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When both Pace and Brolin had to back out because of business complications, racing boss Jo Hoppen of Volkswagen of America, which also imports Audi, asked me to go with pro rallyists Bruno Kreibich and Clark Bond instead. Bruno of the small, intense body and unruly hair, a native German who runs a VW/Audi shop in Queens, N.Y., and drives high-speed, European-style “pro” rallies and off-road races for kicks. And Clark, a friendly, usually easy going General Motors engineer and Bay City, Mich., volunteer fire chief who straps himself to the seat on Bruno’s right and calmly navigates at insane speeds on impossible roads. In Bruno’s race-prepared Audi Quattro Turbo, they had finished the ’84 Sports Car Club of America Pro Rally season third in points behind the factory Audi and Mazda teams.
Who could refuse a ride like that? Two weeks before the start, I decided to go.
The Uniroyal Cannonball One Lap of America is auto writer/TV commentator Brock Yates’ idea of having fun with cars – “Hey, let’s circumnavigate the country! Covering nearly 9,000 miles in eight days with one overnight break, it’s the legal successor to his illegal Cannonball cross-country races of the 1970s, the ones that spawned all those dumb movies.
Five time-speed distance (TSD) sections during which speed and navigation must be razor sharp are interspersed among several free-form transit legs. Cars win by arriving on time at each of dozens of checkpoints, surprise or scheduled.
Yates hopes to build his One Lap a major American happening. Last year’s inaugural event was run mostly on interstates. This year’s format seemed much more interesting, with drives through the countryside and along challenging mountain roads. So interesting, in fact, that a dozen manufacturers fielded official or semi-official teams So peppered with current and former racers – including Champion Phil Hill – rallyists and, yes, even journalists. So interesting that event sponsor Uniroyal and others put up serious contingency – that means contingent on the use of their products – prize money. So interesting that arch-enemy-of-the-automobile Ralph Nader took it upon himself to spoil the party.
Yates’ reputation and prior transgressions had preceded him. This year he launched 200 more-or-less solid citizens – most of them skilled and experienced drives in 78 vehicles ranging from VWs and vans to a ’59 Rolls Royce and a Cadillac limo – and the safety nuts imagined a grinning Burt Reynolds and Dom DeLuise in speeding sports cars. He called it a “rally” and the media heard “race.” He explained “rally.” They printed “race.” They considered the words synonymous and didn’t want to know otherwise.
This year’s other major problem was organization or lack of it. The old outlaw Cannonballs had only one rule: “There are no rules.” The 1985 Cannonball One Lap had lots of rules originally, although few of them were enforced and many were modified or made up as events unfolded.
Mistakes in the route instructions, unmanned checkpoints (which meant no credit for making them on time and no penalty for not making them at all), indecision in the face of adversity, contradictory directions, and uneven rule enforcement were to cause considerable grief for ourselves and others.
To begin at the beginning . . .
Day Zero
In Detroit on the Thursday before the March I start, things already are going wrong.
The car – one of four special prototypes – has arrived late from Germany, and Clark is still making last-minute preparations. No one has arranged for the cellular phone. And we’re stuck with a terrible back-of-the-pack number: 76th out of 78 cars.
I manage to come up with a phone – a slick briefcase model kindly loaned by NYNEX Mobile Communications, with the “roaming” services supplied by The 800 Cellular Co. of New York City. But no amount of begging and pleading can change our car’s number. Pace had withdrawn our original BFG entry, and by the time Volkswagen re-entered the same car for us, organizers say, the first 75 numbers had been taken.
First come, first served,” the tell us. “So sorry.”
Since rally cars start, run and finish at one-minute intervals, what difference does a high number make? A lot. For a serious competitor in a large TSD rally, bringing up the rear can be a big disadvantage. No. 76 will always be one hour and 16 minutes behind the lead car and just two minutes ahead o the last one, provided it’s right on time. If delayed a few minutes, it will be out of CB range, unable to communicate with the group, and if it arrives more than an hour late at any checkpoint, according to the rules, the checkpoint will be closed.
