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2007
Thunderbird Rally
36th
Thunderbird Rally
-- February 17-18,
2007
Merritt - Vernon - Merritt
Round 1 of the 2007 BC TSD Rally Championship
Hosted by the West Coast Rally Association |
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Vintage Vindication
There's a story behind the surprising Historic
Class winner of Thunderbird 2007.
By Satch Carlson (spiritual advisor, Team AFRICA) |
During
Sunday's fuel break near the end of Thunderbird
2007, our closest competitor, Peter Ryce, and
I discussed our morning. "Well, I'm handing
you back some points," I admitted, "but
I'm not going to give 'em to you all at once!" Ryce
laughed, because he knew how desperately I wanted
to hang on for an upset victory-and he and his
son Tim were only half a dozen points behind
us when we found out we were in the lead at the
end of Day One. |
Besides, at that point we were ready to quit. |
You
have to go back several years to understand our
odd compulsion to compete in Thunderbird with
a car that is older than most competitors in
the event, back to an old, friendly T-Bird rivalry
I've had with Bob Chandler, who still ran his
ancient Datsun 240Z in Thunderbird. "I don't care
about the overall finish," he said, "I
just like to be the first two-wheel-drive car." |
Like
me, Chandler continued to drive a vintage car
for the simple reason that he drove it before
it was vintage! In his case, it's the very same
car; in mine, it's the same model, the 1969 Saab
Sonett in which I learned to drive sideways on
ice and snow in Alaska back when you could still
buy a Sonett new. But I was less concerned with
finishing as the first two-wheel-drive car than
with winning the historic class at Thunderbird,
which always seemed to attract drivers of amazing
talent. And in a two-wheel-drive car on ice and
snow, the driver's skills are almost as important
as the navigator's; a class win or a "personal
best" is truly rewarding when you've spent
two days imagining yourself as Erik Carlsson
or Roger Clark or Hannu Mikola: choose your favorite
hero! |
But
when ace navigator Russ Kraushaar and I started
campaigning ancient croakers instead of modern
all-wheel-drive cars, we didn't have too many
ambitions toward an overall victory at Thunderbird.
After all, the last time a two-wheel-drive car
won Thunderbird was 1991, when Gary Reid, John
Nispel, and Steve Richards pulled off the feat
in a VW Rabbit Gti. In the Saab, we were just
trying to win the Historic class, which had undergone
an interesting political upheaval in the wake
of Martin Wilson/John Rapson's 1997 Historic
win in a Porsche 911S. Eschewing a Halda TwinMaster
in favor of a Brantz odometer with larger, easy-to-read
LED numbers, the two were criticized by some
grousers for having "electronic rally gear," and
whether this was the causative factor or not,
the following year saw some changes in Historic
Class rules: now we would be allowed any mechanical
equipment, or any equipment more than 25 years
old. |
Which
convinced us to try the Historic class-for this
meant we could use an old Zeron rally computer!
And though it may be ancient, the Zeron was the
inspiration for today's TimeWise rally computers;
it may be rather big and clumsy by today's standards,
but it still calculates with accurate precision.
Then, a few years later, rally officials took
pity on the Historic class and opened it even
to TimeWise computers-but I'm getting ahead of
the story. Back to our original search for a
Zeron 550, 660, or 770 rally computer and a proper
car to put it in! |
It took
several seasons to procure a vintage Sonett-okay,
a Saab Sonett II V4, for the purists-and equip
it with a Zeron, but once we blew up our all-wheel-drive
BMW in Thunderbird 2000, the die was cast; we
would have a year to put together our Historic
Class entry. The Sonett was purchased late in
2000, the Zeron cobbled in place, and the experiment
was underway-quite successfully. And our Historic
Class win in 2001 was a revelation. In a field
of nearly 60 cars, we finished sixth overall!
