The cars stopped coming. it was well past dawn when by an assortment of hooks
and crooks we got the Triumph unstuck enough to fit the snow chains and drag
the Westminster out of its hole, whereupon the GT6 swung lazily sideways on
the end of the tow rope and crunched into a ditch on the other side of the
road. it was almost too much. Thankfully, this time with the Austin's
assistance, we got going again and managed to reach the top of the hill, where
a shocking gale blew clouds of powdery ice up my trouser legs as I spent 15
grovelling minutes undoing the chains again, pushing the car to and fro to
free them from under the wheels. Tony sat in the car and stared glumly at our
timecard.
We were seriously late, and had to drive quicker than ever in an attempt to
catch up.
I have a vague recollection that at St.Claude, somewhere north-west of Geneva
at something approaching midnight, I had 10 minutes to top-up the engine
oil,find a tap to refill the windscreen washer, swallow half a pain au
chocolat and take a single gulp of coffee, before fiddling around with a small
plastic spoon to refill the carbuettor dashpots with oil. Then it was back to
driving flat out, wherever we weren't sliding into snowbanks or stuck fast on
icy hairpins. On one particularly icy climb, we managed to get stuck right in
front of Mike Johnson's camera, and enlisted the help of his driver, Paul
Easter - who in 1965 won the Monte Carlo Rally outright with no penalties at
all, as Timo Makinen's navigator in a Mini Cooper - to give us a push.
My shoulders were screaming, my left (gearchanging) elbow and wrist were
hurting, my hands were numb and covered in stinging cuts, my eyes were
smarting. I couldn't believe the Triumph would stand many more of these flat-
out montain charges and I was worried that the brakes might fade to nothing on
a descent. But as the day wore on, I regained my faith on the red machine.
cont.
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