But much bigger problems are brewing for all of us – Ralph Nader is on our bumpers. Visualizing a pack of speed-crazed maniacs careening around the country, he scrambles for a court injunction, a Congressional resolution, whatever it takes to stop the One Lap. His protégé, fellow car-hater and former National Highway and Traffic Safety Administration chief Joan Claybrook, reportedly told a Senate subcommittee that we’re intending to average 85 mph. The fact that she’s 33 mph off the mark doesn’t deflate her moral outrage. Nader, having failed to shut us down, contacts authorities in each of the 28 states we’ll pass through to warn of our coming. I guess he things Yates’ massive advance public relations effort isn’t enough.
Day One
Yates and his wife, Pam, spend Thursday night on the phone trying to control the damage, but the whole event seems in serious jeopardy as Friday dawns over rally headquarters at the Hilton hotel in Troy, Mich.
“This Nader business could be a blessing,” Yates proclaims, bleary-eyed at the morning drivers’ meeting. “It is an opportunity to show the American public that high-powered automobiles can be operated in a responsible manner. There’s a lot at stake here. If we treat this event right, we can strike a blow for car enthusiasts everywhere. If we screw up, we will affect the whole sport for years to come. I have a checkbook here, and if anyone wants to turn this into a race, I’ll refund his fee right now. Please drive carefully.”
Further discussion of the rules follows, then safety inspection resumes. While we wait our turn, a final briefing and press conference begin at the waterfront Landsdowne restaurant, 15 miles away. Bruno reveals he hasn’t had a shower; the hotel is out of hot water.
We miss the press conference but arrive in time for lunch at the Landsowne before the 2 p.m. start. Drag racing champion Shirley Muldowney, the official starter, makes her first public appearance since her terrible accident the summer before. Yates is in hiding. Seems he offered to take the Naderite who’s been badgering him all week along for the ride, and the guy accepted. However, Yates’ long-suffering lawyer advised that the organizer’s place is at rally headquarters, not driving around the country, so the second annual One Lap of America begins with its founder conspicuously absent.
Some of the more interesting entries:
- Ocean-boat racer and Benihana founder Rocky Aoki profiles for the cameras in white tie and tails with two hired chauffeurs. Last year, Rocky’s ’59 Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith broke down almost at the start. This year, with the car’s rear cabin fully equipped – TV, VCR, CB, mobile phones, microwave oven, a week’s supply of Benihana frozen dinners – he plans to go the distance.
- Michigan limousine builder James Bardina and former racers Steve Behr and Dick Gilmartin have a similar setup – plus video games – in the back of the former’s specially prepared d’Bardia Cadillac limo.
- Harry Ferran and Elizabeth Wheeler of Orlando, Fla., who call themselves “Team Obsolete,” are “warming up” their immaculate ’36 Chevy sedan for the old-cars-only Great American Race in June.
- Ross Burrill and Patrick Derifield of Waterloo, Iowa, with their customized ’36 Ford Sedan Delivery
- Brothers George and Tim Fallar, “Team Fubar” of Mamaroneck, N.Y., with a tiny, three-wheeled convertible-topped Harley Davidson Tri-Hawk. Later we learn they are entered to raise money for muscular dystrophy , and that team leader George himself suffers from the disease.
At last our starting time arrives and Muldowney flags us off. Bruno drives, Clark navigates, and I fiddle with the cellular phone during the leisurely run to the first checkpoint at Ann Arbor, Mich. The phone works great once we clear the tunnel-like freeways of downtown Detroit. Upon arrival, we’re advised that the authorities in certain unspecified Midwestern states might arrest the lot of us for participating in what they deem an illegal event and might even confiscate our cars. It is suggested that we might want to remove our “incriminating” sponsor decals before leaving Michigan, but most of us choose not to. We feel that Uniroyal and the various other sponsors (B.F. Goodrich, Anco Wiper Blades, Escort, Quaker State, NYNEX and 800 Cellular, in our case) deserve the exposure they’re paying for. We’ll take our chances.
