Fifteen

The RAC Rally – the big one

As I write this, it is exactly 40 years since I experienced what is known as a life-changing moment. Those of you who have ploughed through the previous pages of ramblings will have gathered that I had enjoyed life, had a modicum of success, a lot of fun, and caused a bit of mayhem along the way. On the 5th December 1972, it all happened. I achieved the ambition of every rallyist in the British Isles by winning Britain’s biggest, most famous, and toughest rally – the RAC.

I’ve already mentioned the RAC Rally quite a lot, and you probably don’t need me to explain much more about the event that, over the years, had established itself as Britain’s toughest motoring challenge, Britain’s biggest single spectator attraction, and one of the world’s greatest rallies.

It all started way back in 1932, when Colonel Loughborough in a Lanchester (not Colonel Lanchester in a Loughborough, as erroneously stated by my fellow presenter Tiff Needell on Top Gear once) won the 1000-mile RAC Rally, decided by a series of tests on Torquay promenade. The good Colonel’s Lanchester had a fluid flywheel (whatever that is), which enabled him to drive slower than anyone else on one of the piffling promenade tests. He completed the 100-yard course at less than 1mph, so you could say he won the rally by being the slowest. I find that rather splendid.

The RAC Rally continued in a similar vein, with a number of starting points all over the country converging on a seaside town on the south coast of England, and more silly tests. Of course, all this so-called motorsport had to be suspended when World War II came along, but the RAC Rally resumed in 1951 with what was, effectively, another tour of Britain with a few slightly more competitive auto tests thrown in. It was won by two of the great names of rallying history, Ian and Pat Appleyard, in a Jaguar XK120. They came third the following year, and won again in 1953. Shortly after this, the event became tougher, with a considerable amount of map reading required, which, evidently, came as something of a shock to some competitors who arrived one year without the appropriate 1in Ordnance Survey maps.

The event improved bit by bit, but was still not popular with overseas drivers because of the night navigation sections between the tests. Something had to be done, so Jack Kemsley, a prominent member of the organising committee since the very first ‘Colonel Loughborough’ event, took charge and introduced the first special stages in 1960, as I’ve mentioned.

Fast forward to 1972. Things were a little different to those early rallies when Roger Clark and I won the event by nearly three-and-a-half minutes, beating 191 other cars into the bargain. My trip with Roger in a works Ford Escort was ten years after my first RAC Rally, and it was a storybook trip to be sure. There were 72 fast special stages to be attacked, and it was one of those few motorsport events where everything just ‘clicked.’ The car ran perfectly and hardly missed a beat, and Roger and I never put a foot wrong, thankfully.

So, how on earth did I come to be sitting on top of that marvellous Ford Escort on the finish ramp in York that Tuesday night in December 1972, facing a battery of television lights and being sprayed with champagne? This was certainly the greatest rallying moment for both Roger and me, and appeared to go down very well with the British public. I still remember virtually every inch of the 2500 mile route, so I’ll start at the beginning, so to speak.

In the previous chapter I mentioned my ever-developing association with the Ford Motor Company, and, indeed, my successful trip with Roger Clark in a works Escort at the beginning of 1972, when we won the Mintex Seven Dales Rally. Stuart Turner, Ford’s director of motorsport, has always had a keen interest in motor clubs, and after my Woburn Lake incident (see chapter one) he decided to rope me in to join various motorsport ‘forums’ he was running at clubs around the country. Stuart also ran rally schools at some venues, and I was asked to cover rally navigation along with two ultra-successful, internationally famous co-drivers, Henry Liddon and Tony Ambrose. Exalted company indeed. They probably thought ‘Who is this berk?’ One of the events took place in Cambridge, and Stuart thought it would be a good wheeze at this great seat of learning to provide legendary Finn Timo Mäkinen with a gown and mortar board for his lecture. Stuart always liked giving people challenges, and gave me about an hour’s warning for this little task. I can’t remember how I found these accoutrements, but I borrowed them from somewhere and we duly equipped Timo for his lecture. I heard very recently that this single example of initiative influenced Stuart in signing me to accompany Roger Clark on the RAC Rally.

In mid-1972 Stuart Turner invited me to attend a meeting at the Swan Revived Hotel in Newport Pagnell, which was to be attended by various motor club officials from around the country, and would help Ford to develop its interests at the grass roots of motorsport. The Ford Mexico rally challenge was on the go, and it was felt I could give my opinion on the series with regard to selection of events. I duly attended, but was disappointed to find that Stuart was not in attendance because another major Ford function had been organised at Ford’s London office. It might even have been the time he went there to meet Henry Ford himself, which I know happened once, and I would imagine that would be a more important meeting than one with a load of hairy blokes in rally jackets in Newport Pagnell. Bill Barnett, Ford’s much respected and long-serving rally manager, deputised. Although I didn’t know Bill well, I had met him and had discussions with him over the telephone (including discussing my fee for co-driving Roger on the Mintex Seven Dales – the first time I had ever been paid anything to go rallying, not including the free sausages I sometimes got when I rallied with Bob Lamb, the butcher!). During one telephone call I recall Bill saying he and Stuart had been talking about the RAC Rally. He casually asked me what my plans were for the November event. I said I assumed I would be doing it with Peter Clarke, but nothing had been discussed. My little mind started ticking when he said “We may be able to use you on the RAC, as Jim Porter is not available because he’s going to organise the RAC Rally.” Nothing more was said, and Roger Clark’s name was never mentioned. The phone call was suddenly terminated, as Bill had been told by his secretary that Hannu Mikkola was hanging on the phone in Helsinki. I gave a lot of thought to that phone call with Bill, but never mentioned it to anyone.

At the Newport Pagnell meeting I listened intently and commented when necessary, but didn’t do too much pontificating as I wanted to keep in Bill’s good books at all costs. At the end of the meeting Bill shuffled his papers, stuffed them into a brief case and said “Thank you very much gentlemen, I’m off.” All evening I had been working out how and when to ask him about my possible involvement in the RAC Rally. Now, horror of horrors, he was gone. I leapt to my feet, ignoring everyone else, and scampered out of the door and down the stairs to catch up with Bill near the front of the hotel. “Bill,” I spluttered, now gabbling in panic mode, “You once mentioned something about the RAC?” “Oh! Yes,” he said “Could you co-drive for Roger Clark? I’ll have to confirm it later.” And with that he was gone. Eventually, I received a letter confirming my booking to co-drive Roger and, indeed, my fee for the week, which was nearly a third of my annual salary at K Shoes. He also invited me to visit the competitions department at Boreham in Essex to get to know everyone.

