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When Rupert Bravery was press-ganged into navigating for Christian 'Look! No Hands' Hueber, he had visions of days spent pootling between fine restaurants. But no. Christian had hot-rodded the Bentley and wanted to win.
Thursday, June 18
Friend Christian Hueber II rings to say he is off to do the Liege-Rome. It's hardly news to me as we were discussing this very matter the weekend before at Goodwood. I wish him luck. He replies that we need to be on Le Shuttle at 6.20am the next day if we are to have any hope of getting to scrutineering on time.
This 'we' business is news to me. Further enquires reveal that the intended co-driver is still in Philadelphia. It seems 'we' Bentley drivers must stick together in times of crisis, which is why I am now volunteering. The night is spent searching for stopwatches, speed tables, sickness tablets and other navigational aids.
Friday, June 19
Hueber is determined to outdo Le Shuttle's average speed. Liege is reached at 120mph with 3500rpm on the counter. Early-morning Belgian fog is traversed without headlights to preserve the dynamo. I carry out a fibre-by-fibre examination of the passenger footwell carpet for much of the journey.
For the record, we are campaigning a 1953 Bentley Continental Fastback that's been seriously tweaked in the engine department, and has been, mercifully, fitted with uprated brakes, beefier suspension and Dunlop racing tyres in an attempt to keep us on the road.
This event is being run in the style and spirit of the original rally to commemorate the centenary of the Royal Motor Union of Liege. Certainly an inspection of the car park at scrutineering identifies an eclectic bunch of Europeans, Americans and Canadians, even a Kiwi, with an equally varied selection of exotica.
I am undecided whether I should award the 'Car I Would Most Like To Hot-Wire' prize to the Manns' Lagonda M45 Tourer or the Brodericks' Jensen 451R. Scrutineering itself is reasonable - no disqualifications - though a misreading of the rules means one extinguisher is required to make several trips past the scrutineers in different vehicles.
Our only worry is a lack of FIVA papers, and they have an observer present. Hueber is persuaded to complete a 42-page questionnaire in order to obtain FIVA certifications (under 'Modifications' he lists cigar lighter) and we are in. Meanwhile, Colin Francis (of Colin Francis fame) is running navigator training sessions to explain the rules. For once he's not competing but relishing the organisation.
Historic rallying: it must be done !
Folk galllivanting through Europe in eccentric old cars... what's it all about?
Essentially, it's recreating the way rallies were before the influx of the special stages you see now. They are competitive but above all fun, with a great sense of camaraderie between the teams and usually an almighty drinking session at the end.
How does it work?
Take an old car, pay your entry fee and off you go. The route will have been planned meticulously by the organiser beforehand. The rally is based on the time it takes to get from one place to another. It's made up of regularity stages - an unspecified length of road along which you must average a certain speed. The road could be mapped out in a route book (for novices) or be a series of grid references on a map (more advanced) which you must visit in the shortest possible distance. Drive too slow or too quickly and you are penalised. Any deviation from the route constitutes getting lost.
How do different cars compete fairly?
As it's not only the right speed but navigation skills which are tested, a Porsche 911 has little advantage over an MG TC. In fact, that's the beauty of it.
What do you need to compete?
A classic (with a few safety modifications, such as a fire extinguisher) that conforms to the regulations set out by the organiser, a navigator who doesn't get car sick and plenty of teamwork. Tolerance: that's what's needed.
Saturday, June 20
Liege - Rugy - Col de Ribeauville - Riquewihr
This has to be the best organised rally either of us has competed in. In addition to the usual timekeepers and marshals there is also a doctor, mechanic, PR girl and breakdown truck riding shotgun with us.
The general bonhomie of the organisers has permeated through to the competitors. The stars in the Palais des Princes Eveques has all the tension of a Sunday afternoon picnic. A couple of cars may be up on jacks but nobody seems to care that the off is only a couple of minutes away.
Adrian Newey, who has sneaked away from McLaren for a week, has been collared by a TV crew intent on discovering whether he has slotted a Merc engine into his SS100. He and co-conspirator Dave McRobert are giving the old girl an airing to celebrate her 60th birthday. All I can say is that if I thrashed my mother for her 60th birthday the way they did the SS. bang would go the inheritance.
We all depart more or less on the allotted hour and make our way towards Alsace. An Italian MG TD expires after ten miles and a TR2 departs from its clutch a while later. Michael Darcey and Steve Hutchinson are campaigning a MkI Healey 3000 that actually took part in the Liege-Rome in the Fifties. It looks and sounds glorious but appears to be a red rag to the XKs that are being hammered in its wake. They are to finish a creditable third while at least three XKs never get to Rome, and a fourth realigns its aerodynamics with the aid of Armco.
Hueber says that to get zero penalty points on regularities is entirely due to luck. I then earn two zeros on the trot and he shuts up. However, I fail to let on that he is in fact right.
Evening sees us in Riquewhir where we are treated to typical Alsatian fare and daily awards are dispensed. We have won our class for the day with only 16 seconds lost. Or rather we have not - the organisers have playfully altered one of our zeros to a 900 maximum. We discover this after the award has been given to another entry, and use the opportunity to indulge in a bit of pulling of the Francis leg over the next four days. He takes it all in good humour.
Sunday, June 21
Riquewihr - Ornans - Col de la Faucille - La Clusaz
I think we should all be in church or something. But instead we are departing the chocolate box prettiness of Riquewihr to tackle the serpentine back roads that are to test the Continental's agility. I try to get a shot of our carriage under the starting arch. Rally supremo Alain Defalle orders me back in the car while relieving me of the camera. He then takes the photo himself and even returns the camera. Other organisers would do well to emulate his charm and courtesy.
