Kitcars International

Liege-Agadir-Liege endurance rally

Last month in a piece on Peter Davis' Liege sports car I said that he's a lovely bloke, instantly likeable and a total enthusiast. After fourteen hectic days scurrying hither and thither in keeping with the emphatic dictate of the Liege Agadir Liege route book, I can add that beneath the affable bonhomie lies a mildly sadistic streak that found a myriad outlets in the demands made of cars and competitors on this unique and historic event.

On paper the idea seemed pretty straightforward; drive from Liege across France and Spain, catch a ferry to Morocco, do a quick circuit on tarmac roads and return by a slightly different route. Things would be mildly complicated by the need to traverse three mountain ranges, each of them twice and the fact that some roads would be in less than perfect condition. Add to that the fact that the considerable distances would have to be covered in accordance with pretty strict time schedule and still the challenge didn't seem insurmountable as the time requirements were calculated on a relaxed rate of advance of just 50 kph.

But that view failed to consider the Peter element. He found mountains where the detailed Michelin maps said there were none. He found roads that were almost impassable and not just in the more remote regions of Morocco. He found roads on which progress was reduced to around 20 kph and the consequently extended time in the saddle made time controls harder to hit, brought tiredness into the equation and increased the scope for both driving and navigational errors as well as reducing the time available for vehicle maintenance.

Naturally there were low points exacerbated by heat, cold, rain and fatigue but at journey's end, there wasn't a single competitor who won't be back for the next one … just as long as they get a couple of weeks break. In addition, all will be fully clued up on exactly how the event runs.

Each competitor has a number and starts in numerical order according to that number past the official start time. Thus we were number 17 so started at 9.30 on day 1 + 17 minutes being 9.47. Arrival times at control points are calculated by dividing the distance to be covered by 50, 50 kph being the average speed of the event. If you clock in bang on time, you maintain Gold Award status. If you clock in during the hour following your scheduled time, you still maintain Gold Award status but the minutes eaten into that hour are used by the organisers to vary the start order for the following days. If you miss a control either through accident, mechanical breakdown or other unforeseen occurrence you are demoted to Silver Award status. Drop another and it's Bronze after which there is only a finisher's certificate to go for. But that's still some achievement as it entails covering a set route spread over 8000 Kms (5000 miles) and makes demands of car and crew that require a number of personal and physical qualities to meet.

The event started with a bang as it involved half a lap of the Spa Francorchamps Grand Prix circuit, much of which, including the start and finish straight, is public road. I bet the traffic police have a field day down there! Richard Winter in the Banks Europa has raced bikes on this circuit and told us all the tricky bits before comprehensively buggering up the second chicane, executing a neat 360 over the grass and only failing to carry out the perfect recovery manoeuvre by failing to find second for his return to the track. But no harm done. Pen Roberts took the wheel of the Westfield for this one and following the exhilaration of a flat out blast down Eau Rouge, also got a major slide on for the same corner. Recovery was masterful at which point a wayward Lomax drifted across our bows but collision was avoided and we finished with no problems. Chris Hanley was another who came to mild grief taking to the grass and delivering a severe thump to the rear swing arm of his Lomax 223. The result was a bent arm that later cost a tyre due to rubbing on the bodywork but the situation was saved by Dave Ham and the crew aboard the Barra bus who used their welding equipment and a stout section of a steel gate to effect repairs that lasted the distance.

We were supposed to stop at the end of this little foray to be sent off on the route proper according to our start times but Norman Durban in the Teal was so fired up he just took off and nobody saw him again until we reached the first night's halt at Nevers.

As for us, day one bought problem one when hoofing down a twisting hill section, Roberts remarked that the brakes were increasingly ineffective. Matters came to a head on a downhill approach to a T junction where gave the instruction to turn left. Roberts applied the brakes, locked up and executed a half spin coming to rest facing right. I kept my cool. "I said left mate!"

