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Cars and Car Conversions - Feature: City Speed Rally Fiesta
"Being there-4"
November 1981
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Feature: City Speed Rally Fiesta




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.....had not misread their clocks and cost us a minute. The finish time was fine, and Atkinson mumbled something that sounded like "dull bastard" as he pulled off his Bell Star. Nothing else was mentioned about the Chevette; indeed later in the day Chris sold the driver some badly-needed petrol.

The low seeding was to cause quite a few hassles passing slower competitors. The Fiesta may be down on power compared to the bigger engined car, but Atkinson drives to a perfect racing line and the car sports huge Group Four Escort disc brakes. On tarmac, through corners, it is especially effective.

Two more stages, one too quick for the Fiesta to shine and the other short and nondescript save for a couple of oh-my-gawd deceptive yumps. That was the end of lap one of five, and back into service.

At the entry to the service point you are given an exit time; we had 40 minutes in which to play about. John and Norm attacked the car, John mock-complaining at the state of the Fiesta; "There's no need to get all this sheep muck on the tyres.... Look at these oil leaks - I think this engine's been up to nine thou again...."

Now the navigator's job gets interesting. The only thing that drivers care about at the service halt, with rally cars untidily lining the sides of a narrow road bisecting some barren moorland, is food. Sandwiches, squash, crisps, coffee, are all quickly shovelled into gannet-like mouths. Health and fitness? The only muscle-twanging hereabouts is that of the jaw, as the next hunk of high-carbohydrate mush is untidily masticated. The co-drivers indulge in that perverse game of rallying kidology, comparing stage times.

It would appear that everybody wants to know what the other crews' stage times are, even though they know each co-driver fibs. So you go through a pantomime of chopping minutes off stage times in order to force the pace a little, and presumably see your rivals flip end-over-end into the heather or suffer similarly debilitating fates.

So the event continues. On stage four, we forged past a white Escort where the gap oetween the RS1800and car 38 was one Fiesta-width-plus-five-millimetres, and also half-spun at a hairpin thanks to a fraction too much handbrake. Halfway through the next stage we caught a red Avenger erratically squirming its intermediate tyres to destruction, and decisively took him. A lot of stage five was flat-in-top, save for a twisty bit right at the end - where one Firenza had stuck itself off backwards into the bank beyond the flying finish board.

At the second, hour-long service, John and Norm cut slots in the rear brake pads to find some more bite and stop the tail kicking about so much.

There was another Fiesta running at 22, Paul Windsor's supertrick Haynes of Maidstone copycar, with rosejoints everywhere and a reputed £15,000 bill hanging on it. At that point we were 72 seconds ahead of the big-buck machine and rumoured to be running in the top 15. Atkinson seemed pleased.

And the co-driver? He had started to time stages properly and compared his times with those displayed by the stage finish marshals. It was the timing that required the greatest use of vacant brain cells; as for the mapwork, you would have more trouble navigating through Tesco's than wrongslotting across Epynt with this road book.

One navigator comes across for a chat. "You're going well" he comments.

Yes, not bad at all.
"Whose notes are you using?"
Notes?
"Pacenotes, you know."
Haven't got any, mate, this is all strictly driver talent.
"No notes? Bloody 'ell" and wanders off.

Out-psyched? Don't mention it.

Stage seven seemed pretty good, Atkinson redefined the comparative term 'bravery' by going flat, downhill, towards a 90-right, and past a sign advertising the slope as one-in-seven.... The yumps were good, Atkinson proving his immediate qut-of-the-box speed by equalling his stage times in either direction. Above all, Chris Atkinson is neat, precise, and matches a gritty pedal-to-the-metal commitment with an eminently logical approach.

At the end of stage seven, Chris slipped the car into reverse for a fraction of a second. There was perhaps 300 yards between stages. No drive. Nothing at all. "Oh dearie, dearie me," exclaimed Chris. "Golly gumdrops!" (Actually, that last sentence is a barefaced lie. What Mr. Atkinson said was a) short, b) sweet, c) anatomically impossible and d) undeniably offensive to those who have never had their finest ever run in a rallying Fiesta suddenly come to a grinding halt.)

Then he yelled for the navvy to grab the front-mounted jack and haul a spare wheel out of the back. Chris jacked up the car, slung a spare wheel underneath as a chock and dived below the Fiesta. His quick-witted navigator then dashed off to book him into the stage dead on time and so not lose any valuable road time.

When he returned, Atkinson had purloined a hacksaw and a Stanley knife from somewhere and was busy assaulting the gear linkage with the brutality of a man possessed. Was he successful? Put it like this. What was a box of neutrals now contained a second and reverse gear.

After stage eight came service. Atkinson pootled despondently through the stage, the Fiesta whining pathetically in second, waving a pair of flourished fingers at a few photographer friends, and- ironically -pulling over for all the tunnel-vision Ronnie's and Terry's at the back of the pack.

But the Fiesta was dead. An internal gearbox problem combined with front-wheel-drive complexity had seen to that. Had this been an Escort, it would have been time for a 10-minute 'box-swop. With the front-driver it's time to break out the sandwiches. The rival Fiesta stopped and asked nicely about our plight, as he pulled away so Chris said, with something approaching bitterness, "that bloke must be laughing his socks off now". After all, the G5-style Fiesta had never looked like catching its less sophisticated brother.

Chris and weary navvy drove down to the results centre, a rentavan crammed with an Apple computer and all the trimmings. The listing taped to the box van said it all. After two laps we had been eighth overall and creaming the class. On the second stage we had scored fifth fastest time; ahead lay such names as Tony Pond and Jeff Churchill. The other Fiesta? Sixteenth overall, light years away.

Collectively sick as a parrot, the City Speed team demolished Katy's picnic - rallying's answer to football's early bath - laid around in the sun and grumbled continuously. Then they trailered the Fiesta and headed for the finish in Llandovery. There, at least, was a pub and some liquid solace.

While it lasted, it had been a Bothamesque attempt to shake up the regular runners and prove that the Fiesta - in certain rallying circumstances - is up to snuff. And that Chris Atkinson should not be overlooked in the hunt for young British rally driving talent.

But what about the co-driver? He had enjoyed it all enormously, made few visible errors and nearly mastered the easy bits. Only nearly mastered?

To this day, Chris Atkinson doesn't realise just how close he came to being booked in two minutes early as the start of stage seven....

Captions -

Top-Middle - ...as for the mapwork, you would have more trouble navigating through Tesco's than across Epynt with this roadbook.
Middle - Above all, Chris Atkinson is neat, precise, and matches a gritty pedal-to-the-metal commitment with an eminently logical approach.