MOTOR

(Darren Dugan) #1

GUEST


COLUMN


James Stanford


For some, a car is much more than metal and rubber


T


he rollover seemed like a big deal at the time.
It certainly got my attention when the horizon went
vertical for a fraction of a second before disappearing
in a cloud of dust.
It was only a second gear roll, on a dirt track, but second gear
in a WRX STI on rally rubber is still quick enough for bad
things to happen. The crash was violent but was over quickly,
unlike the seemingly never-ending tumble-dryer terror of a
high-speed multi-roll crash I had a few months later (RIP my
sweet Datsun 1600).
This time in the STI, when the dust cleared, the horizon
reappeared in the position it was supposed to be. There was no
fire, thank goodness, but I could see the bonnet was crumpled.
I shut off the engine and let out a muffled curse in my helmet.
I only had a sore neck, but the damage to the car, a blue 1998
two-door STI, was worse than we first thought. Dad and I
grappled with the fact it might have to be written off.
That hurt because we both loved the car. Dad worked on it for
countless hours in my garage, in the freezing cold and stifling
heat. I would help with the heavier parts and the fiddly actions
that required four hands, but mostly I just passed him spanners
and watched. We talked – especially when I brought him tea
and biscuits.
Then, on race day, I would drive the ring out of the car;
absolutely confident it would not fail me. At one brutally rough
track I was six seconds a lap clear of the field, thanks to my
lack of mechanical concern and confidence in Dad’s homemade
shrapnel-proof sump guard.
He was a brilliant product engineer at Ford Australia and he
was my unfair advantage at the track.
That world ended when I was out shopping and received a

phone call from a family friend: “I’m sorry to tell you this, but
your Dad has passed away.”
Ten months later I eased up to the start line in my STI,
thanks to a mate who refused to sell the wrecked car on my
behalf and insisted on rebuilding it. It is a mix of fresh and old
parts under a new body shell, but still feels familiar. I have
done this procedure so many times. I drop in through the roll-
cage, fire up the engine and move towards the start line.
I tighten my helmet and do the five-point harness up so hard
I can only just breathe.
Then, on the start line, I press the intercooler spray switch
and prepare to launch. The procedure might be the same, but
everything else is different.
Have you ever cried in your helmet? Well, I did, and I’m
not ashamed to admit it. The first run in the car felt so good.
To get out and do something that used to bring so much joy is
fantastically therapeutic.
But I had to cross the finish line and return to the pits.
Normally, Dad would walk over slowly and tell me my time
and pass on some information, offer advice and sometimes,
praise. Of course, the heart attack meant he wasn’t there and
will never be there again. He won’t be in the passenger seat on
the long journey to and from each event either.
And that is why I’m not sure what to do with my rally car.
Competing without my Dad there just isn’t the same. But I’m
not going to get rid of it for now. I can’t.
My two-year-old son just adores it and often orders me to
start the engine just so he can listen. He doesn’t talk much, but
says “rally car” a lot. I won’t push it, but if he’s still interested
in racing when he gets older, I’d be glad to stand there in the
pits waiting for him to come back in. M

Have you ever


cried in your


helmet? Well,


I did, and I’m


not ashamed


to admit it


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