Treading warily until we reached the control point at Mesnil St Plere, we took the opportunity of early arrival to pull off the road and have a look. All that had happened was the loss of fluid from a loose union on the driver's side front caliper. We then set off in search of "huile des freins" which we eventually found at a village garage which happily lent its forecourt for the ancient ceremony of brake bleeding. Problem solved we joined the rest of the cars, booked in and had a quick sandwich before tackling the next stage down to the evening halt at Nevers.

In truth day 1 was a gentle introduction to the rigours to come. We were on great roads. virtually free of any other traffic and made great time reveling in the Westfield's performance which we could use in a manner just not possible at home. After watching some interesting anatomical French TV, we had a kip and awoke to find we had moved up the board to start eighth.

Day 2 was more of the same as we slingshotted across France through the gloriously scenic Dordogne to the Hotel Formule 1 at Tarbes but the distance and time at the wheel was already taking its toll. The evidence lay in the fact that the only restaurant open was a mile away and, rather than drive, most people took advantage of the marshals' taxi service. A damn good scran though that set us up well for the morrow when we had moved up the start order to second although we were still unsure of quite how we had managed it.

Day 3 took us into Spain over the mist shrouded tops of the Pyrennes. As well as tortuous bends, rough road surfaces and wet and slippery conditions we had the added obstacle of wandering livestock that made their own contribution to conditions underfoot or wheel. Naturally the bureau de change was closed as was everything else at this lofty border crossing but the first control wasn't too far away and we arrived just as the local OAP's tea dance was reaching its shattering climax.

From there the warmth and sun returned to chase us across central Spain to the night halt at the luxury Hotel Cuidad in Cuenca. En route we were surprised at the run down nature and poverty stricken aspects of an area of Spain of which most people are unaware. The EEC's contribution to overcoming the region's problems seemed to comprise of road building on a massive scale which didn't seem terribly vital in view of the almost total lack of traffic other than crazy British endurance rallymen. Naturally our route lay over the older road sections which gave the cars a good pounding and consequently made the luxury hotel that

much more welcome.

By now a serious problem had arisen. The rally was a piece of cake compared to the rigours of duff foreign fags usually selected on the basis of the daftest name. It was all to do with the fact that you had to drive miles at Dover to find the duty free shop. As we were in a hurry, Roberts joined the inevitable queue for the coffees while I took our boarding cards and got the loot only to be told that I couldn't do that so I threw my teddy in the comer and stomped off 'sans fags'. The coffee wasn't clever either especially at 80 pence a cup!

But we thrived on such privations and sallied on with a pack of L&Ms.

Day 4 was a long one. 480 Kms down to an early evening halt at a cracking roadside restaurant for a damn good meal. The run down was again on first class, traffic free roads but there was a hell of a lot of right-left-right-left twists up and down hills that required a great deal of concentration as the hours rolled by especially as periodic glances at the speedometer revealed speeds around 80 even on the uphill sections.

Fed and watered we had a 324 Km hike down to Algeciras for a delightful kip on the dock as we awaited the ferry for Tangier. The onset of night increased the concentration necessary especially as the scenery was now immaterial. The only aspect that came across loud and clear was the terrific contrast between inland Spain and the hugely developed coastal areas catering for the tourist trade. Blasting up one hill we suddenly saw a car parked at an odd angle just off the road and thought someone had crashed. Turning round to investigate we found John von Scharfenberg and Jonathan Bowman in the Marlin Sportstar having a kip. For our part, we ran on to Algeciras and spent an entertaining half hour trying to get into the port where we parked up and found salvation in the lorry drivers' cafe. I can't remember what we had but we had two of them before giving the car a quick once over and having a kip.

We had an extended wait here due to the need to get all the slower cars into Algeciras in time for the ferry but the time was far from wasted. Mark Fisher had an alternator problem and took the opportunity to take it out, strip and overhaul it before putting it back to record success. Things were not quite so easy for Dick Brenton in the Bond Bug who's clutch release bearing had virtually fallen apart. On the face of it you would have thought that was it that but such events bring out the creative and inventive talent in people and all pitched in to attempt a solution. Dave Ham from the Barra bus and Richard Winter in the Europa were the stars of the show knocking up a home made release bearing from a few scraps of steel and a couple of bolts. Once welded up and fitted as the ferry headed for Tangier, it went the whole way even though the clutch was on its last legs at journey's end.