Then, during the Totem Rally that year, navigator
Kraushaar, who has spent years tweaking the factor
in four-wheel-drive cars as well as vintage beaters,
made an interesting observation. "An all-wheel-drive
car is always going to get some wheelspin," he
said, "and you can't control which wheel
is spinning. So a two-wheel-drive car running
the computer off a 'dead' wheel really ought
to be more accurate than a four-wheel-drive car!" |
Well,
perhaps. . . maybe. . . with a few caveats. First
of all, the tradeoff is accuracy for traction;
a perfect dead-wheel cable driving a fiendishly
accurate rally computer doesn't help when you're
trying to get a front-drive car up an icy hill.
I have a mantra for these situations: "I
can make it louder," I say, "but I
can't make it any faster!" |
Then
there's that business of staying on the road.
You'd be surprised at how quickly you can lose
a rally by stuffing your car in a snowbank. Which
is what I did the last time we came close to
a Thunderbird overall victory. |
There
are limits imposed by weather conditions, too.
For the last few years we've been blessed with
a set of genuine Pirelli P Zero rally tires,
skinny, many-studded donuts that dig down through
the snow to claw at the underlying surface. But
there are years when Thunderbird's weather will
keep anything but a well-shod all-wheel-drive
hero off the winner's podium. And of course you
can't drive to the rally on tires like that,
so we've been lucky to persuade friends like
Brandon Harer and Jason Webster to carry the
Pirellis for us; they have the room and we buy
the beer. |
Finally,
there's the basic problem of running a 35-year-old
car: You're running a 35-year-old car. There
are times when just finishing the event counts
as a victory. In our case, there are times when
just getting to the rally should count as a victory.
And 2007 was just such a year.
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First
of all, the Saab's engine was pouting, with low
compression in the #1 cylinder and an oil leak
resembling the Exxon Valdez. The week before
the rally, we went so far as to pull the engine,
remove the clutch and flywheel, and replace the
rear main seal. Then we had to put the engine
back in the car and button everything up again
with less than a week before the rally. And of
course the windshield wipers failed two days
after that, but we had almost a whole day to
diagnose and repair those before hitting the
road for Canada-by way of Costco so we could
buy cheap oil, since all our work had failed
to cure the main-seal leak! |
On the
long ride up to T-Bird, the car ran all right,
though it wanted at least a quart of oil every
250 miles. The real problem began when we hit
the hills of the Coquihalla Highway, where we
realized that oil drain from the main falls mainly
on the clutch; although the road was dry, we
felt something very much like wheelspin if we
gave it much gas in the uphill sections. Uh-oh;
slipping clutch! This could be a challenging
weekend indeed! |
But
one advantage of age is the wisdom of ancient
automotive lore. I had heard long ago of many
folk remedies for slipping clutches, including
Coca-Cola, baking soda, and dishwashing detergent.
We had time before the rally to try all three,
since the Saab has a convenient access hatch
to the clutch housing. NOTE: Here's some brand-new
automotive wisdom. When you are funneling odd
substances into a spinning clutch assembly, STAND
TO THE SIDE! |
Saturday
came clear and remarkably warm, which made changing
to the Pirellis a little less of a chore than
it is in most years. In fact, as the rally began,
we wondered whether the Pirellis would be overkill,
but we soon found ourselves sliding around on
enough snow and ice that we were again grateful
for these secret weapons. Moreover, we found
some amazingly slippery MUD, which had been laid
over ice or something; it certainly didn't have
the dependable sticky tendencies of summer mud!
And then there was the legendary water crossing,
which deserves special mention. This was a puddle-some
would call it a lake-shortly before a cattleguard,
which itself came shortly before a hard left.
The timing-control car was parked near this turn,
clearly visible as we approached, so the trick
was to stay on time throughout this stretch,
since we didn't know where we would be timed.
(We assumed the cattleguard, but you never know.) |
So we
hit the water at a good clip. A giant bow wave
engulfed the Sonett, and to our horror we discovered
that the water was not a clear Canadian crystal
liquid but rather an opaque brew of mostly mud.