The “smokies” are ever-vigilant as we cruise north at a stady 55 toward Lake Michigan’s frozen upper peninsula. With a few possible exceptions up front, we’re the slowest 78 cars on the road, which must be annoying to the weekend skiers, doing their usual 65 to 75 mph. It’s 280 miles to the Mackinac Bridge, then 260 west to Houghton. Despite our lack of rally navigation gear, we do fairly well on a challenging 73-mile TSD loop – complete with several average speed changes and secret checkpoints. We place 14th with 94 penalty points. (One point is assigned per second for being either late or early at each control.) It’s now 5:20 a.m. on Saturday, and our next instruction reads: “Begin untimed transit zone to Exit 274, I-90 west, Three Forks, Mont.” That’s 1,250 miles to go, and we’re due in at 2:06 a.m. Sunday.
Day Two
We choose a longer, more southerly route through Wisconsin and Minnesota to avoid the anticipated police, miss a turn and waste an hour getting back on course. The rest of the day is spent trying to hurry safely, ducking traffic and cops. By late afternoon we’re well into the snowstorm we’ve been hearing about from eastbound truckers; it’s bad news for others but good for us, since a four-wheel-drive Audi takes to slippery roads like a bird dog to water. When the weather turns mean, the traffic gets light and the radar goes away. Now, we figure, we can make some time. Wrong! Our radar detector squawks, blue lights flash through the blinding snow, and we’re nailed by one of North Dakota’s finest with an instant-on gun.
Farther west, despite continual CB word that the roads are closed, we’re hauling the mail on the deserted highway high in the Montana mountains, almost back on schedule. The surface is glare ice alternating with rough, hard-packed snow. The Audi’s suspension is taking a pounding, but Bruno’s skillful driving and the four-wheel drive keep it stable and secure, with the added benefit of anti-lock brakes for the tricky downhill sections.
Suddenly there’s a zap, crackle, pop and the smell of burnt wire. Our electronic climate control has shorted out. But it hasn’t just quit – it failed with the full fan, full air conditioning on! It’s 20 below, 50-mph winds, and there’s no civilization for miles. Bruno knows Audis like Big Boy knows burgers, but he has no idea how to cope with this. We wake Clark, a pretty fair auto engineer and mechanic himself. He sits up, dazed, in the back seat, takes in the situation, pulls his jacket up over his head, lies down and goes back to sleep. We stop and pull the fan fuse but can’t block the flow of frigid air on our hands, face and feet. We damn near freeze before finding a garage and jury-rigging the thing to restore some heat. It’s too late by now to make the next three checkpoints about 250 miles northwest, so we call Detroit, “Head for Portland,” they tell us.
We figure the organizers will throw out that section, since supposedly the roads are closed. They don’t. Each missed control costs us the equivalent of an hour’s penalty – 3,600 points – for a total of 10,800. Suddenly we’re out of the running for a decent finish, as are 46 others turned back by the storm.
Much later we hear stories of police harassment and selective enforcement experienced by other rally vehicles in Minnesota, North Dakota and Montana. Groups of six and more are stopped en masse and ticketed for 75 mph in Minnesota when, in fact, they are creeping through the storm. Or take the case of Phil Hill. With a trooper on his right and a semi on his back bumper, he pulls slowly ahead at 25 mph on the slippery highway, signals, moves over to let the trucker by, and is cited for a “dangerous pass.” Drivers of three cars doing 40 in company with a local Montana sheriff report being yanked over just short of the Idaho line and ticketed for 70.
