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Day 5 dawned as another crisp sunny day. The City of Burnie had put on a free breakfast at the Town Hall, and we gladly participated. Results had been posted, and we were surprised to find that we were ranked second in our class, only one minute behind the leader. We were also running seventh in our category, ahead of some much faster cars such as Porsche turbos and Cobras. If we could only survive the last, and supposedly hardest day, we were in with a chance of a place. After jumping in the car however, I was disturbed to find that the braking power lost on day 4 had not returned, and as we headed out into the mountains I was feeling decidely nervous, not wanting a repeat of the previous day's incident. I kept my fears to myself.
The first stage of the day was the infamous Hellyer Gorge, where a Fiat Abarth had ended up literally in the trees last year. We were immediately told on arrival that the stage had been downgraded to touring due to slippery road surfaces, a decision that did not please some competitors. Many people feel that no matter how bad the conditions are, they should have the right to take their chances, after all, don't we have the right to laugh in the face of death, to thumb our noses at the Grim Reaper? On the other hand, the organisers are understandably keen to avoid a bloodbath, for the good of everyone. We drove on through at a steady pace.
At the next targa stage, Roseberry, the now familiar queue of cars greeted us as we approached, and the talk on the road was that someone had crashed badly up ahead. Grumblings began again about the possibility of the stage being downgraded, but eventually it was run. It began with a rush up a wet, windy mountain road, over the top and down the other side. Rain started to belt against the windscreen as we crested the summit, then we descended into fog and loose gravel on the road. John Wright blasted past us in his big black BMW 635, barely clinging to the wet road. The rain stayed as we blew the 30km+ stage by a couple of minutes. Still, we did better than the big roadster that had belly landed over the bank halfway through.
The rest of the day was notable for the rain (the only day of the event where the weather wasn't clear and sunny), and the long targa stages, up to 52 km at times. I found it very difficult to maintain absolute concentration for the length of time required. The supplied course notes were sometimes sparse, and more than once the only instructions Alan had to give me for a 50 km plus stage was "Start. Go straight on. Finish". Throughout the race he had done a great job calling the upcoming bends with only the notorious squiggly black line masquerading as a map to go on. Much of the race he called by sight, such as the famous Queenstown stage which reputely has 99 bends in four kilometres, as you climb the bare hills out of the town. There is only a cable strung between guide posts to separate the hairpin bends and a drop that is far too high to contemplate. Overall we were fairly conservative in the wet, but finished the day on a high note by blitzing the last two stages.
Rolling into the finish at Hobart was one of the high points of the event, and definitely worth staying on the road for. Thousands of people packed the waterfront area to see us one by one get announced over the finish line in a barrage of bright lights and TV cameras. Schoolkids cheered, racing enthusiasts waved Italian flags over the car, the mayor of Hobart and John Large (after making a speech) shook my hand, and best of all, schoolgirls gathered around before we even got out of the car and held out autograph books, with the request to "address it to Liz...Mary...etc." OK, maybe we thought we were better than we were for a while there, but it was our 15 minutes of fame and we were going to make the most of it. Our wives were having to restrain themselves from being violently ill as we soaked up all the attention.
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