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Wednesday April 28th - Day 1

The bad news was that we had to collect the car from the Silverdome at 7:00 am, and drive to the marshalling area next to the startline at the Novotel hotel. There we arrived, bleary eyed and in need of breakfast, with a 4 hour wait until our scheduled start time. After a speech by John Large and a nervous breakfast at the hotel (we weren't the only nervous ones; if you wanted to use the toilets it was a case of taking a number), it was finally our turn to roll up to the start line outside the door of the Novotel, amidst the cheers of thousands of spectators who lined the streets, packed the temporary grandstand and even climbed street signs to see off the starters. With TV cameras rolling, choirs singing the national anthem and Lindsay Fox waving the starter's flag, we left the start line and pointed the car between the rows of spectators, as we headed out of the city for the first targa stage. All the way, people stopped going about their daily business and stood by the side of the road to wave us on.

The moment of truth arrived as we blasted off on the first targa stage. Less than a hundred metres up the road Alan spotted a car crashed into the trees. It later turned out to be a De Tomaso Pantera that had a front wheel disintegrate. It was the first reminder that cars actually do crash during this race. We blitzed the stage with a time of 3 minutes 30 seconds, a completely redundant effort since anyone doing the stage in less than the minimum gets awarded the minimum time anyway. Nevertheless, we were feeling good.

A touring stage to the next targa, then our first test over a road we had never seen before. Pushing hard, we made it 12 seconds over the minimum. Still we felt good. No more than two car lengths from the control, a thoughtful policeman on traffic duty pulled us up and reminded me that the targa stage was over and I should take it easy on public roads. Thanks for the tip, I thought.

Another touring stage, then targa stage number 3 for the day. A long queue of cars as we approached looked ominous. Word filtered down the line that someone had gone off the road and into the river. It turned out to be an Austin Healy. Fortunately the crew was unhurt, but the stage was downgraded to a touring stage. We headed to Devonport for lunch.

In what was to become the norm, the one hour lunch was shortened to 17 minutes. Our wives who had spent the morning driving from Launceston to Devonport to meet us for the lunch break received no more than a quick hello and goodbye as we downed our lunch and booked out of the control.

On to the next targa stage, still feeling good. Going hard at it, the bumpy roads and stiff suspension took their toll and the fuse box dropped from its mountings. For those who don't know, the fuse box in a GTV6 is about the size and weight of a house brick, and when set free from its flimsy plastic mountings, comes to rest directly on top of the driver's accelerator and brake foot. Needless to say having the fuse box dangling about while you're trying to negotiate a windy road at speed is somewhat distracting, and we dropped two minutes on the stage, but still came in under the maximum time. The fuse box was hastily pushed back into its mount, and we continued.

Still a perfect record of targas completed as we started the next stage. This car racing stuff is pretty easy, we thought. As they say, pride comes before a fall. After 30 seconds the fuse box again planted itself on top of my right foot, but I tried to ignore it. A Ferrari 308 loomed large in my mirrors as I tried to wind my way through some slippery downhill hairpins. The Ferrari was making me nervous and I felt I should do the polite thing and let him pass. Waving him through the inside on a short straight before the next hairpin, I thought I'd seen the last of him. No such luck. It was time to turn into the bend when I realised that Ferraris aren't as fast as I thought they were, and he was still sitting between the corner and me. Going way too fast to take the bend around the outside, I was faced with a choice - hit the Ferrari or hit the ditch. Both options would damage my car, one option was more expensive than the other. I went for the brakes, but it was too late. In a blur of flying dirt and the horrible sound of locked up tyres on a wet road, we slid sideways into the dirt bank at the outside of the corner, with an impact that lifted the car off the ground and caused Alan and I to bang our heads together (helmets aren't compulsory in this race, but I wouldn't leave home without one. Ours now have matching scars). The Ferrari disappeared unscathed while we took stock.

Stepping out of the car with a dazed expression (hey, I'd never crashed a car before, it was a strange feeling), the damage didn't look too bad from my side. Alan confirmed that the wheels were still attached on his side, so we leapt back into the car and headed for the finish line. A very loud engine tone and a steering wheel that had suddenly become possessed by demons told me that something was seriously wrong with the car, but most of the road was down hill so we pressed on. As we rounded the last bend, all power left the engine, and we spluttered over the finish line to miss the stage by 50 seconds.

After a quick inspection the visible damage seemed to be limited to broken plastic work, although I had a horrible feeling that something was seriously amiss underneath the car. Bent axles, broken fuel lines...it could be anything. I started to feel slightly weak. We limped into the closest town and looked for a service station. There was only one, and we had to take our place in the queue behind a Ferrari Boxer with clutch problems. Late time was ticking away. In due course the poor Alfa was put on the hoist and examined. The left front wheel was bent, so a quick swap with the spare was made. However lots of tinkering with the engine could not narrow down the source of the power loss. In desperation, the service station mechanic (who in fairness probably did not work on Alfas and Ferraris everyday) blocked off the fuel return valve to increase the fuel pressure. His theory was that we had damaged the fuel pump.