Troopers in eastern Montana call a “drivers’ meeting” at Glendive and convince several teams to give up and stay for the night. Some ignore the advice and press on through the blizzard, while others are misdirected to alternate routes that prove at least as bad. (Still running late, out of CB range, we miss all of this.) Then there’s the story of Ken Maytag, Glen Bjorkman and Dave Kirchner in a Chevy Suburban, and Rick Kopec and Pete DeSilva in a Dodge Shelby Charger. Seeking a way out of the storm, they come upon a family of three, all badly hurt in a serious accident. The One Lappers treat them at the scene, transport them to the nearest hospital, and wait to make sure they are OK before continuing. Some public menace.
Day Three
It’s raining in Portland, but we’re back on schedule. After a short break, we’re off down the coast toward sunny California. The California Highway Patrol, unmoved by the Nader-generated hysteria, lets us go with the flow of the traffic. Its position: “If we see them speeding, we’ll arrest them. If not, we’ll leave them alone.” An eagerly anticipated timed session at Sears Point Raceway, near Sonoma, Calif., is another disappointment. As an experienced road racer who knows and loves the Sears Point course, I figure to cut the fastest time and save a little face. Another disappointment: rallyists get only one lap, from a standing start, and the only way to lose credit is to be slower than a “bogie” time so easy we could have done it in reverse. Our time is indeed excellent – maybe the best, though they never tells us – but it counts for nothing. We roll into Los Angeles Monday afternoon, thoroughly frustrated, discouraged and looking forward to our first real meal and warm bed in 96 hours.
Day Four
Vasek Polak Porsche-Audi in Hermosa Beach replaces our burnt-out climate control, and we’re mentally recharged for the March 5 restart at the Portofino Inn, Redondo Beach, Calif. At least, we tell ourselves, we can run the second half mistake- and disaster-free. Yates holds a drivers’ meeting and bids us well. Then former racer, Cobra creator and Texas chilimeister Carroll Shelby flags off the first car promptly at 11 a.m. We’re off toward Las Vegas. The planned mountain route is closed by snow, so we cruise through Death Valley with time to spare.
Over CB we chat with the “Angels of Mercy,” a trio of female racers in a full-on Chevy Suburban ambulance. The Canadian team of Garry and Larry Sowerby and Alan Adams – driving the same diesel-powered GMC Suburban in which Garry and Ken Langley made a world-record run from the tip of Africa to the top of Norway last year – entertain us with tales of a rebel ambush in Kenya and a sprint through the Iran-Iraq gauntlet in the Middle East; they have bullet holes to document the tales. Farther ahead, one of the “Stuntman Special” Dodge Ramchargers puts on a show; a team member climbs out onto its roof and adjusts the driving lights at 60 mph. When we arrive at the Imperial Palace in Las Vegas, we’re treated to a lavish buffet and invited to peruse the hotel’s extensive car collection. Next stop: Lajitas, Texas.
Day Five
It’s slow going to Hoover Dam, then wall-to-wall Arizona bears to Phoenix. Hiding in the weeds every three or four miles, they microwave us like human TV dinners with instant-on guns. Most of us cower like sheep in the slow lane at 55 mph. Eight-time pro-rally champ John Buffum, boldly leading the pack in another Audi team car, is twice cited for 62 mph. The second time, a female trooper handcuffs him and hauls him off to jail; his teammates bail him out. Meanwhile, locals, tourists and trucks full of chickens sail by doing at least 60 mph. One trooper wearily asks over our CB channel, “Are you the last car?” We pretend not to hear.
Major Tom Mildebrandt of the Arizona Highway Patrol later said his organization did not practice selective enforcement, but he shed some light on the state’s reaction. “When we’re confronted by these types of people,” he said, “we have to take some enforcement action for the safety of the motoring public. All we did was enforce the national speed limit.” He added that Arizona had been alerted by the teletype from the Michigan State Police that called the One Lap an “unsanctioned race” and warned that “participants have a reputation for disregarding speed laws.” Funny, because the Michigan police were outwardly cooperative, and we only saw one rally car pulled over by them. Clearly, any event labeled “Cannonball” is automatically suspect due to past transgressions.
“That organization’s reputation preceded itself,” said the major.