Next thing I knew, I received a phone call from someone at Boreham saying I should enrol at the Jim Russell Racing School at Mallory Park in Leicestershire. I suspect Stuart Turner had suggested this, as he had already sent me to lessons to polish up my French language skills. He liked sending people to places. I didn’t quite understand this racing school bit, but now realise that they knew that Roger would want me to drive on some road sections of the RAC, and felt a course of eight lessons would be beneficial. I duly enrolled and toddled off to Mallory every Saturday morning to drive Formula Fords with a lot of budding racing drivers. On many of the Friday nights prior to my racing driving I would stay with Roger and Judith Clark at their home in Hinckley, and, inevitably, enjoy a few pints with Roger and his friends. I don’t know if I was the star driver at the school (I doubt it), but no-one seemed too critical, and I received a splendid certificate, which amused Roger no end.

A few weeks before the date of the rally I received a nice letter from Bill Barnett’s secretary, Pam Goater, welcoming me to the fold and enclosing a thick Ford service schedule that gave all the details of the forthcoming rally. I was asked to go to the Viking Hotel in York on Thursday 30th November in preparation for scrutineering the next morning, and the start on Saturday 2nd December. Details of every service point were shown in this schedule, together with a list of all six service crews, driving Ford Granada Estates, and, of course, the start number of all the works Escorts: Hannu Mikkola/John Davenport were number 10; Timo Mäkinen/Henry Liddon were at 15; Andrew Cowan/Brian Coyle at 22; and, hurrah, Roger and I were seeded at number 4. It was an ideal number, allowing the first three cars of Stig Blomqvist, Harry Källström, and Håkan Lindberg to ‘sweep’ the stages and indicate lines through bends (and discover any major hazards). An added advantage was that we would be first of the Fords into every service point, before the Finns could commandeer the mechanics! The star-studded entry list showed legendary names like Waldegård, Aaltonen, Lampinen, Eklund and Andersson, among others. Ove Andersson was, in fact, driving a Toyota Celica representing the very first Toyota factory entry in a rally outside the Far East; a sign of great things to come. In due course Toyota would win Britain’s premier rally three times and the World Rally Championship itself, also three times. There were entries from 16 works and dealer teams with 199 cars on the entry list, 192 of which would start. When I saw the published entry list in the motoring magazines I could hardly believe it: major names in British rallying were down in the hundreds. Did I think we would lead this lot for four days and two nights? No! Much as I respected Roger’s abilities, there were Finns and Swedes everywhere you looked and, remember, no Brit had ever won the tough forest event. Everyone, but everyone, considered it the prerogative of the Nordic races to win the RAC.

I thought we’d do well, as Roger had spent a full year driving in British forests in our own championship, and he looked very confident and rested after a two-week holiday in Kenya. But an outright win? I really didn’t think we had a cat in hell’s chance! And just in case you think I am being disloyal, I would mention that Stuart Turner himself had said during TV interviews for Wheelbase (the forerunner of Top Gear) that all the best rally drivers were from the frozen north of Europe. Stuart is astute enough never to say the wrong thing during interviews, but a lot of people thought he implied that Roger was not in the same class. In fact, Roger always thought that was what Stuart meant, and among the first words Roger said to me on arriving in York that wonderful evening in December 1972 were “That’ll show Stuart!”

I suppose we had better get down to the technical bit now, as you’ll want to know what was under the bonnet of our shiny, newly-repainted Esso Uniflo-sponsored car. Incidentally, the reason for it being shiny and newly-repainted was that it had received a new bodyshell after Roger rolled the car while filming a promotional film for Esso. In fact, there were two kinds of Escort in our four-car team. Ford had been working with engine-builder par excellence Brian Hart, who had designed and developed a 2-litre alloy cylinder block for the BDA engine, and, as this was homologated in 1972, the engines were fitted to Timo’s and Roger’s cars, while Hannu and Andrew had the old, heavier, iron block 1.8-litre engines producing 210bhp. For those really interested in such matters, our car was fitted with experimental Lucas fuel-injection, and boasted around 235bhp, whilst Timo’s was normally-aspirated. As our car had the newly-supplied alloy engine and new fuel-injection, on paper we looked the most vulnerable of the four cars. Being new to the team and relatively ignorant of such mechanical matters, I didn’t know a lot about any of this – otherwise I would have definitely thought we’d no chance of even finishing!

I haven’t mentioned Peter Ashcroft yet, to whom we were to owe a great deal of thanks. Peter was Ford’s brilliant engine man, and was instrumental in introducing Brian Hart’s new alloy engine block, which we used on the RAC to give it its first big win. He had been appointed competition manager when Stuart Turner moved to another Ford location as director of motorsports, and I got to know Peter during the 1972 British championship in which Roger and Jim Porter were competing with great success. A fellow northerner – Peter was born in Preston – we got on really well, and I could not believe his amazing knowledge of engines. I remember once standing at the side of the road, waiting for Roger and the rest of the team’s cars to appear. We could hear the screaming BDA engine of the first car even though we were quarter of a mile away. “That’s Andrew Cowan,” Peter said “and that’s got a crank shaft problem.” Peter was unique in diagnosing problems before the cars arrived at the service point. He was really in charge of the 1972 RAC Rally team, and his presence at the service point after Dalby Forest in Yorkshire certainly saved our bacon, as you will shortly read.

So, the big moment came as we lined up at York Racecourse alongside huge sheds that contained the serving counters used at horse racing meetings, and, much to Roger’s delight, the ‘longest bar in Britain.’ Obviously, we were not going to imbibe there and then, but Roger enjoyed me giving him facts like that, and chatting about anything that came to mind during the road sections on rallies. Roger was a quiet man, but had a good sense of humour, and found it relaxing to talk about non-rally things. We got on well.