The Moroccan ferry was great. We knew we were in for an entertaining voyage when we reasched the passenger accommodation to find lots of little bugs running about all over the floor! The bogs didn't work, there was no paper and the basins were full of stagnant water containing small eco systerns of their very own. However, all was forgiven when we found Dunhill fags in the duty free, 200 of which were purchased for just £8 sterling! Bliss.

As we headed for Tangier I took a turn on deck and was surprised to see a few well laden rowing boats heading in the opposite direction. Apparently these were Moroccans so impressed with Morocco that they were willing to risk all to get out of the place.

After waiting several hours for customs and immigration formalities we eventually emerged into Tangier and immediately saw why. I was last here over 25 years ago and though I loved the place, Tangier was awful. A conversation with a Moroccan lad in the docks elicited the information that it had changed greatly in the intervening years and was now a modem city. Sadly, 2 yards outside the dock gates I knew it was, if anything, even worse.

The directions for getting out of the place were complicated by the general Moroocan disregard for any attempt at traffic regulation, a situation exacerbated by the introduction of donkeys, date sellers and bewildered, disinterested policemen weaving among the traffic and an unexpected bonus in the form of rock throwing kids. The first brick hit us within half a mile and the second one wasn't long in coming. At this point we saw a long road leading out of the place and instinctively took it dodging the intermittent barrage as we went. Free of the enemy, we pulled over and consulted Michelin's fine map and planned our way back onto the set route but the afternoon was spent dodging a serious barrage of missiles such that Roberts was unable to produce his piece of cloth. "Right. That's IT! I'm getting out of this bloody place and never coming back!"

When he calmed down we carried on and as night fell, we were hit by another brick that took us off the road into the only bog for hundreds of miles in any direction.

Initial thoughts were of being sitting ducks but the contrast of the place arrived in the form of a bunch of lads who couldn't have been more helpful. A quick attempt at lifting it out failed so they sent for a car with a tow hitch and pulled us out. The bloke in charge intimated that he made his living pulling cars out of this very morass and was hugely happy when I gave him 100 Diram which equates to the princely sum of £6.50. Try giving a tip like that when you next break down on the M1 !

Back on the road or what passed for it, the final stage of the night was a tortuous section to a place called Moulay Idriss, the turning for which appeared to lead into someone's back garden. The presence of a herd of diverse livestock did little to confirm the right route but we pressed onward and upward over a twisting devilish road that was not so much bumpy as very narrow and intricately undulating such that the lights picked out a constant procession of potentially lethal potholes. The added danger lay in the broken edges of the road which offered drops of around six to nine inches if you fell off. By now, due to our navigational detour and time spent up to our axles in mud we were very tight on time and I was torn between the need to press on tempered with the necessity for caution but at least the stoning had abated and we could concentrate on the job in hand. The road seemed to go on forever but we made it into the control with minutes to spare and were grateful to follow the marshall's car to the Hotel Atlantique.

On arrival, everyone was pretty wound up following a fraught afternoon and a beer and a sit down would have done wonders but the Moroccans are masters at buggering about and mindless bureaucracy and required passports and form filling in triplicate. We had already filled them out on the ferry and at the docks and everyone thought they had filled out enough forms so, in the face of the fresh request, the required information was tinged with facetiousness.

Eventually we got the room key and set off in search of our room hotly pursued by a porter who made the fatal mistake of rushing up behind Roberts and grabbing his bag. Totally unsurprised at being mugged in a hotel corridor, our man had by now honed his response technique such that nobody again approached him from downwind!

Morocco must have once done a deal with a shower manufacturer who omitted to supply the wall brackets as the country is bereft of them but nothing could keep us from the bar where we only had to endure Morocco's answer to the pub singer for half an hour before he was carted off for humane destruction. The grub was OK though and we had a good kip before rising to visit the car park to find the local car valeter equipped with three baked bean cans and a scrubbing brush! He did good trade though and removed several pounds of mud from the Wesffield.

Hugh Newhouse thought he had done well to tip a bloke to keep an eye on his car overnight. Ali Berber accepted the tip, nicked Hugh's trainers and buggered off.