Day Six
A 100-mile mistake in the rally instructions through Arizona and New Mexico has some cars needlessly speeding while others who stop to phone Detroit are told the skip the lengthy southwest Texas section entirely and proceed to the next checkpoint in Louisiana. We get completely different instructions via CB: “Continue at your original average speed (about 54 mph) and modify your ‘in’ time – the time you’re due at a control – accordingly.” We run the whole specified route, which includes a beautiful, rolling, winding section along the Rio Grande River complete with occasional loose livestock. Hot Rod magazine’s Kevin Boales has to stop to nudge a cow out of the way on a narrow bridge; in return she kicks out one of his Dodge Caravan fog lamps.
We follow Aoki’s Rolls-Royce for the last several miles and arrive well ahead of our modified ‘in’ time to find rally participants hopelessly confused, spread out, ticked off and nearly two hours behind schedule. The sun has set and all gas stations are closed.
We’re told there’s a gas station 17 miles down the road, but there isn’t. The twisty road into Big Bend National Park is great fun and spooky as hell, with menacing charcoal mountains silhouetted by a full moon against the slate-colored sky. The last instruction on what was supposed to have been a daylight TSD section is: “Left before ‘Administration Building’ to Marathon.” We miss the turn in the dark and drive 25 miles to the eastern end of the park. There’s no gas there, either, and no way out. Just three guys in a Saab – but you already know how we get saved.
Day Seven
Running in convoy with the Saab guys and three Louisianans – Roy Rackley, Diane Butler and Frank Smith – in a Pontiac Sunbird makes the rest of Texas, which is bigger than most countries, less tedious. Random thoughts on a long, dull freeway: Are we out here busting our butts for screenwriter Yates’ next dumb movie? Why are the rules so selectively flexible? Everyone who was stopped or delayed by the storm was allowed to rejoin at Redondo, for example, while Boales’ Hot Rod van was not allowed to take on another co-driver after one got sick and flew home. Why have these big, blue “Uniroyal One Lap of America’” decals on our doors turned into “Arrest Me Quck!” signs? When this is over whom do we strange first, Yates or Nader?
The two Louisiana checkpoints we skip to make up our three lost hours cost another 7,800 penalty points – and the Mississippi Bears are waiting at the border. As soon as a group of us goes by, several patrollers demonstrate their presence by cruising up and down the freeway with blue lights flashing. After that, they leave us alone. Fair enough, guys. Have a nice night.
The Florida reception is similar, but louder and more nerve-wracking. The troopers fall in behind us with their radars on, follow for several miles, then pull ahead and follow the next car. Then the next. We would turn our radar detector down, but it helps keep us awake.
The expected meal and rest at Bruno’s Porsche-Audi in Jacksonville is, instead, a bag of fruit and a 10-minute potty stop. Seems the organizers are cutting or eliminating scheduled breaks to try to get the rally back in gear. We grab some junk food and coffee at a nearby 7/Eleven and head north.
Day Eight
Perhaps the rally’s best line comes over our CB on a lovely rural road in Virginia. A farmer is plowing his field, followed by thousands of white birds that apparently are feeding on worms and insects turned up by the blades. “That guy’s got so many birds he has to feed ‘em with a tractor,” chirps an unidentified voice.
We check in at Altanic BMW in Virginia Beach with time enough to unwind and make some needed phone calls, but not enough to grab a room for a nap and shower, as some do. Then it’s onward across the Chesapeake Bay into Delaware. Night falls, and with it a depressing rain. Confounded by the confusing and inaccurate instructions, we waste precious time finding one last checkpoint before pushing on to the rally’s northeastern corner: Darien, Conn.
We make a banzai midnight run around the bottom of Manhattan, past the Statue of Liberty, only to find no checkpoint. We could have skipped that one entirely, as many did. We roll in at the Darien restaurant on schedule – just as the owner is throwing everyone out because it’s past his 2 a.m. closing time and the local cops are out to ticket him for violating a blue law. Earlier arrivals got a red-carpet reception and a big meal; we get the bum’s rush.