I suppose we should both have been pretty tense as we lined up behind the previous year’s winning Saab 96, a Lancia Fulvia, and a Fiat 124 Spider, but in fact we both felt very relaxed and well-prepared for the task ahead. I remember feeling confident that I could do my job efficiently, but aware of the huge responsibility on my shoulders. I boosted my own confidence by telling myself that it was me, no-one else, that had been booked by Ford to sit in the car, and this somehow kept nerves away, even when other British competitors came up making flippant remarks about us, and asking me what I was doing sitting next to the ‘maestro.’ I told them to piss off!

I checked my clocks to see that they were exactly on Greenwich Mean Time, waited until the secondhand moved towards 9.04am precisely, then told Roger to move towards the starting ramp, which was surrounded by a huge crowd and bedecked with stickers for The Daily Mirror, Embassy cigarettes and Unipart. My timecard received its first signature, and various RAC and York civic dignitaries waved us on our way, leaving behind the strong smell of chocolate permeating the air from the huge Terry’s factory adjacent to the racecourse.

The Halda twin trip meter started doing its bit as I checked my road book, containing its accurate Tulip arrows, which had been meticulously prepared by the man usually occupying my seat, Roger’s long-time co-driver Jim Porter, who first sat alongside Roger in 1960. As we left the racecourse complex I pulled the little knob on the upper of the two Haldas (the lower one stayed on accumulating total mileage). “Turn left,” I told Roger calmly, thinking that this would be the first of about 10,000 instructions I would give him before (if?) we returned to York. We then trundled through the streets of York, passing the station, York Minster and other historic attractions as good crowds cheered us on, despite the rain that had now appeared. I suddenly had a flash-back of getting totally confused in the streets of Glasgow at the start of the Highland Rally just ten years before. I shuddered at the memory, and double-checked the street map of York that was helpfully included in the road book.

Half an hour later we were at the first stage in Bramham Park, near Leeds. Crowds surrounded the road into the stage, and inside the park there were thousands of spectators lining the route, which dived in and out of the trees along an unbelievably muddy track. Wearing our orange helmets with sensitive intercoms, I was spotting the arrows and forthcoming obstacles, and giving Roger clear, calm instructions. Although a lot of drivers found the sea of mud unsuitable for a stage on a world event, Roger took it in his stride and drove neatly to clock 4 minutes 34 seconds for the three-minute stage. I checked the times of the cars before us, and informed Roger that Stig Blomqvist was one second quicker. I later discovered that Leif Asterhag (yet another Swede) had clocked fastest in his BMW, over 20 seconds quicker. However, I’m pleased to say he didn’t last long.

At the next short two-minute stage at Harewood House, Roger drove tidily, but fast, and we equalled Hannu Mikkola’s time, a second ahead of Blomqvist and Mäkinen. The fight was on. Drivers have always called these short spectator stages on RAC rallies ‘Mickey Mouse’ stages, regarding them as ‘fiddly’ and a bit of a nuisance: you cannot win a rally because of them, but could easily lose one.

More Mickey Mouse than most was the next in Bradford, where a two-minute stage traversed the fast tarmac tracks in the delightful Esholt sewerage works. When I advised Roger of this little excursion, he said “Blimey! If we go off in here we’ll really be in it!” Nevertheless, Roger really got going, and we clocked another fastest time ahead of Tony Fall’s powerful Datsun 240Z. As Fall was born and bred in Bradford, and still lived there, we assumed he knew every inch of this bizarre rally venue, and probably walked his dog there every morning.

After the three opening stages in Yorkshire there was a run of 170 miles across to North Wales, so, after driving competitively for all of ten minutes, the great man decided it was time for me to take the wheel. Now, I may have mentioned this earlier, but Roger Clark was a very ‘lazy’ driver. He only ever drove quickly enough to win, and could adjust his speed on stages quite miraculously in order to keep ahead of the next man. He liked his sleep, and took every advantage to have forty winks between stages. Even if he didn’t want to close his eyes, he would change seats at the earliest opportunity, putting the driver’s seat into my position before vacating it. In fact, the seat had a special handle that moved from Roger’s setting to mine. If he didn’t feel sleepy, he would happily sit in the passenger seat, reading the road book to me and flicking the Halda switch. In his best-selling autobiography Sideways to Victory, Roger was very complimentary about my driving and said he felt very safe. Well, he had plenty of time to observe me – like 50 per cent of the road section, if not more!

Nevertheless, there were times during my outings with him on RAC rallies when I drove, with some trepidation, sandwiched in convoy between Mikkola and Mäkinen, keeping up with them on twisty Welsh roads in appalling weather. It appears that these Finns preferred to drive themselves at all times. Any driver who hands over to a co-driver usually likes to get back behind the wheel a good few miles before a special stage start line. Roger couldn’t care less, and asked me to drive up to the start area where he would disembark before stretching, sniffing the air like a fox about to go hunting for food, then strapping himself in, fastening his helmet, and plugging in the intercom. At the end of a fast stage I would be checking the clocks and times with the marshal and would look up to see him standing next to said marshal, ready to get into the passenger seat again.

By early afternoon we’d checked into a Pontins holiday camp in Prestatyn on the North Wales coast for a one-hour break, before another short stage through some gardens and part of a go-kart track, with the route defined by oil drums. For the third successive stage we were fastest. “I quite like these Mickey Mouse stages, you know,” Roger casually announced as we drove along the A55 coast road to our next port of call, Llandudno, and a frighteningly fast stage around the Great Orme with its blood-curdling drops into the Irish sea.

There will be a little interlude here while I tell you that my future father and mother-in-law lived in Deganwy, near Llandudno, and on a visit there, instead of enjoying afternoon tea, I decided to drive over the Great Orme a few times, aware that it was to be a stage on the RAC Rally. I paid the attendant in his little box the five pence or so, and set off for a gentle drive to check the severity of the bends. The Great Orme road is about three-and-a-quarter miles long, so I had soon completed my little trip and decided to have another go. And then I had another one. And another one. By now the attendant selling the tickets was giving me some very funny looks, I must say. I had, in fact, done about twenty passes, committed to memory the severity of every bend, as well as the fact that some of the kerbs were very shallow and corners could be cut. Pace notes were banned on the 1972 RAC Rally, so I made a few notes on a large-scale map and went back to the tea party with the future in-laws.

