Fun for the Road

A noted automobile authority once remarked: "The first car could never have remained alone on earth for long. Someone would have had to build a second model just so there could be a race."

If the pundit had substituted the word "rally" for "race" he would have been just as correct. The rally (which, incidentally, should not be spelled "rallye"—a form as archaic as "compleat"—except when a particular event, such as the Rallye Automobile Monte-Carlo, calls for its use), springing from a royalty-blessed beginning and maintaining an upper-class tradition, is fully as ancient and equally sporting as the more spectacular hegiras of speed held on closed courses. It is a precision driving contest utilizing public roads, and can involve as many as several hundred automobiles, cover up to 12,000 miles and deliver almost any kind of thrilling experience the normal man might hanker for.

In this country, rallies, as weekend pastimes, have grown to amazing and, to some, alarming popularity. Those who find cause for alarm include highly civilized Palm Springs Indians, dirt farmers on the plains of Canada, wild and domestic animals, seclusion-seeking lovemakers, ferryboat captains, game wardens, trout fishermen—all of whom have felt the drastic effects of this particular brand of auto mania.

It takes a powerful influence to shatter the lives and/or nervous systems of such an ill-assorted clutch of kith and kine as those enumerated above, but a rally is the instrument with which the job gets done.

The dictionary defines "rally" in rather mundane fashion as "a coming together of persons for common action." But it also hints at the real nature of such an event by including these descriptive phrases: "a recovery from dispersion or disorder"; "to acquire fresh strength or vigor"; "an exchange of blows"; and "to ridicule good-humoredly." With a little imagination it can be seen that the author of these definitions was actually describing a rally wherein hundreds of automobiles and their crews "come together for common action" against a highly complicated set of driving instructions; foreseeing that a certain proportion will be forced to "recover from dispersion or disorder" after having gone astray; anticipating the need for "renewed strength and vigor" following the effort of shoving one's car out of a muddy soft shoulder; decrying the "exchange of blows" between driver and navigator when felicity begins to fray under pressure and laughing with those who "ridicule good-humoredly" the stragglers who come in hours after the victory banquet.

It may be difficult for the uninitiated to see how such a sport could sweep the country unless drastic legislation enforced participation, but like those who dig bongo drumming, skindiving and goldfish swallowing, its devotees love their hobby with a missionary fervor. We have found rallies an exhilarating form of automotive competition, a worthy joust with time, speed and distance, and, should you find yourself in a position to indulge, consider it with an open and youthful mind. On a pleasant Sunday afternoon, in the snug, leather-upholstered bucket seats of a nimble sports car, with a charming companion at your side to share the challenge and be drawn closer by mutual effort, it is guaranteed to take years off your outlook. Later, with cocktails and dinner, in the good fellowship of kindred spirits and plenty of expansive conversation on the day's activities, it is obviously the Good Life, and trophies won or lost become incidental.

The mention of trophies obviously puts this sport in the amateur class, and so it is with the vast majority of the events staged in the United States. It therefore becomes not too difficult a game to play and the prerequisites are few: an automobile (not necessarily a sports car), a partner who can be (nay, should be, as far as any red-blooded young man is concerned) female, a few simple and inexpensive instruments and an ample quota of self-confidence. The last-named ingredient, it will soon appear, is of the utmost importance. A rally, in the best tradition of amateur competition, requires total self-reliance. It is you against the pack—and may the best man win.

Dictionary definitions aside, a rally involves point-to-point driving over an exactly specified route, maintaining given speeds to arrive at an unrevealed destination at an unspecified time. This is somewhat like solving an algebraic equation where both X and Y are unknown, but rally experts become so skilled that they arrive with less than a second of error over a 500-mile course.

Lest this seem like a dry mathematical exercise or an organized tour for little old ladies, consider that these precise events are run in the dead of winter through the Adirondacks, across Canada, or over the 11,000-foot passes of the Continental Divide at speeds difficult to maintain even in the best weather. Others take the entrants through the Everglades, up the Chisholm Trail, into Grand Canyon country and, in fact, along nearly any highway, freeway, toll road, side road, logging road and fire trail you can find on the map. The top rallies have a definite separational effect on men and boys, and even the near-casual Sunday-afternoon outings that end at beer busts or watermelon picnics can involve some pretty hair-raising episodes.