Prior to setting off on the road for Marrakesh most people were getting tooled up to make spirited response to the expected onslaught of Moroccan rubble but other than a few isolated incidents, it never materialised nor did it for the rest of the trip. However, Nigel Kidby in the Bellini Special took a hit from three young shepherds who, when he stopped and reversed up, fled across the fields. Nigel's reply was to hop out and drive their flock onto the road before getting back in his car and driving off. Nice one Nigel!

The day's destination was Marrakesh via the mid way control point at a place called Kenifra. Turning off the main road to tackle the rough stage leading to the control, we soon met the marshalls coming the other way with the news that the road was blocked due to a pretty severe landslide thus the control point would be on the main road although cars could continue if they wanted to. By now well aware of how easy it would be to cause severe damage to a car with a moment's inattention on a poor road, we,along with almost everybody else, turned back but a few carried on to emerge at the other end reckoning it wasn't that bad at all.

Our decision had been influenced by the fact that it was a short 150 Km stage which, by now, had aroused our suspicions concerning the likely terrain. Anyway, with that out of he way we had a pretty straight 350 Km run down to Marrakesh the only problem being that I had picked up an eye infection from sun, dust and the noxious fumes emanating from Moroccan trucks. They seem to run on a diet of diesel and paraffin which ensures that you smell them before you see them. The only saving grace was that we didn't have to stay

behind them for long. Arriving at the hotel and being jammed into a minuscule car park like sardines, Richard Winter lent me some Optrex which improved matters no end.

The Hotel Redouane was a cracker. Normally if you get the key to room 401 it's a pretty safe bet that it's on the fourth floor. Not that simple in Morocco. We were on the second floor which was handy as the lift seemingly failed to work for foreigners. Taking the stairs I emerged onto our floor to be confronted by a hand drawn sign showing a bloke in traditional robes running up the stairs, each floor showing the rooms that were on it. The fifth floor was the bar and the sixth the restaurant after which Mustapha emerged onto the roof amid simulated flames. I can only assume the advice in the event of fire was to follow Mustapha who had jumped off the roof!

Down in the car park we, along with a good few others, needed to engage in a spot of car maintenance so naturally equipped ourselves with a few cold beers and set to. Apparently this is not the done thing in a Muslim country where drinking alcohol in public is severely frowned upon so we hid it and took furtive swigs when the policemen strategically placed ensure a full complement of cars and equipment were still in the car park in the morning, periodically popped off for a fag and a beer!

Those who reckoned their cars would be OK for another day took off to the Souk with a couple of the hotel staff as guides. Dave Low was sold a rotten dagger he didn't really want, a few eyes rolled as they took in the belly dancers but the general consensus seemed to be that you were better off in Tescos.

Day 6 was crunch day as the route reached the halfway stage with the morning's run to a control point referred to as Agadir junction. For some reason we weren't as bright as we should have been in the morning as we didn't react with any particular suspicion to the fact that the first leg to the Agadir control was a short 173 Km hop. On paper we had bags of time to do it but we had overlooked Peter's devious mind and talent for the selection of tortuous terrain.

Anyway, off we went being among the few who managed to get out of Marrakesh on the right road en route for the foothills of the Atlas mountains. Once we started climbing, we knew we were going to be hard put to reach the control in time and started to push. Running with us were Richard Winter and lan Wilson in the Banks Europa and John von Sharfenburg and Jonathan Bowler in the Marlin Sportster alias the Wall Brothers, a nickname seemingly earned when they left tyre prints quite some way up a wall on a tight bend! The previous day Dave Hammon and Cath Woodman in the other Banks Europa had taken a stone in the radiator but had kept going by periodic stops to replenish the water. The plan had been to fix it in Marrakesh but due to the lack of space in the car park, they had decided to leave it until the lunch stop the following day. Halfway through the first stage they stopped for a refill and though we all stopped to ensure they were OK, we were soon away again as time was pressing. As the road wound ever more tightly and the surface became ever more treacherous, it never occurred to us that this was where we had expected snow. The Atlas mountains are over 13000 ft at their highest point but we didn't go anywhere near the peaks. That said, the roads were quite bad enough at half that distance above sea level and at the top, instead of snow, we found a bloke selling fossils and semi precious stones! We stopped for about thirty seconds to snap a scenic pic of the route down after which Roberts got a serious move on as by now, we were running late.