It was just before five o’clock in the evening as we moved forward to the Great Orme start line. Roger unleashed the 235bhp, and we shot off into the dark and windy night. I had told Roger I would help by calling the route, and told him how fast it would be. We had racing tyres on the car, and as we sailed into the first tightening left-hand bend I really wondered if I was being a bit too clever with my plan. The Escort was handling beautifully, we were cutting corners across the low kerbs, and I could feel that we were within an inch of the granite stone wall, which was all there was between us and the sea below. It was a remarkable drive, and we were clocking not far off 100mph as we screamed down the long straight to the time control on the very edge of the town. Surprise surprise, we were clearly fastest, ahead of Källström. Our fellow Ford works drivers were far behind us and couldn’t believe our time. Looking back, I remember it as my most memorable drive in a rally car, ever.

After another ‘Mickey Mouse’ at Colwyn Bay, it was into the proper rallying and Clocaenog forest, where there were three very quick stages, then on into darkest Wales with a group of famous and fearful forests. Penmachno and Coed-y-Brenin featured first; here, two of the Ford team faltered. Andrew Cowan spluttered to a halt with the Escort’s ignition dead, and Timo Mäkinen went off the road, losing a wheel. Both were out of the rally. There was a long stage of 15 miles in the dreaded Dovey Forest, before a one-and-a-half hour supper halt at the Wynnstay Arms in Machynlleth, a familiar watering hole on rallies. I remember that Roger and I were ravenous and were tucking into a hot beef stew and chips. There were no motor-homes with chefs and dieticians in those days, you know.

Can we pull it off?

We were due to leave the Machynlleth supper halt at 11.30pm that Saturday night, and were bracing ourselves for the predicted snow and sleet when a marshal appeared in the dining room and chalked some results onto a blackboard. Everyone gathered around as he laboriously lettered the drivers’ names and time penalties. Roger continued to finish off his supper while I pushed through the scrum that had gathered behind the man with the chalk. “My God, I don’t believe it!” I shouted across to Roger. “We’re in the lead by 20 seconds from Stig!” Tony Fall was sitting with Roger and thought it highly amusing that our names should be top of the list. “You’ll both be able to tell your grandchildren that you were once actually leading the RAC Rally,” he chortled.

The weather was horrible, with gales and a lot of rain as we splashed our way through the muddy stages. We were obviously still going extremely quickly, but we were taking no chances, aware that tens of thousands of spectators were now willing us to win. At control points it was bedlam, and we felt like The Beatles as spectators clamoured to speak to us or get our autographs on soggy bits of paper. I will always remember going into a time control at Prynnes Garage in the hamlet of Garth, near Builth Wells. This was another well-known fuel stop for rally folk, and was absolutely seething with spectators. It was all a bit of a shambles: chock-a-block with cars parked everywhere, and full of people in wet clothing. The small café was open, and fights nearly broke out when some well-meaning, new-found fans tried to barge through the melée as we were trying to get a cup of tea and a bun.

It was now 3 o’clock in the morning, and many of the drivers were somewhat apprehensive, as the next two stages were on the fast tarmac roads of the famous Epynt ranges in the military area near Brecon, which is frequently used on Welsh rallies. There are blind brows and bends, and it’s a much-feared place for those who don’t know it. To cap it all, freezing rain was falling and we all wondered whether there would be ice on the Epynt roads, and whether tarmac racing tyres should be fitted. Roger was in a dilemma and so were our service crew, consisting of the wonderful Norman Masters and Don Partington. Norman had built our car, LVX 942J, and he said it was the best car he’d ever built. He was Roger’s personal mechanic, so to speak, and would do anything for him. Don was the top auto-electrician at Boreham, and was invaluable in a service area.

Eventually it was agreed we would fit wet racer tyres, but ‘not do anything stupid.’ I had been to Epynt several times on club rallies, but had a lot less knowledge of the twists, turns, and bumps than many other British crews. It’s widely acknowledged that however good a professional driver is, he or she will be lucky to equal times put in by ‘locals.’ The crests are so numerous, and the open moor so featureless, that it really takes prior knowledge to put up competitive times. In the event this proved to be the case, with Epynt specialists Tony Fowkes, Frank Pierson, Russell Brookes, and Chris Sclater beating all the works teams. Thankfully, we had no calamities and were about fifth fastest behind the specialists, but knew they were no threat to our overall position. We were, however, still aware of the previous year’s winning crew, Stig Blomqvist and Arne Hertz, snapping at our heels, as we were only half a minute ahead of them. Fortunately for us, but not for the poor animal, Stig hit a sheep, destroying two spotlights and the radiator and water pump of the Saab. That eased the pressure as we drove out of wet and windy Wales to Gloucestershire’s Forest of Dean, where more bad news awaited the Ford team. At least we were out of Wales though, which had worried me immensely.

Hannu Mikkola’s Escort had been having water problems on Epynt, the temperature rising alarmingly. He cautiously drove up to the first stage in the Forest of Dean, and actually queued up ahead of us at the control there. Roger looked at the exhaust pipe, and came out with one of his typically succinct comments: “That car is f----d,” he said. The first of the stages in the Forest of Dean brought the final drama, as Hannu’s engine finally boiled itself to a standstill in a cloud of steam – its cylinder head gasket had blown. The mighty Ford team was now down to just one car. And that was us.