By the end of the day the regularities have become glorified hillclimbs. I give up any pretence of timing and stick to navigating and spotting for Hueber on switchbacks. We are seventh overall and fourth in class. How, I know not.
At a fuel stop I chat to Dirk van Praag and Michiel Carpentier whose 1933 Phantom II has been denuded of its bonnet for cooling purposes. The Belgians tell me they are getting 4mpg. By day three they have disappeared - whether the car broke or they did, I never find out.
Elsewhere, the SS100 team suffer a minor setback when Newey takes temporary leave of his senses and drops his speed tables out of the car in the middle of a regularity. We all promise never to tell McLaren boss Ron Dennis.
The rally stops overnight at La Clusaz in the Haute Savoie, where further inroads are made into the EC wine lake.
Monday, June 22
La Clusaz - Val d'Isere - Ovada - Torrigla - Portofino
Some idiot has moved the marker post for the Col de l'iseran, or so it would appear. We're on the first regularity on the day and the offending article, rather than being 9.6 miles from the stars, is 0.3 of a mile further down the road. We discuss this point with some new-found continental chums in an Alfa. They maintain the error is just under 500 metres. We agree to differ. I fill out a green protest form and hand it to Francis - as do another 75 competitors.
Later he is to be found muttering darkly amongst a sea of green paper. I point out he hasn't been seen in possession of so many protests since he was last competing himself He explains, plausibly, that the error is due to excessive wheel spin on the icy roads during earlier route mapping.
Prior to lunch we endure a regularity on a road so narrow and tortuous we christen it the Spaghetti Run. Several times on bends we are forced to put the Bentley through the indignity of a three-point-turn. The seconds tick away and Hueber breaks into a sweat for the first time in four days. We lose nearly a minute and four places.
Later in the day, Jayne Wignall puts the front wheels of her 1933 Talbot 105 over the edge in the mountains. She remains gamely at the wheel while some lunatic, wearing a shirt emblazoned with 'I am Jayne Wignall's husband', can be seen bouncing up and down on the back seat in an attempt to get traction on the front wheels. Following competitors haul the Talbot back onto the black stuff.
Tuesday, June 23
Portofino - Coloretta - Gromignana - Firenze
We stars the day 11th overall with 150 seconds of penalties and then some fool has to go and spoil it. I know I have gone the wrong way as soon as Jean and Odile Brassine's Delahaye comes powering past in the opposite direction. Eventually, we get our lorry turned around and set off in anger. We are halfway up the wrong bloody mountain and have totally blown this regularity. Our worry now is whether we can get to the main control in time.
More than 30 minutes cumulative lateness at controls over the day brings penalties; over 60 means disqualification. Christian is in his element, playing the two-ton Bentley like a go-cars and sliding the rear to get us round hairpins.
I program Mulliner's [favoured Bentley garage] number into the mobile phone just in case. We end the day still on the scoreboard, but with just a minute to spare.
During lunch I swap notes with Richard Radin, co-pilot to Jonathan Lyons in an R-type Continental. It soon transpires both our drivers have the same unfortunate habit of lighting up malodorous cigars in the presence of their co-drivers. His also insists on answering phone calls mid-regularity; while mine has the alarming tendency of trying to snap the scenery while telling me to 'hold the steering wheel and not do anything to lose time'.
I am relieved to end the day at the Firenze Sheraton without straying from the route. But some aren't so lucky: the number of abandonments has now risen to ten.
Wednesday, June 24
Firenze - Triana - Roma
Today has to be redemption day. After yesterday's debacle I need to prove to both myself and Hueber I can still cut the mustard. We have plunged from 150 seconds lost to 1672 and are languishing back in 29th place.
The timing points on today's regularities are blind, which means we don't know where the rally marshals and their stopwatches will be lurking - it requires us to be on time at all times on the road. Organisers appear to derive great amusement from placing marshals immediately after the most impassable and undriveable roads. I scour maps for likely timing points - switchbacks, unfenced roads, fords and concertina'd contours are all identified and highlighted. The homework pays off. Only 14 seconds are lost over the six sections, enough to give us a class win for the day.
The competition ends on the shores of the lake at Trevignano. For some it appears to be not a moment too soon. The Daimler Dart of Nigel and Christine Gray enters the car park listing hard to port. The top of the nearside suspension unit is threatening to take the place of the wing mirror. And they are hoping to drive back to Blighty the twisty way! Nigel remains sanguine.
The field is then marshalled to the outskirts of Rome where the fun really begins. The ceremonial finish is at the Zoological Gardens where champagne and canapes wait. But to get there we need motorcycle outriders, we need flashing blue lights, we need loud sirens, we need to jump red lights - in short we need to make a complete exhibition of ourselves. Our friends from the caribineri split us into groups and escort us off. Hueber tucks the Bentley inconspicuously into the slipstream of the Wignall's Talbot and we glide our way through the Eternal City.
Jayne Wignall, while displaying an impressive working knowledge of her accelerator, appears to have completely forgotten where the brake pedal is. She surges on and overtakes the leading motorcyclist and he responds as only an Italian can. The rest of the journey is dispersed at speeds normally reserved for the autostrada.
Alain and his team are waiting at the finish, erupting champagne. We wind up our windows and watch the open air brigade get an expensive soaking.
When the numbers are finally calculated it is the Porsche 356 of Eddy Gerarts and Georges Chalseche that takes top dog award with the Talbot Lago America of Stephan Scrauwen and Stef Mintens only 14 seconds behind. The Darcey/Hutchinson Healey upholds British honour in third. We finish 25th, halfway down the list of finishers.
Alain and his team look set to repeat the event in 1999. If you do nought else next year, do this. Nothing rivals it for cars, countryside, camaraderie, cuisine and competition.
Onward Christian's soldier
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