The Affair of the Palm Springs Indians might be cited in this connection, since it began in all innocence and almost ended in a 20th Century scalping festival.

This particular tribe had the commendable foresight to settle on a forsaken piece of desert real estate in California which they knew would later become extremely desirable to palefaces as a winter retreat from Eastern cold and Los Angeles smog. Their reservation, although somewhat eroded by the intrusion of palatial residences, golf courses and luxury hotels, is still a primitive, albeit well-financed, oasis. The Indians enjoy a definite amount of privacy, and the dirt-surfaced access road that meanders through their domain is not frequently used. Visitors are not molested, but are certainly not encouraged. The untraveled reservation road intrigued the rally committee of a Southern California sports-car club, always seeking the offbeat, scenic or unusual to include in an event.

The survey party, charting the course some weeks ahead, encountered no opposition or hostility and probably ignored the fact that the Indians existed. On the day set for the rally, the sparkling, sunny fall weather attracted an unexpectedly large turnout and, seemingly, half the sports cars in Los Angeles were at the starting line loaded with high-spirited enthusiasts.

The red men, lounging on the porches of their houses, which border the dirt lane, were at first amused by the unusual amount of traffic as car after car hurtled by; but then, as there appeared to be no end to this parade, began to be annoyed as each of the participants stirred up a cloud of dust which failed to settle before another unconcerned rallyist blasted along and added more topsoil to the atmosphere. Finally, pale under the layer of silt, and red-eyed with rage at this violation and aerial dispersion of their property, the Indians met in tribal council and declared war on the automobiles. Making use of the weapons at hand, they scattered nails, barbed-wire fragments, broken bottles and tacks across the road and sat back to await the loud popping noises that inevitably followed.

After a goodly number of cars had been halted at the booby-trapped section and the frantic crews were hurriedly jacking up their disabled vehicles, the Indians sauntered out and invited the contestants to take their rally elsewhere. This admission of culpability in causing the participants to lose the one commodity which they regarded as more precious than diamonds—time—and the impression that they were on a state highway brought the rallyists' tempers to a point hotter than the desert sun. Another Little Bighorn was almost precipitated, and only the intervention of club officials managed to bring about the lighting of a peace pipe. There are some entrants who still aver that if one more car had stormed by in its own aura of dust, firearms would have been the next resort of the Palm Springs Indians and that the U. S. Cavalry would have had trouble quelling the well-heeled revolt.

Such sensitivity to the continuous shock wave of passing cars at close intervals is not unique with our red brethren; herds of sheep and cows have been put to flight by rallyists roaring up farm roads in the dead of night or early in the morning, and irate ranchers have been known to level shotguns at passing contestants in anger and frustration.

Rallies, of course, are not continuously larded with such encounters, and the events staged in this country do not all involve the supreme tests of man and machine that characterize those held in other parts of the world, but they are legitimate descendants of the Herkomer Fahrt, an automobile trial of 1904.

Its successor, the Prinz Heinrich Fahrt, which began in 1908, was the immediate ancestor of the present-day Alpine Rally, one of the toughest and most prestigious and the model for all other similar events.

The association of royalty in these early-day trials inaugurated a blue-blooded or upper-bracket miasma which still persists, and the sport is generally regarded as something like yachting or greyhound breeding in many places. It was necessary to have some kind of influence to get the pre-World War One events on the road, since most cities and villages had ordinances against "scorchers" that restricted a vehicle's progress to the pace of a man carrying a red flag, or something similar, and the daredevil chauffeurs of that innocent era were willing to risk their necks at speeds perilously high in the 40-mph bracket. With the assistance of Prince Henry of Prussia, brother of Wilhelm II, Kaiser of Germany, these safety regulations were waived for the trials, and the Prinz Heinrich was named in his honor.

The Alpenfahrt was born simply because members of the Austrian automobile club discovered an unclimbable mountain road and realized that it would make a superb rally obstacle—a state of mind which still persists among rallymasters. The first Alpine attracted 23 entries, of which 15 remained in the contest after they saw the Katschberg—the 25-percent grade which so delighted the committee. Five cars managed to make the climb without assistance from man or beast and their makers widely advertised the fact. The result was that within a couple of years the list was up to 95 widely assorted vehicles ranging from Rolls-Royce to Model-T Ford.