Day Nine
Our Audi’s great slippery road stability comes in handy again on the all-night run to Watkins Glen, N.Y., much of which is ice-covered. A one-hour breakfast stop at the Glen Motor Inn is mandatory, we’re told, but again no one from the rally is there to record who makes it and who doesn’t. We could have skipped that, too, and saved ourselves a good hour. “Why is it,” Clark grumbles, “that the controls we miss always count and the ones we bust our ass to make usually don’t?”
Poor George and Tim Fallar. After another treacherous night in their three-wheeled Tri-Hawk, they’re especially upset. When the hit the ice in New York, their home state, they almost quit. But they persevere, arriving frozen, exhausted and an hour late, only to find no checkpoint. Almost the same thing had happened to them and others in Texas. “We broke our backs to make all the controls, then found out they were being thrown out due to the 100-mile error,” George laments. “It seems like every time you get to a checkpoint, the rules are changed.” They decide to skip the Ohio TSD section to make the Detroit finish on time.
Our decision to ignore a side route past the Watkins Glen race course proves a wise one. For miles we hear the plaintive CB calls of rallyists lost in the woods. More bad instructions. Crossing western New York on a beautiful Saturday morning, almost home, we’re looking forward to the last TSD leg coming up in eastern Ohio. But we aren’t prepared for the reception awaiting us across the border.
The “People’s Republic of China,” as Tony Assenza of Motor Trend would later call it, the state I’m now ashamed to say I grew up in, has everyone but the Marines and the National Guard on alert. They must think the Road Warriors are coming. Or the Russians. We count 48 radar-zapping highway patrol cars in just 200 miles. Others later report as many as 65, some in large bunches with all lights strobing, plus five state tow trucks, two airplanes and a highway patrol helicopter that shadowed the lead car almost from border to border. It looked, they said, like a Smokey and the Bandit chase scene, only no one was running. Among those ticketed in Ohio is eventual winner John Buffum. According to his navigator, Tom Grimshaw, they figure they have the rally won, and have the cruise control set on a solid 52 mph when an Ohio state trooper pulls them over on the Ohio Turnpike. Thinking quickly Buffum convinces the officer to let Grimshaw and co-driver Walter Boyce continue, since he is the only “guilty” party. Buffum later hitches a ride in another rally car.
And so it is that the winning Audi 5000 Turbo Quattro, our sister car, arrives at the finish in Detroit without its lead driver.
We score reasonably well on an excellent Ohio TSD leg, despite being balked by a very slow car just before a checkpoint. Keeping our noses clean through the rest of the state and into Michigan – at last – we arrive in Detroit right on time. There it becomes official – the Buffum/Boyce/Grimshaw Audi has won, and another team car, the Avon, Conn., Porsche-Audi entry of Tom Weaver, Robert Coffin and Joel Lange, is second. Third place goes to a Chevy Blazer co-driven by Floridians Walter Jominy, Tom Noonan and Jim Zetler.
We check the board and find ourselves a dismal 43rd. In the comments column next to our score are four simple words: “Ran out of gas.”
Epilogue
At the victory banquet, Yates notes that two years of One Lap rallies accumulated more than 1.3 million vehicle miles; the only casualties have been one wild turkey in 1984 and one Upper Michigan deer.
NBC’s “Good Sportsmanship” award goes to the two teams who stopped to help the injured family in the blizzard, with honorable mention to Brian, Swersky and Hill for rescuing us in Texas. Winning Yates’ Diamond Jim Brady “Moderation” Award is the extravagant tuxedo-clad Aoki. The George Schuster Trophy (named for the American who won the 1908 New York-to-Paris race in a Thomas Flyer) for courage and perseverance in the face of adversity is awarded to George and Tim Fallar of the three-wheeler. The pair raised contributions to the Muscular Dystrophy Association that total just over $5,000.
