The final day, Thursday, was one of the hardest and most exhilarating drivig
experiences of my life. We had moved up to 26th overall and 7th in class, and
feeling much more confident of the winter tyres capabilities on dry asphalt,
we managed to average 60 kph (37 mph) on bumpy, single-track lanes hairpinning
their tortuous way through the dusty Provençal Mountains, with sheer rock to
one side and 300 feet of thin air on the other. I was brim full of pride when
we covered one particularly tight, 33km section in just 120 seconds more than
the allotted 39 minutes; Tony and I were full of wonder and admiration for the
few crews who avoided any time penalties.
It was tough going and we arrived at the Aire de Beausoleil feeling pretty
drained.
An early bath in Monte Carlo was tempting indeed, but having tried so hard to
catch up, we couldn't afford a load of penalties by omitting the final loop
into those shadowy mountains.
Time to go, I drained my coffee and walked back to the car, lifted the bonnet
and poured a little fresh oil into the engine for good luck. Strapped tightly
into the tiny cockpit, we screamed off into the night, tired eyes straining to
find the road ahead, sore hands feeling through the steering for signs of
encroaching ice, weary brains struggling to find and take the right route,
half of which was on Tony's lap, illuminated by the feeble glow of his map
reader, The other half would be handed out at Bollene-Vesubie. The tacho'
cable had snapped on Tuesday, so I was feeling for peak rev's as I pushed the
Triumph's 2.0-litre engine hard on the long steep climb up to the Col de
Turini, round hairpin after hairpin, peering out at the jagged rocks that
threatened to catch the car at every turn. Having collected the final route
instructions, we arrived at a multiple junction at the 909 metre summit of the
Col St.Roch, the start of a regularity section. "Go easy at the bottom" said
the Marshall, "we've had reports of police activity in Luceram. OK ... five,
four, three, two, one, go!" Tony grabbed the piece of paper carrying the
speed instruction and we were off: 49 kph required as we swooped steeply
downhill toward the valley floor. "You're 24 seconds down," called Tony as we
passed a sign warning of three hairpins ahead. Some 100 yards in front of us
was a Mini Cooper which hardly touched the road as it skittered down the
mountainside. "Come on, you're still 20 seconds down," said Tony tensely. I
pushed still harder and closed on the Mini, now 50 yards ahead. We must have
rounded a dozen or more hairpins before the road began to straighten a little
and the gradient eased as we neared the bottom. "Still 20 seconds down..."
Rounding a corner, a rally car roared past in the opposite direction. At last
we saw the long awaited junction - and braked to a standstill. The signs
didn't make sense. "We must have gone the wrong way at the top; we've come
down the way we should have gone up. We have to turn round and go back..."
continued:
|