nochippyroundhere

[nochippyroundhere]

The Start of Something

It is Tuesday, 27 November 1984. I am 8 years old and I’m stood on an embankment at the side of a muddy road somewhere within the grounds of Haigh Hall, a historic 19th century country house in the town of Wigan, Lancashire, England. To my left the road comes into view through the trees, running downhill to a 90 degree right-hand bend. On the outside of this corner there’s a swath of rhododendron bushes, their eternal deep-green adding a little colour and contrast to the browns and oranges of the damp ground and the bare branches of the trees all around us. The road straightens and crosses over a narrow stone bridge that is just wide enough for a single car to cross before it passes us and twists again into a left-hand hairpin bend, whereupon it disappears off into the trees and out of sight.

It’s late afternoon, I should be in school but along with thousands of other people I have forgone my usual Tuesday routine to be here instead, watching SS30 of 56 special stages on the 1984 Lombard RAC Rally . There’s an excitement in the air, a hum of chatter that builds as time ticks by and we wait for the moment to arrive. Smoke from rudimentary fires drifts among the trees, built to keep away the dampness and chill that seeps through your clothes and boots the longer you stand there; no matter how many layers you wear that coldness still gets through, as autumn blends into winter.

My dad has brought me here, I can remember my parents advising my school that they were keeping me out for the day; there was no rebuke from Mr Rose, my headmaster, he was happy for me. At least that’s how I remember it. Along with my dad there’s Eamon, a big Irishman from Monaghan who’s his best mate along with Tony and Steve, colleagues and friends of my dad from work. No-one seems to mind me being there, this kid among men, in fact they seem excited for me perhaps remembering that they once stood as I am now or maybe they’re just excited for themselves and I’m not as annoying as I think I was.

Anyway, soup. There was Heinz tomato soup in a flask. Ham sandwiches, Mars bars and a flask of coffee as well. Isn’t it funny how you remember this stuff? In the years to come, both on our annual November trips to stately homes or trekking through forests we would always have the same thing at rallies. Tomato soup, ham sandwiches, Mars bars and coffee. I remember it clearly on that first day, I remember eating, drinking, waiting…

The excitement builds, the noise of chatter gets ever louder as the course cars come through one by one, slowly at first and then faster as they make sure the stage is safe to run. The ‘official’ spectator safety car is a Ford Sierra. Estate! It’s white with red stripes and flashing lights with a tannoy system on the roof to tell us all it’s nearly time for the first car. It comes into sight and promptly heads straight on into those rhododendron bushes. Big cheers. Boy, it is slippery out there! He backs up, no doubt red faced and wracked with embarrassment, then drives on to cat calls, applause and jeers from all the spectators. After that, it’s the Zero Car. This is the last one, the one that comes through at full speed ahead of the first competing car and I guess it’s the first rally car I’ve seen driven in anger. I don’t remember what it was, I don’t remember anything about it at all but I know I was hopping about after it swept by, giddy at the thrill of seeing this car zipping through the trees. I know this because I remember Eamon bending down to me and saying ‘Ah son, that was nothing, just wait ’til that wee Peugeot comes through….’  

Here it is. That ‘wee Peugeot’ is the 205 T16, a mid-engined, purpose-built four wheel drive turbo-charged monster that revolutionised the sport. At it’s wheel is Ari Vatanen, a Finnish former World-Champion at the top of his game co-driven by unflappable Irishman Terry Harryman, a pair that would go on to win the rally as they had the previous two events they’d entered that year in Finland and San Remo. They would go on to win the first two events of the following season as well before Ari was almost killed in a huge accident mid-season in Argentina. But I digress… As that car blasted into view, headlights blazing and engine howling I was hooked. It lasted mere seconds but from that moment to this, I was entranced. The skill, the noise, the power…

Your mind can’t quite believe what your eyes are seeing as the top drivers in the world wrestle these monsters around that narrow track, completely sideways they come out of the 90 right, wheels scrabbling for grip on the muddy surface seemingly headed for impact with that bridge, then gaining traction just in time to fishtail over it centimetres away from the stonework. Car after car sweeps by and I am loving every single second of it; in spite of the cold and being stood for hours I don’t get bored, I don’t get tired, I just want more. It gets dark, spotlights dancing among the trees as the later runners come through until, all too soon, it’s over. Time to go home.

I’m on a high for days. It’s not an exaggeration to say that my life has changed, honestly. I read the programme over and over, I still have it to this day. I couldn’t wait for November to roll around every year; it was the highlight for me, it was bigger than Christmas. It became my obsession, my main interest and it’s never left me. My dad and I went together to the RAC every year for the next 14 years and I remember every single one. Sometimes the two of us, sometimes with others; as an aside my mum picked the worst year to join us, 1988 in heavy snow and freezing temperatures! Chatsworth House, Trentham Gardens, Clumber Park, Tatton Park, Silverstone… we picked a spectator stage every year and off we went with our soup, ham sandwiches, Mars bars and coffee. Those days we weren’t out in the forests, following it around the country like many people did and I eventually moved on to as I got older but as a child those Sundays in November every year were among the best days of my life. They will be with me forever.

This year, I won’t be there, I can’t go. It’s not the same, anyway, the sport has changed beyond recognition but I still love it; still get the same buzz, still feel the same anticipation and excitement I did as an eight year old watching them in my home town. Rallying has taken me to amazing places, places that you just wouldn’t see if you weren’t out there to see these heroes in action. Breathtaking scenery, amazing memories; so many I could recite, so much of my life spent in forests, on mountains or stood trackside enjoying this thing that I am so passionate about. Mile after mile of hiking, every type of weather imaginable… freezing nights sleeping in cars or wrapped up in a bivouac waiting for dawn to break. Cooking bacon on a stove by a rushing river, lying on the roof of my car staring up at millions of stars visible only because of the total darkness that comes from being miles from anywhere, drinking beer around camp fires deep in a forest and watching fireworks erupting over the trees with hundreds of other like-minded souls after a day spectating, eager for the following day and more of the same. It’s not for everyone, but it is for me.

And so next week, when the World Rally Championship rolls into town again, I’ll be here in Georgia and not in Wales. I’ll be warmer, certainly, dryer no doubt but I’ll miss it more than I’ve missed anything else since I’ve moved out here, people aside. I’ll watch it on TV of course, I’ll follow it on social media to see what’s happening but I’ll feel a strong sense of loss. Melodramatic? Perhaps. But it evokes such strong feelings in me that I will allow myself that. I mean, can you remember what you were doing on 27 November 1984?