Despite Nader, police harassment, organizational flaws and rubber rules, the ’85 One Lap of America had its positive moments. Yates calls it a “C+ effort,” but insists the difficulties encountered this year will be rectified by 1986.
“Had we gone out beforehand and done the liaison that we later did with most of the East Coast states,” Yates says, “we would not have had any police problems. It was largely a question of information, and we will correct that next year.”
The 1986 One Lap, he promises, will have more of the challenging TSD sections but lower average speeds – 45 to 46 mph – on the long transits. The rally will be run later in the year to avoid bad weather, will be better organized, and will likely cover 10,000 miles in 10 days, with two overnight breaks and more meal and rest stops to reduce the fatigue and add to the camaraderie and fun. “With a longer format,” he says, “there is time to flesh out the thing a bit.”
Ralph Nader was dead wrong when he blasted the One Lap in advance as “an illegal conspiracy to violate the state laws” and “one of the grossest assaults ever on the 55 m ph speed law.” Interviewed after the fact, he admitted it was not the “Cannonball Run” he’d expected. “But,” he said, “if you look at the mathematics of it (and) figure in mountain roads and weather, there’s no way you can average 52 mph without violating the law.” True enough.
However, as event public relations man Bill Baker explains, “We figured the event would be able to run at normal speeds, what people normally run way out in the middle of no place – more than 52 but less than ‘banzai.’ There was selective law enforcement in some states, but I think some competitors brought it upon themselves by running too hard and running in packs. Still, there were an awful lot of teams that got no tickets at all.”
Reaction from the competitors was mixed. Steve Behr of the d’Bardia limo said he basically enjoyed it and that the 46-inch stretch Caddy did surprisingly well despite its length and weight. His team’s worst experience came after a gas stop in northern California:
“Jim had paid for the gas and I was on the phone. ‘Come on, you’re holding us up,’ he said. So we jumped into the car and took off. We reached Sears Point a few hours later and heard rumors that one team had left someone behind. I said, ‘No! Nobody could be that stupid!’ Then I told Jim, and he got this terrified look on his face. ‘It was us,’ he said. ‘Dick’s not in the back!’” Their third team member, Dick Gilmartin, who was on crutches because of a foot injury, had awakened and gone into the gas station men’s room. When he came out, the car was gone. Thinking Jim and Steve were kidding around, he waited for a while but eventually had to hitchhike to an airport and fly to Redondo Beach.
Hallett, Okla., race track owner Anatoly Arutunoff, who competed in a two-seat Mazda RX-7, said the best part for him was winning the Escort radar detector “most improved” award for the second half of the rally after badly blowing the first half. The worst part was fighting with last-minute co-driver Chris Ally over things like not closing the ash-tray and proper downshifting techniques.
“I was about ready to kick him out three or four times,” Arutunoff said. “It was a good psychological growing experience.” He summed up the rally as “a week of incredibly dull driving for the privilege of participating in the parties at both ends.”
Said George Fallar, a little less humorously: “We did not have a good time. It was the worst thing I’ve ever done, and we’ve done some crazy things. The Tri-Hawk has an air-cooled engine, so the heat was marginal. The seats don’t recline, so there’s no way to sleep in that car.” The car’s single rear wheel made it a handful in the ice and snow. However, he said, “Bad as it was, we’re planning on going next year. We’ll do better next year and get more on the total for muscular dystrophy. But we’re going in something big, so we can sleep.”
Finally, writer and photographer John Lamm, who shared a turbocharged Chrysler LeBaron GTS sedan with Phil Hill and Richard Ecelbarger, articulated it pretty well for most of us: “The worst thing was the police, to be treated that way. That made it no fun at all, at least the first part, until we got to the blizzard. Then it got to be something. Then it wasn’t just a drive, trying to stay awake. Then it was people – men and women in cars – against nature. That’s when it got to be neat! Later, after the police activity slacked off – or maybe when we just got used to it – it became more fun. The camaraderie was nice, and I enjoyed it very much in the end. I would do it again.”
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