By the time I hit the wiper switch and the wipers
had reluctantly risen from their beds to make
a circuit of the windshield, we were through
the cattleguard-good thing we were pointed at
it when we submerged!-and we just had time to
wrench the wheel sideways to make the left before
collecting the control workers. That we actually
zeroed that control is an element I attribute
to clean living and constant prayer-not to mention
the best navigator in the country. |
Day
One also had its share of the dreaded uphill
slogs that make us envy all-wheel drivers. But
this year we couldn't even attack them in our
usual wheel-spinning fashion, throwing Sno-Cones
in the air off our front tires and zig-zagging
back and forth looking for traction, because
anything but a gentle toe on the throttle uphill
would give us clutch spin to go along with wheelspin.
All we could do was tiptoe through the sections
and hope for an occasional level patch, or even
a downhill run; we could accelerate downhill
with no clutch spin at all. |
Then,
when we were nearly through the last leg of the
first day of Thunderbird, we came across a very
odd sight: Steve Willey's and Eric Horst's BMW
325iX lying in the ditch! It was odd not only
because these guys are ace rallyists, but because
the road was straight, the speed modest, and
the conditions mild. We figured it was a incident
best chalked up to inattention, but Eric later
revealed the cause: magnetic ditches. |
Thank
God for fiberglass cars! |
By the
time we passed the final control of that leg,
though, we had our own difficulties staying out
of the ditches; the car was not just twitchy,
it seemed to have capricious ambitions, lurching
first one way and then the other. It was worse
when we hit the pavement for the endless transit
to dinner and the overnight in Vernon. We assumed
at first that we had a flat-or maybe two or three-but
all four tires seemed round. But still it felt
like the rear axle was pivoting- |
"Oh,
mannnn," I said as I pulled over again. "I
bet I know what it is." You see, these old
Saabs have a solid rear axle mounted in rubber
at the center; to keep it straight, there are
tie rods running forward from the outer ends
of the axle. These are bolted to the body through
the floor pan. |
Or were,
anyway. |
Sure
enough, the right-hand tie rod had apparently
ripped out of the body and was flailing around
aimlessly. The left one was loose but still close
to home, so we limped on to Vernon, where we
hoped to find welding torches or some other means
of repairing the damage, at least enough to get
us back home at more than 20 miles an hour. During
this slow, arduous trek, Greg Hightower and Steven
Kang kindly followed us into Vernon with their
emergency flashers blazing, since the blinkers
in a '69 Sonett are about as bright as fireflies;
we parked under the port cochere at the hotel
and made enough calls to know that we weren't
going to be doing any welding that night. Ah,
well: As the man said, "More whiskey-and
fresh horses for my men." |
At this point all we cared
about was a decent meal and a warm bed. Russ went
to the restaurant while I cleaned an accumulation
of oil, grime, baking soda, Coca-Cola, and mud
from my hands, face, and hair, and changed into
clean clothes. Then I joined him for our hard-luck
dinner and started asking around for baling wire.
I figured if we took enough frapping turns around
the jagged end of the trailing arm and through
the holes in the body, it might stay in place long
enough to get us back to Portland. |
In fact, by the time we'd
worked our way through a hot meal, I was feeling
pretty confident. Erik Horst did, indeed, have
a quantity of baling wire. We were warm and dry.
We were well fed. And tomorrow is another day.
Over dessert I started calculating: If we start
after breakfast, we could probably be home by nightfall,
as long as the baling wire holds. . . .
That's when Russ came back from checking the
data on Paul Westwick's computer. "Before we make any decisions," he said, "you'd
better go look at the scores." |
So I made my way over to
the rallymaster's throne, looking halfway down
the page and then working my way up line by line.
. . and up. . . and up. . . to find our car at
the top of the page, just above the Ryces' Mazda.