Sod's Law dictates that as soon as you incur a time deficit, traffic appears from all directions and we did our dodgiest overtakes coming down that mountain. Sure, nothing is worth driving off a cliff for but annoyed by our failure to react to the information we were given and kicking ourselves for dawdling along when we should have got stuck in the blood was up. And we weren't alone. The lack of time remaining dawned on the two Johns in the Marlin as well as Richard and lan in the Banks Europa at almost the same time and we just blasted on trying to keep pace with the Marlin which had a 50 bhp power advantage from its BMW straight six, triple Weber fed motor. (210 bhp against our 160) At !east with them to follow, we could benefit by blasting past trucks behind them without incurring the time penalty of having to slow up and follow while waiting for a passing slot.

Sadly one of the most dramatically scenic sections of the whole trip passed in a blur as we struggled to hit the control. It would have been a double pain if we had missed it but we made it, albeit 17 minutes over our scheduled time.

According to the organisers' address prior to the start of the event, competitors would have done well to reach the half way stage with their Gold awards intact.

Although we, along with most of the other cars had managed that, we were still annoyed at our 17 minutes of lateness which we feared would have a drastic effect on the starting order but we were consoled to some extent by the fact that most of our closest competitors had also been late in. The only car ahead of us that was bang on time was Nomman and David Durban in the Teal. Having started in number 1 slot, they could only go backwards in the order by making a mistake and, though Norman had twice been booked for speeding adding £150 to the cost of his trip, thus far they had been spot on time the whole way.

Fortunately for us, they made the mistake on the very next section but the details will have to wait for next month's edition where you can read about reaching the edge of the Sahara desert, crazy English enduro men upsetting French hunters in the Pyrennes, how we free wheeled into an accident when almost out of fuel, how we kipped in a barn with no doors and had a shower with a frog!

-----

In last month's issue we had reached the half way point at Agadir junction with our Gold award intact. Now all we and the majority of other competitors had to do was to make it back to Liege in one piece easier said than done! Even so there was a great feeling of achievement at the half way point as contrary to expectations instilled by the pre event publicity, all cars made it and most were still on for Gold awards. Adding to the general air of accomplishment, the stoning had receded with the miles traveled south save for isolated incidents from lesser juvenile marksmen and the roads were open, well surfaced and stretched into the sand swathed distance like an endless arrow blatantly inviting total disregard for the 80 kph speed restriction signs. We ignored them maintaining three figure speed (mph) and reckoning that if such an animal as a Moroccan speed cop existed he'd have trouble catching a cold let alone a blur of Brummie bullet hell bent on reaching the evening halt and a congratulatory cold beer. Sadly when we reached the remote Hotel Kasbah, there weren't any!

This paragon of postcard Morocco was also a haven of Muslim observance and thus alcohol was taboo but burning just as brightly as the flame of religious observance was that of commerce and seeing the chance for profit that can't be a very frequent occurrence in this neck of the woods, a van soon appeared well laden with forbidden fruit that started to disappear as fast as Abdul could hit the keys on his calculator to convert a varied assortment of hard European currency to his advantage.

Indeed, the Kasbah provided the most memorable evening of the trip and the staff were great. Accommodation was a walled compound containing Berber tents with light provided by hand made and lavishly decorated oil lamps. Dinner was taken al fresco in a huge open fronted tent in a separate and even bigger compound with a vast cauldron as the centre piece and which hosted a huge fire as the evening chill set in.