We were relieved to get out of Wales unscathed and enjoyed our Sunday morning breakfast at the Severn Bridge service area, despite the thousands of supporters who all decided to come into the cafeteria for breakfast the very moment we entered. We were now being treated like stars, and some Ford PR men pushed to the head of the queue and collected our breakfasts, while a man from Esso found a table for us by moving someone off it. Nowadays, crews would be closeted in huge motorhomes with blacked-out windows, but Roger and I had to endure a mass of enthusiasts surrounding us, all watching every mouthful we ate. Thank God there were no mobile phones with which to take photographs in those days. As it was, there were hundreds of photographs being taken as Peter Ashcroft joined us, looking quite serious in light of Hannu’s recent demise. He didn’t say anything, but we knew he wanted to say ‘be careful,’ ‘take care,’ ‘don’t take any risks,’ or some such inanity. Competition managers have to have total faith in their drivers, and Peter knew that his lone car was in good hands and said nothing. However, he knew, as we did, that Stig Blomqvist had been chipping away at our lead, and had actually taken 13 seconds off us on the three Dean stages, where he had been fastest on every one.

On our drive up through the Cotswolds I told Roger details of the day’s stages ahead of us, including a very fast tarmac section through the grounds of Blenheim Palace in Oxfordshire, before which we visited the Dunlop van to fit racing tyres. In one fell swoop on the Blenheim stage we grabbed back the time Stig had taken off us before breakfast, and continued to keep him at bay as we started to move north. There were stages at Silverstone, Donington, and in the fast Sherwood Forest, but there was one stage that would bring great drama, and will be remembered by rally enthusiasts forever.

The stage in question is in an area not usually associated with rallying: Birmingham – or, to be precise, Sutton Coldfield. The large Sutton Park is completely surrounded by residential houses, but contains a network of smooth tarmac tracks that wind their way through the many bushes and trees. There are very fast bits, and a couple of tight hairpins through some rhododendron bushes. Needless to say, it attracted record crowds. Some say there were seventy thousand people in there. It certainly looked like it, and was a lot more than the nearby Birmingham City Football Club would get to its matches.

A few weeks before the rally, I happened to be staying in Birmingham on K Shoes business (having persuaded my boss that it was vital that I visit the Birmingham office for something or other), and planned a quick visit to Sutton Park. Pace notes were banned on this rally, as I have mentioned, but I thought a few marks on my maps might come in useful. I telephoned a good pal of mine, Mike Broad, one of the top navigators in the Midlands who went on to become British Rally champion in 1985 with Russell Brookes, and won the 1977 London–Sydney Marathon with Andrew Cowan, among other things. On this 1972 RAC Mike would be co-driving for Finnish champion Hannu Palin in an Opel Ascona, so I thought he wouldn’t take much persuading to show me round Sutton Park, which was not far from his home. So, late one afternoon, Mike collected me from the Albany Hotel in the centre of the city and we set forth in his MG 1100 for an unofficial recce. No-one at great rivals Ford or General Motors knew about this, of course, but it proved very useful indeed for both of us. Also useful was the fact that Mike, as a Sutton Coldfield resident, had a little sticker on his car’s windscreen that gave him free access to the park, otherwise I would have had to pay as I had at the Great Orme in Llandudno. Come to think of it, I never did get reimbursed by Ford for my expense going round and round the Great Orme.

Mike Broad knew the precise route that the rally would use around Sutton Park, covering just over four miles of tracks. He knew all the hazardous bits, and said he thought that the fastest car on the RAC would do the stage in just over five minutes. It was a worthwhile evening’s work, and I was grateful to Mike; for his trouble, I think I bought him a pint afterwards at the Albany Hotel. I suppose I could have claimed for reimbursement from Ford for that, too. However, Stuart Turner would probably have said that I shouldn’t have been recceing and refused to pay!

On the great day of the rally we arrived at Sutton Park early on the Sunday afternoon, and set off with great gusto. Roger was blisteringly quick on the smooth tarmac, and our Dunlop racing tyres were doing a fine job. When we got to the tight hairpin among the rhododendrons, Roger handbraked perfectly and we entered a narrow, dark ‘tunnel’ through the dense bushes. Roger flew through this like a rat up a drainpipe, before emerging onto a long, fast, left-hand bend. My little trip to the park with Mike Broad had proved very useful and we clocked the fastest time by far, at 5 minutes 18 seconds.

We had noticed some skid marks across the grass on a hard left-hand bend not far from the end of the stage, and learnt from the finish marshals that they belonged to Stig Blomqvist. He had understeered off, and sailed merrily over the grass to perch the car on top of a park bench. All four wheels were off the ground, the red Saab literally astride the bench, like some rampant wild animal in a safari park. It must have been a bizarre but splendid sight, and we all saw it in due course, as ‘Stig’s bench,’ as it is now known, was filmed by all the TV and film crews. Stig lost a radiator and a minute or so in time as a result of this little incident, which gave us a better cushion as we led the rally back into York on Sunday evening.

We slept in York that night, and both had a couple of pints in the Viking Hotel bar, but had to refuse any more. There was even the unusual sight of journalists offering to buy us drinks. Amazingly, neither Roger nor I found it easy to get off to sleep that night, as I think we were both haunted by the fact that our lead of 1 minute 50 seconds could be wiped out by Stig if we had a puncture, or if either of us made a minor mistake during the 800 miles of motoring ahead of us. We knew that the following two days would be just as difficult as Wales had been, as the Yorkshire forests were notorious for being very fast and deceptive. Scotland was to be visited in this next leg on the Monday night, with severe weather warnings given, and, if that wasn’t enough, the infamous ‘Killer Kielder’ – the biggest man-made forest in Europe – was to feature strongly. It had a reputation for ‘eating’ rally cars.

We both felt well at the restart area next morning, and were very impressed as all the mighty Ford team members fussed about us like mother hens. Nothing was too much trouble for them. Even the ebullient Mick Jones, the splendid foreman at Ford’s competition department, showed us great respect. Andrew Cowan, who had retired from the rally on Saturday night in Wales, suddenly appeared, and told us that he had been told to trail us for the rest of the event. His car was there to donate any bits that we might need between service areas. Here was another ‘mother hen,’ and it certainly gave us a boost, with Roger responding by driving magnificently in the Yorkshire forests that followed next. I had been reading the tracks from the Ordnance Survey maps for all of the rally, and I knew having a good knowledge of the forest stages helped Roger, particularly on long, fast straights where I could advise him of any deceptive firebreaks. Also, I should mention that the ‘dayglo’ arrows, positioned at bends, do not signify the severity of the bends, so I could help him with these, too.

