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Zlatni Pyassutsi Rally 1978

This is the story of the first and only rally I have done in a communist country, and it was at the height of the Cold War to boot.  It was also one of the best, certainly the most gruelling, and superbly organised.
Chris Watham from Southampton was the driver, and yours truly occupied the hot seat.  Our car was an ex-works Group 1 Mark 1 Escort prepared by David Sutton and entered by Cal Withers, so at least we had everything going for us so far as the means of propulsion was concerned.

My memories of the event started on board a Balkan Airways Tupelov at Brussels.  I sat with Castrol’s world troubleshooter whose name I regrettably can’t remember; but he was a fine fellow who knew a lot about the world as he went through a ninety-page passport nearly every year! One of his many  briefs was to see that Castrol-sponsored motor sport events reflected well on his company, which was the reason for his trip to Bulgaria.

Take-off seemed to be a ponderous and lumbering affair, and I commented on this. “Well,” said my companion, “They’re not Rolls Royce engines are they?” He also pointed out the general configuration of the ‘plane, which I saw could be converted into a troop carrier very easily.

“Here’s your first dose of communism coming up”. This took the form of what looked like a hatchet-faced discus thrower who asked us if we wanted tea or coffee.  Svelte she was not.  I wanted coffee, my friend wanted tea.  She duly returned with a tea bag and a jar of instant coffee from which she carefully spooned some of the vile stuff into my plastic cup.  She then asked if we wanted sugar or milk, trotted off, and returned with our order.  The punch line came when she once again returned to our seats bearing a kettle of boiling water!  Oh dear.
Customs at Sofia made us feel like we were the advance guard of a British Secret Service sting operation, and the first feelings came upon us that we were in a truly alien land.

Customs at Sofia made us feel like we were the advance guard of a British Secret Service sting operation, and the first feelings came upon us that we were in a truly alien land.

Our hotel had obviously been a town house in the days when Bulgaria had an aristocracy; and the huge rooms, although a bit dowdy, had high ceilings and magnificent panelling and cornices.  When we turned on the ancient valve radio we noticed that the frequency dial was physically jammed on Radio Sofia – so the BBC World Service was right out of the question.  After dinner I went for a wander round the quiet streets near the hotel, and it wasn’t long before I realised I was being followed.  When I stopped, he stopped.  When I crossed the street, he crossed the street.   Not that there was much for me to look at, with the shops looking like they were abandoned Oxfam charity places.

The event had been attempted only once before by a British crew – by Andrew Cowan no less – but for some reason he didn’t finish. Andrew did however provide some useful feedback on what we might expect, and he gave this information to the charming Wendy Jones of The Scotsman who at that time was the leading light in running the Scottish Rally Championship. The last thing I expected from Wendy was a bagfull of Ford keyrings and a pile of old Shell, Glayva and Scottish Rally stickers! “For bribery,” explained Wendy.  “These people over there have nothing, and nonsense like this almost passes for hard currency!”  She was dead right, as we were to discover: from hailing a taxi to being served in a restaurant, the magic keyrings provided the open sesame!

Our Escort arrived a couple of days later towed behind the Range Rover service vehicle, and Chris and I purloined it right away for our recce. This turned out to be almost a rally in itself.