As we arrived the Bedouin As we arrived the Bedouin drummers, dancers and singers put on a show of welcome which we watched whilst becoming instantly partial to tiny cups of mint tea and local sweet biscuits. Selves showered, me in the company of a huge, desert camouflaged frog that I only saw when I moved my towel, and thirst slaked, dinner was truly excellent comprising soup and local bread, couscous and a second dish of sweet potatoes, prunes and hard boiled eggs all fried. Sounds odd but most loved it. Thereafter as we shouldered the task of shifting the remaining beer stocks the waiters took up their secondary duties as drummers later to be joined by Pen Roberts and his harmonica introducing a blues rhythm to the local beat. As the ashes of the fire glowed their last we strolled beneath a carpet of star studded sky to our authentic Bedouin tents complete with floral pattern nylon sheets!

Come morning the view from the car park revealed the true Sahara and anticipation was high on the day that would take us as deep into it as we would be going. The other significant occurrence of the previous evening had been that Norman and David Durban in their Teal had hit problems. Firstly the pounding had broken their lower rear damper mounts and as if that wasn't enough to contend with, they had overshot the hotel turn off by about 80 Kms. They doubled back and made it within the hour long window but their No 1 starting position was forfeit.

This day's drive would take us into the desert in sweltering temperatures after which the trip up to Fez would witness a fantastic transformation in the landscape. The first leg comprised more of those fast, arrow straight roads that sped us to Erfoud where those still chasing the Gold award could turn off for the desert control at Taouz where Peter Davis introduced us to Brian the Bedouin who viewed the procession of enduro men with great interest. We too saw much of interest first in the hugely impressive landscape of giant table topped mountains, blood red hills and baked brown earth that regularly disgorged an endless supply of fossils the sale of which did much for the local economy.

We were second to the control, the Marlin Sportster having beaten us but on the way back to Erfoud, they lost a front wing and found a local garage for the necessary welded repair. Taking off with Richard Winter and lan Wilson in the Europa we blasted through the miles to our recrossing of the Rif mountains. In contrast to the really bad mountain roads we had encountered, the way over the Rif towards Fez was characterised by brilliant roads with sweeping, well sign posted bends that allowed us to maintain a blistering pace to emerge onto a very different plain at the other side. Here desert had given way to lush greenery, bare mountains to gentle, pine covered slopes and the temperature had lost is barb giving a pleasant warmth and a hint of cool breeze. It reminded everybody of Switzerland as we sped easily into Fez and the Hotel Splendide which proved to be anything but.

However, we parked the cars miles away, got back, had a wash and scrub and were ready to eat. Emerging from the foyer we were instantly besieged by guides wanting to take us everywhere but one voice hit the jackpot when he told us he'd take us to a restaurant which wouldn't give us the squits! He won. The restaurant was great but this time beer was taboo and would stay so. When the waiter said he had Coca Cola or Sprite the order was for seven of one and four of the other before he told us he only had one bottle of each! Anyway, we had a fine meal that didn't upset anything washed down with good old fashioned water.

The next day was a long one that took us first back to Tangier. We were fearful of heavy assault in 'bomb alley' but in the event, we had a trouble free run. Probably because it was Sunday and stoning wasn't allowed. However, trouble free didn't mean easy as the route lay over probably the worst road we tackled on the whole trip. Again the Westfield took a pounding but we were first into the control and chewed up the last short 130 Kms hop to the haven of Tangier docks with no problems. Again we had a long wait for the ferry and Moroccan red tape so we undertook a thorough spanner check. This prudent exercise revealed the rear spring seats had come undone (we thought it was a bit bouncy on the last leg), an engine mounting had come loose and our wipers and washers had failed. Nuts and bolts were easily put right but the wipers took rather longer. Having dismantled the motor, the electrical plugs, fuses and everything else even remotely connected with it, and having aroused the fix it mentality in Mark Fisher and Chris Lovland, it was Chris who eventually traced it to two wires touching inside the loom.

We arrived at Tangier in the early afternoon but it was well into the evening when we finally put it all back together just in time to join the tail end of the queue boarding the boat as Moroccan officialdom ran out of ideas for detaining us any longer.

There was much celebration on leaving Morocco, many vowing never to return but though there had been a couple of unpleasant incidents, they were down to a real minority, most people being very pleasant. I wouldn't have missed the contrasts and scenery of the place for anything.