Only once on the entire rally did we slide into a ditch. It was on the long, 15-mile Dalby stage, where a hard right-hand bend developed a peculiar adverse camber halfway through. There was a wide ditch, about three feet deep, with smooth, sloping sides. The Escort slid the nearside two wheels into it (my side, of course!). We were still motoring quickly at an angle of 45 degrees. I could see the ditch levelled out, and instinctively shouted “Keep it going!” to Roger, to which I received the curt reply “What the hell do you think I’m doing?” I have to say, in all the rallies we did together, I think those were the nearest to any cross words or words of castigation I ever heard from Roger. Thankfully, there were no rocks or tree trunks lurking in the ditch like there usually are, and we emerged unscathed and still made fastest time, some 19 seconds ahead of the mighty Stig, who may well have been in the same ditch, as there were tracks there.

We were both enjoying our visit to Yorkshire, and we clocked the fastest time on eight of the ten stages there. Our man Clark was on form.

It was after the Dalby South stage that we noticed a change in the engine note: it sounded like croaking frogs to some observers, who all prophesied our imminent retirement. Thankfully, luck was on our side, for Peter Ashcroft, the engine guru who had allocated the alloy block 2-litre engine to our car, was at the major service point. His sensitive ears had heard us arriving, and he diagnosed fuel starvation immediately. There was mild panic as it was discovered that the main fuel-injection pump wasn’t providing sufficient fuel, as there were air bubbles coming through the pipes. A spare pump was fitted alongside the one in use, and Peter had the bright idea of coupling up both in tandem. The coughing and spluttering ceased immediately and we were off again.

It was getting dark as we arrived at the Scotch Corner Hotel near Darlington, where we were met by massive crowds, photographers galore, and brilliant TV lights. The media had really cottoned on to the ‘Brits leading’ story, and joined in the growing euphoria. Our leading position was mentioned on most TV news programmes, and regular mentions were made hourly on BBC radio. This was a main control, where we had planned to eat a meal before the dreaded Kielder forest (on the basis that it might be our last meal ever!). The dining room at the Scotch Corner Hotel was pandemonium: it made our breakfast halt at the Severn Bridge service area, mentioned earlier, seem like a vicarage tea party. We got something to eat, but were interviewed incessantly throughout our meal. How we didn’t get indigestion, I’ll never know. Ford had booked us rooms at the hotel, but we only had fifteen minutes in them, enough time to have a wash and brush-up.

Without giving a blow-by-blow account of the nine Kielder special stages, I can safely say that they were as rough and frightening as they have ever been. There were the usual blind crests and firebreaks that have caught out so many over the years, and there was rain, with touches of fog as the icing on the cake. There were numerous retirements in this area, and no service cars anywhere in the forest. We felt very lonely. However, our ‘mother hen,’ Andrew Cowan, was hovering nearby, with his co-driver Brian Coyle doing a marvellous job of meeting us at the end of every stage. Thankfully, we did not need their help. In the middle of the Kielder complex there was a passage check and a small group of spectators, one of whom was my old Lakeland rallying mate Bob Redhead, who popped his head into the car and wished us good luck, saying what a marvellous job we were doing. We had also seen huge banners held by the hardy spectators in the forest. Most of these said “Good luck Roger and Tony,” or something similar, and we felt that we were being swept along on a huge wave of patriotism. It was an amazing feeling, to be sure.

We had spent three hours in the dreaded Kielder complex, and although we were treating it with the respect it deserves, we had been fastest car on half of the stages and always in the top three. To say we were relieved to get out in one piece was the understatement of the year. What we didn’t know was that worse was to come across the Scottish border, which we crossed at about midnight.

Scotland for the brave

We were greeted in Scotland by more and more rain, and, the further west we went, by gale force winds. It really was a bleak scene, and the previous day’s feeling of excitement and glamour changed to one of slight fear. It was a pitch-black December night, and Roger and I were experienced enough to know that if things were to go wrong, it would be during the hours of darkness. We were now wanting to get the rally over and done with.

We kept up our pace through Craik, Castle O’er, and Twiglees forests, then on into the Forest of Ae where there were two stages. Although it was well past midnight, the stages in the Forest of Ae were packed with spectators, particularly at the well-known hairpin at Gubhill Farm, where they lined the route, many only inches from the rally cars.

At the unearthly hour of four o’clock in the morning, we entered the ground of the sumptuous Turnberry Hotel, on the west coast of Ayrshire. The hotel was a main control and, hurrah, there was a break of one hour or so. Again, Ford had reserved rooms for us, so we left the mechanics checking and double-checking everything on the car, despite the atrocious weather. We were handed the keys to our rooms by Boreham’s delivery driver, a marvellous man by the name of Reg. He was very popular with everyone at Boreham and all the drivers. Among other things, he drove the big Ford transporter. Reg – actual name Horace Redgewell – had joined the rally in Scotland, bringing a van full of spare driveshafts and other bits that might be required to get us to the finish.

At Turnberry, Roger and I crashed out immediately and later agreed that the beds were the most comfortable we’d ever slept in. Mind you, any bed is pretty special when you’ve been driving for nearly twenty hours! Our faithful servant Reg had spare keys for both our rooms, and at the agreed time came in to wake us, fill the baths with warm water, and make us each a cup of tea. How’s that for service? All this, plus a change of clothing, refreshed us but prior to that, on first awakening, I peered out of the window and saw the horrible weather outside. It was a wild storm, to say the least, and never before or since have I felt less like getting out of bed. Mind you, pity the many private crews who hadn’t the luxury of a hotel room, and had been trying to sleep in their cars in the buffeting wind. I bet they thought we were being pampered like prima ballerinas.

Pampered or not, we were unprepared for the drama that would meet us at the infamous Cairn Edward stage in the Brennan Forest, near New Galloway. It was a complete nightmare from beginning to end. What was meant to be a straightforward, fast five-minute stage developed into a free-for-all, and many cars spent nearly ten minutes or more in the mêlée that followed. As we sat in the Escort on the start line, Roger and I hadn’t a clue what was about to happen. We felt reasonably confident, as both of us had been through Cairn Edward numerous times and couldn’t remember anything too hazardous. We had recharged our batteries at the Turnberry rest halt, and the Escort was in very good nick thanks to the attention it was getting from Ford’s hard-working mechanics. Since entering Scotland, our service crews were fitting new halfshafts and wheels at virtually every stage, no matter how short. Remember, one puncture could easily have lost Ford – and us – the rally.

