and islands of Arabia. During that time I had two injuries which required medical treatment, and on both occasions they were caused by what I suppose had to be referred to as safety equipment. The most serious accident was when I was nearly blinded by a piece of steel inside a massive floating-roof crude oil storage tank because my upward peripheral vision was rendered useless by the rim of the hardhat I was forced to wear (against my better judgement). I am delighted to inform my readers however that when I threw the offending hardhat at the resident ‘safety officer’ while on my way to the medic he required more stitches than I, and he thereafter ‘considered’ that a hardhat was not much use if 400 tons of steel collapsed on one’s head and that it was generally a better idea to be able to see! To this day I can do nothing but laugh when I see hardhats on the heads of motorway maintenance workers, or worse still, on the heads of workers or visitors inside a factory which has a perfectly serviceable ceiling and roof. To me, it says of such people: “I cannot think for myself. I need Nanny State to guide and watch over me because Big Brother knows best”.
But alas, the choice of whether or not to wear safety gear is no longer an option – enforced as it is by insurance companies, the HSE and the legal profession; and in all three cases has little to do with safety at work. In the case of insurance companies it is to do with being able to impose increasingly higher premiums combined with very nearly countless means of avoiding payment. In the case of the Health & Safety Executive it is to do with various things. Primarily, and the true function for which it was brought into being, is to be part of the State’s machinery designed to control every aspect of our daily lives, and, as a useful adjunct, to provide another army of payroll voters. As far as the legal profession is concerned, it is no more nor less than yet another rich seam of litigation to be exploited remorselessly.
Near Tebay in Cumberland, on the xx of xx last year, Mr xx xx was effectively killed by the Health and Safety Executive. He was working on a railway track and didn’t hear the runaway flatbed carriage bearing down on him, which resulted in his death. Ear defenders can be useful items of protective equipment – but when one is in the middle of the countryside with an ear-damaging noise occurring for a moment or two once every few hours? I think not. In the real world, where some of us still live, we would have put our fingers in our ears for the few seconds necessary and then got on with our work, leaving us aware of our surroundings for the rest of the time. Not for the HSE though. Ear defenders are mandatory for railway maintenance workers, no matter what the circumstances, and at all times. It says so in their blanket regulations. So, by forcing Mr xx to wear the fateful things, his inability to hear directly resulted in his ‘accidental’ death, or, as I believe, in his culpable homicide – by persons known.
When the HSE came into being, it had the option of acting as a guide and advisor to people exposed to risk and leaving the implementation to individuals, companies and organisations concerned, and to the common sense of individuals in any particular field. Their other option, and the one they not so much chose, as leapt at, was to produce a minefield of directives and regulations and to enlist an army of enforcers to implement them. There are countless ill-thought-out regulations, but one should suffice to show the essence of their mind-set. A regulation requires off-shore trawlers and other fishing boats to have slippery, dangerous plastic steps on their ladders as replacements for the wooden types they had always used. Did the HSE even think about this? Did they imagine for one minute that a fisherman would not himself want the safest ladder possible, and would he not have chosen slippery plastic of his own volition as a preference, given the choice? Did they even care? Only when the HSE senior and junior officials involved in formulating and enforcing this regulation (and so many others like it) are dismissed, charged with criminal recklessness, heavily fined, and imprisoned for a few years will anything be achieved as a means of forcing them to think! Pour encourager les autres.
And who, with more than two hairs for a brain, could put in a leaflet concerning the use of ladders, direct that, “the user should face the ladder before mounting”? Verily, the words ‘plot’ and ‘lost’ spring readily to mind.
Need I go on…………….?
by the late Alastair Findlay Back to top of this article
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“Memorabilia from Ken Fraser”
The late Ken Fraser had kindly lent us a few albums he kept of his motor sport career. I have managed to scan a few of the images and include them below for your interest.
1951 Rallies 
1952 Rallies 
1952 Scottish Rally 
1952 R.A.C. Rally
1952 London Rally
1952 Daily Express Rally
1953 Rallies
The 1953 Monte Carlo Rally
The 1953 R.S.A.C. Scottish Coronation Rally
1954 onwards…..
Ken did continue to compete for a few more years after 1953 but unfortunately, we have no images of these years to display. You can see from the 1954 Monte Carlo Route Book that he got as far as Bourges that year. Not sure what the problem was. His name appears as a competitor, along with a few other VSMA members, in the 1958 Scottish Rally Programme below. I’m sure our rally members will find the PDFs below of great interest.
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NKC 195
An 1950, 1360cc Cooper Sports MG Prototype
This Cooper Sports has had a fascinating history, almost lost to the scrap yard but for a petrol head who instead of crushing it sold it for £40 .00 to the chap George Cooper bought it from. John Cooper had made three prototypes during the 1949/50 period. The first one was a Cooper Vauxhall, a Cooper Rover (In conjunction with noddy Coombs) and then, for himself he built the Cooper Sports MG. At Goodwood in June 1950 he gave a young Stirling Moss a race, sharing helmets. The first two prototypes have vanished, possibly broken up, and as you will learn the CMG was so close to the same fate before George Cooper of Kilsyth came along.
Several different drivers seemed to give it an airing during its short time as a Works car. It was seen at Silverstone, reported at Montlhery, Prescott etc. etc. Backtracking to 1950/51 Ken Wharton got his hands on it, rallied, raced and Hillclimbed it with success (as was reported in the mags of the day). It was sold to the Reece Cousins of Liverpool, then Francis Dundas of Dumfries in 1953. Frank used it at driving tests, The Rest & Be Thankful and our very own Bo’ness.