The ferry was the same one we'd come out on and nothing had been touched although the cultures in the wash basins had progressed nicely. After a few uncomfortable hours trying to sleep in the chairs, we were happy to get off in the wee small hours and pleased to be back in mainland Europe but we had a long 900Kms to do before the next overnight halt at Peniscola.

I always enjoy driving in the early morning and today was special. Leaving the docks of Algeciras we headed for the coastal highway via an all night coffee shop to take on the necessary personal fuel. Thereafter we hit the deserted dual carriageway and got the hammer down to reel off the well known resorts as we blasted along the southern Spanish coast. As dawn came, the chill evaporated and the sun shone on us. I expected the road to get busy as we hit the big towns but not a bit of it. We had the road almost to ourselves as we rattled off the first 690 clicks to the halt thoughtfully sited opposite a pub! It was also handy for being in close proximity to the centre of Spain's car component trade as the Europa's clutch gave out and Richard and Ian had the car stripped and the box out in no time flat. As I enjoyed the delights of Spain's contribution to world cuisine in the form of Tapas, Pen took Ian back up the road a few miles in search of a new Renault clutch. They returned with a Renault 4 clutch which was the right size and fitted perfectly; they'd just have to be a bit careful about 8000 rpm! As they set to rebuilding the motor, Pen grabbed a bite before I took the wheel for the last 350 Km run up to Peniscola.

Having covered 1300 Kms since our last kip, we were knackered. Taking a wrong turn in rush hour Castellon didn't help but we found the right road and motored into the deserted out of season holiday resort of Peniscola absolutely cream crackered.

But if we were bushed, Nigel Kidby and Stephen Stacey and Bill and Nikki Davenport must have felt worse. Nigel and Stephen had done another dynamo and were scouring southern Spain for a replacement crossflow component while Bill Davenport had a bearing go on the rear swing arm of his Lomax 223. They joined forces to hunt down the necessary parts and the facilities needed to fit the after which they had to sleep. Finding a B&B they decided to miss Peniscola and meet up with us again in Carcasonne the following evening but sadly Bill and Nikki didn't make it. Nothing to do with car failure; they were hit from behind by a Peugeot on the motorway and their Lomax was too badly damaged to continue thus they used the MSM repatriation insurance and went home for an early bath. Car fixed, Nigel and Stephen carried on.

As well as bushed, we were also starving but missed the only place open in town thus dinner was a crisps and Coca Cola party that did little to restore spirits but the sleep did a power of good before we attacked breakfast with real relish.

Day 12 took us back into France via the Pyrennes and a snowball fight in Andorra. We may have been a bit low the previous evening, we would be even lower tomorrow evening, but Gold was still intact, the end would be in sight on the other side of the mountains and we had to be near the front judging by our regular advanced starting positions. But of course, a lot could go wrong and naturally it did.

Casualty one was Dave Harmon and Cath Woodman's Europa which broke a driveshaft the previous afternoon. Early morning saw Richard Winter and Ian Wilson attempting a repair to the repair they carried out the previous afternoon and which got them to the hotel. This time their efforts saw the car all of thirty yards before it broke again. A replacement Sierra shaft would have done the trick but finding one and doing the necessary work to modify and fit it would have put them out of time so sadly they retired the car and completed the route in the Barra Bus.

Waving them farewell we set off to tackle the mountains which this time were characterised by steadily falling temperatures as we climbed. Even so the sun still shone and the scenery was magnificent as we came upon Andorra and the halfway checkpoint. We had to queue for a while to get into France as Andorran customs emptied packets of fags out of every orifice of several cars (not ours) and once across the border we thought it would be a doddle to cruise up to the medieval walled city of Carcassone. Err ... no. Bowling along a dual carriage way we suddenly spotted that we had missed a turn off and it was as far to go back as go round. Stopping for petrol Pen informed me I had 48 clicks to cover and 24 minutes in which to do it. I tried and by now fully confident in pushing the car hard, I thoroughly enjoyed a lightning drive that got us to where we were supposed to be in just over 34 minutes including threading our way through the outer city traffic. I've never driven a Westfield quicker and probably won't again so the trip will be ever memorable for that one blast.