Determined to finish the day's course, even if it was in the dark, we set of on the 40 km touring stage to the next (and second last) targa stage. The car barely had enough power to avoid stalling when moving from a standstill, but it seemed OK at speed. If we could avoid slowing down or going up hills (hey, there had to be some targa stages that were flat and straight), we might make it. Did I mention that the engine was running so hot that the temperature light was on, and the clutch fluid was boiling so badly that it was dripping onto the engine and burning with an evil smelling smoke. Not to mention that the damaged exhaust made us sound louder than the Hispano Suiza with the 12 litre aeroplane engine. Things looked grim, but we weren't deterred.

We made it to the startline of the next targa stage, with me carefully keeping the revs sky high to avoid stalling. The engine spluttered and roared, smoke from the burning clutch fluid poured from underneath the car and the handbrake felt suspiciously hot. Still we didn't give up. Suddenly, foul, electrical smelling smoke began to billow from beneath the dashboard, from the vicinity of the fuse box. Now the race rules state that while within a control section, neither the driver nor the navigator may leave the car. We contemplated this for about 1 millisecond, then decided that breaking the rules was nothing compared to being cremated. Alan picked up the fire extinguisher and we were out of the car like the proverbial rat out of the aqueduct. Rational thinking then took hold, and I turned off the ignition, which promptly cured the fire. A nearby policeman summoned the firetruck that was standing by about 100 metres up ahead. The truck rocketed down the road towards us in reverse, and continued straight past us to a Kremer Porsche that was billowing smoke from a blown turbo. The Porsche driver advised the eager firemen that they were not actually on fire, and referred them to us. Fortunately we intercepted them before they had a chance to point any fire hoses at the Alfa, and instead a tow truck was called for, as I was reluctant to restart the car.

So, after starting the day full of hope and bravado, the setting sun found us squashed in the cab of a tow truck, me, Alan, the tow truck driver and his wife, heading for the nearest town, with the sad looking Alfa rolling behind, being towed for the first time in its life. The cheery tow truck driver deposited us at the workshop of an auto electrician, who I suspect was a member of the family. He wasn't exactly overjoyed to see such a fine but complicated piece of machinery dumped on his doorstep right about the time he was thinking of heading home for the day, but agreed to do what he could.

It is difficult to relate how depressed we felt that evening. Instead of relaxing at the pre-paid Targa Calcutta dinner we were due to attend that night (we never did find out what a calcutta is), we spent the evening at a cheap hamburger joint in a small town, waiting for news on the car. Nobody knew where we were - my family had driven out to the last targa stage of the day to watch us drive - they would be wondering where we were as darkness fell. Our wives were waiting for us we knew not where, but could imagine they were fearing the worst. I had crashed a car for the first time in my life. Even worse, and possibly more painful, was the crash to earth experienced by my pride, as I realised perhaps I wasn't an undiscovered driving talent after all - perhaps I was just another dreamer with a fast car that exceeded my driving abilities. Confidence was at a low ebb that evening, and I wondered what Alan must be thinking after being a passenger in the whole drama.

After several more hours of Alan and myself standing around in the dark cold night, the electrician declared the car no longer a fire hazard. It appeared that the jolt the car received when we ran off the road was too much for one of the electric fans, which turned up its toes and died. Unfortunately there was no fuse between it and the battery, so the continually flowing current started an impromptu barbecue in the cockpit. He disconnected the fan, but we were still left with the engine problem that drained the car of power and required Alan to push the car up the steep hill to get back on the road for Launceston. The electrician had tracked down a fuel injection specialist who was currently working on another Targa car in Launceston. He was willing to work on our car also if we could get it to him. So we headed for Launceston at high speed, to stop the car stalling. Things were looking up, except that the electric windows had stopped working while wound down, so we made the hour long trip buffeted by a 110km/h arctic gale.

When we limped into Launceston, help was at hand in the form of one Mike Constantine and his team of mechanics, who worked tirelessly until 1am to make the car ready to resume the race on day 2. What was originally thought to be a fuel injection problem turned out to be timing. When we crashed the cam belt jumped two teeth, causing the poor V6 to work itself into a frenzy. Resetting the timing had the car running as smoothly as ever, and it didn't miss a beat for the rest of the race. We staggered home and hit our beds at around 2am, ready to rise again at 6am to start day 2. As we headed home, I think we were both beginning to question the elusive glamour of being a racing car driver, and whether this was really that much fun.

On to Day 2...