We received the usual countdown of 10-5-4-3-2-1 from the Cairn Edward start marshal, Roger let in the clutch, and we blasted off the line into the wet and windy forest. The first half mile or so was no problem, but after a slight left-hand bend there was a Y junction. “Keep left,” I called, assuming the slightly wider road would be the required route, whilst wondering to myself why there was no arrow. Another similar junction came up and we took the major road. My stomach starting churning slightly, and I glanced at Roger who was still driving furiously, looking his usual calm self. Should I say anything? At a third junction we had a similar situation. I had been glimpsing at my Ordnance Survey map but it was little help. “We’ve got a problem,” I said, explaining that there were no arrows. I felt bewildered, angry and upset – all at once. Roger kept pedalling, but I could feel his vibes and knew that he had lost confidence. Horrifically, we came to a dead-end with a wide turning area.

“Handbrake, go back!” I called. We retraced our steps for half a mile to the last junction and took the track to the left as a set of headlights appeared and went along the route we had just left. After another mile we came to a crossroads in the woods. I realised the following car would be with us any time, so asked Roger to park the Escort across the track. I knew there was some major problem, so undid my belts and ran across to flag down the car, which happened to be our great rival Stig Blomqvist. I spoke to co-driver Arne Hertz, who was all for setting off down one of the three tracks that presented themselves to us. I was determined not to let Stig get ahead of us, so we slowly manoeuvred our car around in the track to keep Stig locked in. Just then, another two cars came past us, one completing a 360 degree turn. It was chaos, and I knew the stage would have to be cancelled. Very slowly we set off in convoy, and found cars heading towards us. To this day I cannot believe that there was no major accident, as there were rally cars going everywhere. Some cars drove inadvertently off the stage at a very high speed onto a main road. The poor stage finish marshal hadn’t a clue what was going on as cars approached from different directions.

According to Jonathan Lord, the chief of Royal Scottish Automobile Club Motorsport, there still remains a mystery surrounding the whole affair. The wind and rain could have disposed of some arrows, but surely not all of them. In any case, arrows in neighbouring forests were unaffected. When the course-opening car went through Cairn Edward, they were all in position. All very odd! Jonathan remembers the whole incident, for he was then a 19-year-old University Student who had travelled over from St Andrews to act as a stop-line marshal.

Anyway, we knew the stage would be cancelled, and we put the whole thing behind us as we drove down through the last two stages in Scotland, where Blomqvist kept the pressure on us, nibbling away at our lead. With all the earlier shenanigans, it was clearly time for Mr Clark to have a rest, so muggins here took to the wheel for a pleasant run across the border to Carlisle. We clocked in at the Hilltop Hotel for another shortish break, with time for a wash and brush-up in our rooms. Here I was accosted by a reporter and photographer from the Lancashire Evening Post, who wanted to take a photograph of me in the bath. I declined on the grounds of good taste, and not wanting to frighten the newspaper’s readers.

There were enormous crowds along the route through Carlisle city centre and into the hotel car park. Apparently, there had been hourly bulletins about us after the news on the main BBC radio channels and the media was out in force. It was noticeable that I was getting more interviews here than Roger (not that he was worried, of course, as he hated such things). I was now on the fringe of my home area so it was ‘local boy makes good’ syndrome. I must say I enjoyed it, but tried to dampen the euphoria by saying to everyone that there were thirty more miles of difficult stages to go. “I’m very superstitious,” I told the ITV film crew. “I don’t like to count my chickens until they’re hatched, and I won’t believe it until we get on the finish ramp in York.” These were prophetic words, indeed.

I cannot deny that I much enjoyed the adulation, and it was an amazing feeling to see banners and cards with my name on them. In fact, as we travelled further south, towards the Lake District, my name was seen more than Roger’s.

We drove in the morning sun down to the Greystoke Forest near Penrith. This was a rough, seven-mile stage through narrow tracks beneath overhanging branches, and it was like driving through a bumpy, dark tunnel. Despite our caution we were fastest at 7 minutes 21 seconds, ahead of Simo Lampinen, Rauno Aaltonen, Stig Blomqvist, and Harry Källström. Those are a few good names for you to remember.

Astonishingly, Roger was quickest again on the stage at Wythop in a small, hilly forest near Keswick, but discretion was the better part of valour at Dodd Wood, which twisted and turned through trees over a narrow track with very steep drops down towards Thirlmere Lake far below. I warned Roger of this, and told him how many people had gone over the edge on previous rallies. I may have exaggerated, but he obviously took notice, as we came only fifth there.

I was really on home ground now, as we drove through Ambleside to a time control at the Drunken Duck near Coniston. This pub was one of my haunts over the past few years, and, as it was early afternoon, there was a sizeable crowd outside the pub, most with glasses in their hands. Cries of “Want a pint, Tony?” were heard and there was much cheering and shouting. We obviously declined the offer of drinks, and travelled the short distance to the last stage of the rally, number 72 at Grizedale Forest. Here was a bit of a sting in the tail, as it was ten miles of fast and tricky forest going. Never, ever, have there been such huge crowds in the forest at Grizedale. They virtually lined the entire ten miles. Unbelievably, we could actually hear the cheers of the crowds from inside the Escort. They were certainly willing us to win. I will never forget that. Roger drove sensibly, but still very quickly by normal standards, as we knew that we were three minutes ahead of 1971 winner Stig Blomqvist, and all we had to do was finish the stage and tootle the 110 miles back to York. Or was it?

Before York we stopped at the Swan Hotel at Newby Bridge where there were very big crowds and ‘Welcome’ banners galore. Situated at the southern tip of Lake Windermere, the Swan had always been a favourite place of mine, and I had often attended Furness District Motor Club dinner-dances there. We clocked out of the time control at 2.30pm, and I took the wheel of the mud-covered ‘Esso Blue.’ I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned this before, but Esso Blue was a popular nickname for the car, much used by followers. The paintwork of the car featured a prominent blue stripe, and Esso Blue paraffin featured in a popular TV commercial of the day, complete with catchy jingle. I bet you didn’t know all that!