My job was to navigate the route and make pace notes for as many of the special stages as we could in the few days available. One of the troubles was that the road book, fortunately with a Tulip format, also had the place names in English; so I had to give myself a crash course in the Cyrillic alphabet in order to read the road signs.  This was the least of our bothers though. Believe it or not, one couldn’t drive into a filling station, fill up the tank and pay for the stuff with Zloties.  Oh no, – you had to go to the nearby town and find the place that authorised and stamped the official petrol coupons and then return to the station!  It was a time-consuming hassle; although at least we had dozens of the silly bits of paper which had been provided free by the organisers.  And was this the greatest of our trials?   No – it was hunger!
    Bulgaria is a pretty big place and is quite sparsely populated.  The area covered by the rally was extensive and included very few villages; and finding somewhere to eat proved impossible.   After twenty-four hours or so, and starting to hurt with hunger, we heard something rolling about on the back floor of the Range Rover which turned out to be a blessed tin of peaches!  But could we open the bloody thing……?!   We did of course eat cherries – thousands of them!  In communist Bulgaria a traveller was allowed to eat as much as he liked from any field or orchard, provided none was taken away, and the ubiquitous cherries were our only means of having any kind of sustenance.
    We did think once that we were about to have a proper meal, but it didn’t turn out that way.  We were at a filling station manned by a friendly old couple, and through sign language managed to indicate we were starving and needed a place to sleep.  Via their sign language in return, we understood they would be off their shift at nine o’clock and would show us the way.  This they duly did, and with a farewell wave to our new-found friends entered a tourist site that had dozens of little round two-bed huts – and a restaurant!  We rushed into the place and straight up to the counter. “ Food!” we cried, accompanied by the universal signs of being famished!  The chef shrugged his shoulders and beckoned us round the counter to show us a row of completely empty pots.  We were in despair until Chris pointed to a table with plates of leftovers which we dived on and scoffed!   I kid you not.
  As the Escort had just completed a full service, we decided it best to drive the four hundred miles from Sofia to Zlatni – just to see if any bits fell off!   We were on our way out of Sofia when it started to rain, and then the weirdest thing happened. The traffic came to halt and every driver got out of their cars to fit their windscreen wipers!   Ah, the joys of communism!
    Once out of Sofia we headed for Varna on the Black Sea.  This was the country’s main artery, and was an ordinary two-lane road without markings, and with more than its fair share of potholes.   After Varna we headed north up the Black Sea coast for Zlatni and encountered yet another feature of life in a totalitarian state.  We passed a few cars on the fairly quiet road then came up behind a convoy of eight black Zils.  The convoy was going at a reasonable speed, and we noticed as it sped through villages the people either scarpered or turned their backs on the passing entourage.  It was all a bit sinister.
    Chris thought we should try and pass the whole convoy in one go if and when we came upon a straight which was long enough – as we didn’t feel we should ‘cut them up’. A suitable straight came up quite quickly and Chris dropped into third and ‘sank the welly’.   We had barely pulled out to pass tail-end-Charlie when the driver pulled out sharply to cut us off and held up a machine pistol!   You would be quite right, dear reader, in guessing we made no further attempts to pass!   When the convoy eventually turned off, we were given a cheery smile by the rearguard driver and waved on our way. ( We learned later that the convoy contained the high officials of the Soviet embassy in Sofia who were en route to their exclusive dachas on the Black Sea – and I bet that lot didn’t have to stop and fit their wipers when it rained.  Truly, some were more equal than others).

The rally began with a race round the streets of Zlatni Pyassutsi. This was for four cars at a time, and was primarily so that the local people could see some of the fun.   It was interesting to note that there were reckoned to be over a hundred thousand spectators in a town that boasted a population of around twenty thousand.
The event proper started in the evening after the road race and was a flat-out affair from the word go.  The average speed for the road sections between the special stages I calculated as being about fifty-five miles an hour, and was just manageable on the twisty hill roads.  There were no worries about oncoming traffic, as the public roads were closed to all except competitors, (but not to local horses, carts and donkeys!).   Apart from meal stops at main controls there was absolutely no let-up for the first forty-eight hours, and we were indescribably exhausted.  The heat during the day was unbearable, and we were reduced to our underwear and crash hats for a time until our bare chests and shoulders were being rubbed raw on our Willins full harness seat belts.  The start of every stage saw throngs of people, including many pretty girls who scrabbled to kiss us and give us bunches of roses. ( Ah, would that we had had more time!)

Aching and exhausted, and with our eyeballs hanging out of our heads, we collapsed, still in our flamies, on top of our beds and slept the sleep of the dead for five blessed hours.   We came to, soaking wet, as the service boys had to drench us with cold water to wake us up!

So, it was up and at it again, and Chris was flying.  We were lying in a creditable fourth place, when, during a night section, mugsy here wrong-slotted which dropped us back into about twentieth place by the time we were back on the right route.  It was perhaps Chris’s fury that made him drive like a fiend possessed and we made up quite a few places, although I think we only managed about a notional eigth or so as we were out of time at the final control because of my mistake.  We rally folk are a forgiving lot, and there were absolutely no hard feelings, (drivers make mistakes too!)
    It was quite an event……………….

Alastair Findlay,   April 2010

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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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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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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.

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