With no major damage done we went to dinner in Carcasonne and had a fantastic meal with a vast cheese salad. We wolfed it down but I would pay dearly the next day and what a bloody awful day it was.

An early kick off soon had us climbing mountains again but this time it was dull, misty and really cold. Following the Marlin we had a damn good thrash up a twisting mountain road and as the exhausts blared and blatted round every bend, we came upon regular Frenchmen armed with shotguns gesticulating frantically for us to quieten down. They were hunting and as the deer, rabbits, foxes and birds disappeared in every direction, they were not impressed.

The checkpoint was atop Mount Aigoual which is a weather station and we were into pretty dense fog way before we reached it. Groping the last few miles a howling wind added to the general unpleasantness. As we got to the control the weather station's information told us it was -3 degrees but windchill made it a good deal colder. The ground was also a sheet of ice and David Durban was blown over and dislocated his shoulder Sadly, that was his lot. The ambulance arrived emblazoned with the legend Emergency Vehicle for the 'Blesse et Asphxie' which translates literally as for the wounded and strangled! Anyway, David was kept in overnight and the Teal retired. Nathan Jones was also blown over and landed heavily on the base of his spine but though clearly in pain, he carried on.

We were pleased to be away from there and to get down the mountain but we were low on fuel and didn't think we'd make it to the next garage. As we coasted out of the mist and into the dry, I just came round a bend to find a French Peugeot right in the middle of the road. Evasive action was limited by a sheer drop on our side but we managed to minimise the effects of the inevitable collision which accounted for a rear wing. We were lucky. Details exchanged, the Europa stopped and went on to the garage for a can of fuel and we then carried on.

About this time I began to suffer a severe pain in my chest which I knew to be indigestion from that cheese salad. It got worse and as the rain started, so it really began to hurt. We stopped at a chemist where a charming lady mixed me the demon drops in a glass of water after which the pain rapidly subsided as the misery of cold and wet set in, soon to be tempered with darkness but at least the wipers worked!.

The evening's objective was a chateau but in France that's a euphemism covering everything from a bog with no door to a palatial gaff. This was the former although it was a barn with no door. Arriving cold and wet following a masterful piece of navigation from Pen, the drying facilities extended to one butane gas heater so a bonfire was started which helped a bit. Dinner was less than an epicure's delight although they were unstinting with the local plonk after which kip was in the hayloft of another barn with all the livestock down below and strange creatures suckling their young in the hay beside you. However, Pen had spotted a sofa bed in the dining barn right next to the heater and we bagged that.

Breakfast was OK but the vital ingredient of coffee was damn awful but once again, Roberts came to the rescue with a jar of Nescafe Gold Blend that he had nursed through two continents. With copious quantities of that imbibed we were ready for the last blast back to Spa.

Day 14 was an absolute doddle and again the scouts had found some truly outstanding roads on which we made really rapid progress totally unimpeded by other traffic or traffic cops. We fair gobbled up the miles and almost before we knew it we were flashing over the start finish straight of the Spa circuit hanging onto the tail of a flying Marlin. Peter Davis was behind us, we thought to ensure we stuck to the route but in truth he didn't know the way back to the hotel !

And then it was over. We were the second car into the Hotel car park from which we had set off two weeks before and a cup of coffee was rarely more welcome. As the rest of the field made it back there was much back slapping, tiredness was shrugged off and the tales began to flow.

Guy Meisl had phoned the hotel to lay on a set meal at a tenner a head and we had a damn good evening and more than a few beers.

Actually the home run from Spa to Calais and then Dover to Leeds via Manchester was probably longer than any day we had tackled on the event and when I hit my armchair, nothing would have moved me for the rest of the weekend. Thereafter I would have been ready to go again and I think that goes for most of the competitors. A great event, some great people, superb roads and here's to the next one. We'll be there and so should you. Finally I would like to thank Chris Smith and all at Wesffield Sports Cars for their efforts in preparing such a marvelous car, my mate and team mate, Pen Roberts and last but by no means least, Peter Davis and his team of helpers for an inspired event that was just as hard for them as it was for us. Here's to you.