I was very familiar with the route from Newby Bridge to York, and pointed the car towards the A590, then the A65 to Kirkby Lonsdale, Skipton, Harrogate, and York. Roger decided he didn’t need to read the road book, and settled down for a good sleep before all the carousing that was bound to follow throughout the evening in York.

Not far from Skipton, on the moors near the splendidly named Blubberhouses, I felt the steering getting slightly more stiff, and, above the rattles and bangs acquired during the previous 1750 miles, thought there was another grinding sound. I woke Roger and pulled into a gateway. Roger took the wheel and after a quarter of a mile pulled into a lay-by. He had a look at the front wheels and discovered the front offside wheel bearing had seized. What did I say about not counting chickens?

Neither of us panicked, and I worked out how long we would have to get back to York within ‘fail time.’ It would be fairly tight, I estimated. First, however, we had to get in touch with the team. In 1972 there was no radio communication, no mobile phones, and not too many red telephone boxes on Blubberhouses moor. Within minutes, twenty or more rally followers steered into the lay-by, and at least five drivers of Escorts kindly offered spare parts from their own cars. Roger declined the offers, realising that a standard wheel bearing would not solve the problem. Time was marching on as we jacked up the car and Roger stripped the front hub. At that very moment, out of the blue, we heard the dulcet Scottish brogue of Andrew Cowan. Never have I been so happy to see anyone! He had been following us ever since York on Monday morning, but had fallen behind us by about ten minutes because of heavy tea-time traffic near Skipton. All the service cars were heading back to York, presumably using the direct route from the Lake District, as we were. However, they were yet to appear.

Roger and Andrew then calmly set about cannibalising Andrew’s retired rally car, leaving it on three wheels in the lay-by while Andrew awaited rescue. I had been constantly calculating the time required to get back to York, and keeping a close eye on the clock. I wasn’t frantically worried, but was admittedly very relieved when Andrew and Roger lowered the car off the jack. Roger quickly strapped himself in, and I told him to “go like hell.”

We were lucky not to get caught by the police as we sped through built-up areas and overtook lines of traffic, flat-out in fifth gear. On the outskirts of York we did encounter flashing blue lights. “Oh, shit!” Roger muttered, and I must admit I thought that this was the bitter end of our great trip. We pulled up behind the blue lights in yet another lay-by, and suddenly realised from the beaming faces of the two police motorbike riders that they had been sent to wait for us and give us a police escort through the streets of York to the finish at the racecourse. “Where the bloody hell have you been, Roger?” one of the riders asked in a strong Yorkshire accent. We told them of our troubles, and I said we had only a few minutes in hand to get to the racecourse. With that, these two splendid men told us to follow them and accelerated off down the road. As we neared the centre of York they took us through traffic lights at red and down shortcuts off the official route, and we arrived with only five minutes to spare. It was a near thing, to be sure, and apparently we’d caused pandemonium at the rally headquarters in the Station Hotel and at the finish area. No-one, including Ford, knew where we were!

As long as I live, I shall never forget the glorious ‘clunk’ as we drove onto the wooden finish ramp. The spotlights and photographers’ flashing light bulbs were blinding, the noise of cheering was deafening, and a loudspeaker was blaring out phrases like ‘Britain’s new motorsport heroes,’ ‘superstars,’ ‘history has been made,’ ‘brilliant performance,’ and so on, ad infinitum.

I passed my timecard to the marshal, making sure he signed it and entered our correct time of arrival, as silly mistakes have been made among the euphoria of rally finishes. Then it hit me – we had won the RAC Rally of Great Britain, an ambition of both Roger’s and mine! And we had beaten the great team of Stig Blomqvist and Arne Hertz by a splendid three minutes and twenty-five seconds, into the bargain.

We undid our seat belts, climbed out of our mud-spattered home of the last four-and-a-half days, and clambered onto the roof for the statutory photographs. And, boy, were there some photographers! We were shouted at to wave, hold hands high in the air, stand up, sit down, and then we were given a massive bottle of Moët et Chandon champagne (1966 vintage), which Roger opened before spraying the crowd, most of the officials, many photographers, and me. Mind you, he had a few quick swigs before that, and so did I. We dismounted from our now slippery perch by sliding off the front. In doing so, Roger contrived to rip a large hole in the seat of his overalls as he inadvertently caught the pin that secures the Escort’s bonnet! Needless to say, we all thought that a highly amusing conclusion to proceedings.

In fact, it wasn’t a conclusion as we were interviewed incessantly by dozens of TV, radio, and press reporters, and by well-known novelist Jilly Cooper, no less, who had been travelling for part of the rally as a guest of Ford. Jilly wrote a marvellous article for her column in The Sunday Times, and certainly captured the tension of the closing stages, which all rally folk will fully understand. Here’s part of it:

“So we waited yet again in one of the tensest half-hours I can remember. Looking into the valley where the sunlight rusted the larches, the grey river choked over the stones down to Windermere. Fans lined the walls, stamping their gumbooted feet to keep warm. Their girlfriends slowly turned blue. Mechanics for once not talking much, chain-smoking, warming their blacknailed hands on cups of coffee.

“There was a familiar growl from the valley, everyone stiffened. A souped-up motorbike thundered by. Everyone groaned in disappointment. Then, suddenly, a howl of triumph went up as the dirty, mud-spattered little Ford drew up beside us. I was slightly ashamed how moved I felt. Roger Clark and his co-driver, Tony Mason, sat in the car, black rings under their eyes, their faces seamed with tiredness, charisma rising like steam from their hair – real Stupor-stars – it was like the end of an Alistair MacLean novel.

“Later, after they had clinched the victory in York, everyone drank too much champagne. I felt as though I had just won the pools.”

The article later appeared in a book, I am pleased to say, and I often dine out on my appearance in a Jilly Cooper publication – regrettably, not in one of her bodice-ripping specialities!