They had 16 points. We had but 10.
Well, shit. |
Back
up to the room. Off with the clean clothes, on
with the pre-soiled garb. Down to the dimly lit
port cochere where I lay in the driveway to get
a better look at the damage. Hmmm; all four nuts
seem to have backed off, but both bolts are still
in place on the left side; that's a simple matter
of cinching down the nuts. The right side, however-well,
it had not torn out of the floor, exactly, but
one of the bolts had lost its nut and fallen
out, which allowed the arm to work against the
remaining anchor until it tore through the arm's
mounting tab. So the first order of business
was getting the now-useless bolt out of the way-Vise
Grips, anyone?-and then begging enough bolts
and fender washers to reassemble the arm and
secure it in place. . . not just well enough
to get home, but sufficient to continue the rally! |
I am
touched and pleased to say that we were overwhelmed
with help and advice. Bill McRae and Dave Harms,
our favorite Historic Class rivals, hauled out
entire tool kits. Eric Horst and Dan Comden scrounged
bolts, washers, and more tools. (Actually, there
were so many people eager to help that I can't
remember them all, so please forgive me if I
haven't thanked you properly-especially if you're
the one who supplied the large fender washer!) |
Before
midnight, we had bolted everything together as
well as we could, made a trial run to the gas
station, and declared ourselves as ready as we
were going to be for another day of clean, wholesome
rally fun. |
Sunday
started with the Beaver Lake regularity, over
50 kilometers of hope-the-suspension-holds-together
adventure. Here we had a number of epiphanies:
If anybody asks why we waste all this time, money,
and effort, all we'd have to do is point to this
section to explain the joys of this game. Twisty,
narrow, snow-covered lanes! Up-and-down roads
all covered with ice! More freezing mud over
frozen mud! Hard, concentrated driving, correcting
the computer at every hard reference, lost in
concentration, all our efforts focused on forward
progress and staying away from the trees. It
was delicious-and we knew we were in for a fight
to keep our slender lead. Sure enough, we started
taking points in a delightfully wicked set of
uphill switchbacks, me feathering the clutch
and consoling myself as I watched our penalty
climb. "Well," I said, "we have
six points to give away-and I don't think anybody's
getting through here clean!" |
It occurred
to me, too, that if someone asked my favorite
leg to this rally, I'd have to say, "Beaver
Lake." |
"But
Beaver Lake is where you took the most penalty
points!" they might reply. |
Indeed: However, the rewards
of the Old Car game lie mostly in the driving itself:
setting up for a tight, icy turn, catching the
first drift sideways with a quick flick of the
wheel, then catching the rebound-twice, maybe three
times before the car is truly straight again-all
the while trying not to lose too many seconds off
the merciless zero read-out, trying not to lose
too much time in useless wheelspin, even-more-useless
clutch spin. I swear there was a stretch that seemed
like a hundred miles where I chased two lousy seconds
up hill and down, through snow drifts and gravel
berms, over hard-packed snow and splintered ice
until finally, finally, the read-out grudgingly
returned to zero at the far end of a long, smooth
straight. |
At the end of the shortened
day, our efforts were vindicated: We had taken
just three additional penalty points on Sunday.
We had also re-tightened the bolts on the right-side
trailing arm and fed the clutch another dose of
baking powder, washed down with Coca-Cola, and
given the engine another two quarts of oil to throw
up on the clutch. |
I call
it the most significant win of my rally career.
Certainly it was quite meaningful to me-not just
because of all the help and camaraderie displayed
in Vernon, but also because the assembled crowd
at the rally's end appeared genuinely happy for
our success. Everybody seemed to wish the best
for the little red car and its two stubborn occupants:
a Historic win on a historic occasion, the 50th
anniversary of the very first Thunderbird Rally. |
Oh:
We hit a major snow storm on our way back to
Portland. The windshield wipers worked almost
all the way home. |
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