The Alpine, barring time out for wars, has annually maintained its reputation as a car destroyer and a wringer-out of men. It imposes conditions so difficult to meet that triumphs over its twisting length are counted as manufacturing achievements as well as testimonials to the durability of driver and navigator.

International competition is not always the eventual goal of amateur rallyists, but a certain percentage of those whom you might encounter on a modest club rally around Weehawken, New Jersey, might be planning such a foray in the future. To these people, the rally is a gripping drama in which anything not specifically forbidden is permissible. As a result, some of the contestants arrive at the start with cars having electronic computers worthy of MIT coupled to speedometers and clocks, or a back seat full of hand- or battery-operated calculators, stop watches, 24-hour clocks, short-wave radios capable of receiving official time signals from the Naval Observatory and every device known to assist in rapid mathematical equating this side of Albert Einstein. Such an accent on time-and-distance accuracy, as opposed to the hard-driving European-type rally, has grown up because in most sections of the country at most times of the year, the roads are in excellent condition and public officials frown on turning our highways into more of a race course than they already are.

Oddly enough, the threat of a ticket seemingly adds a bit of spice, and rally veterans develop a separate sense which, sharpened by participation in a hundred brushes with the law, tells them where to tread lightly.

Such avid enthusiasts and the electronic-computer set, naturally, form only the hardened inner core. Ranging outward from that particle are the more-and-more-casual types until, on the outer periphery, are found the seat-of-the-pants navigators and drivers who use the radio merely to get ball scores.

Rally equipment of an intricate sort will not replace common sense, and if you have a tendency to get lost in telephone booths, perhaps you had better consider some less demanding hobby. However, if you are reasonably quick to decide which is your left hand, as opposed to your right, and are capable of working simple mathematical problems of addition, subtraction and division, you should at least give the sport a whirl. If you understand a slide rule or can learn to operate a circular version of one that is translated into miles, time and speed, you are in great shape for a tyro—assuming you want to navigate. If you fancy yourself as one who can instinctively maintain a set speed and keep a sharp eye for roadside details, it might be the driver's side for you.

Navigation seems to be the fly in the pudding for those who say they'd like to go the route but are fearful. However, a few years ago one of the best club rallyists in Southern California invariably showed up in his crisp little MG TC with a pad of paper strapped to one leg, his wrist watch tightly wound and a slide rule in his car-coat pocket. Until they barred this Lindbergh-type approach, because somebody considered it dangerous to read, write and drive at the same time, the lone wolf was taking home enough suitably engraved trophies to stock a jewelry store. So, navigation shouldn't be too much of a problem for one unoccupied person.

To assay that statement, let us examine the typical one-day rally so popular in this country. The rallymaster, or rally chairman, and his committee plot out a route, using large-scale maps, then survey it by car to determine if there are any real gut-busting hazards or impediments that would add too great an element of luck to the running. Then it is (continued on page 122)For the Road(continued from base 96) traversed and measured as accurately as possible, sometimes using a "fifth wheel" of extreme precision to get readings in one hundredths of a mile. An average speed is computed which takes into account the terrain and traffic, then sections of the run are set up with check points at the conclusion of each segment. These interim stops break up the total distance and are hopefully located where contestants are least likely to expect them, and concealed so that rallyists cannot dawdle or speed up to correct for whatever variation in time they may feel they are in possession of at the moment. Time over or under the ideal set for arrival at a check point is irredeemable.

Instructions are mimeographed and handed out as the entrants assemble for the start, usually in the parking lot of some shopping center where an extra 50 or 100 cars imposes no great problem. Then, at one-minute intervals, the contestants are flagged off, each with a starting time stamped on his route card. At each of the check points time of arrival is noted to the split second and entered on the card. At the conclusion, the team with the smallest total variation in time is adjudged the winner.

A premium is placed on the committee's ability to devise truthful but arduous instructions and to lay out a course demanding the utmost in alertness. By their excellence in meeting these requirements, annual rallies of certain clubs become famous.

Other groups become more noted for the excellent parties that follow their outings and some radical organizations have practically dispensed with the mechanical aspect of the whole thing and merely meet to have a ball.

One such farseeing brotherhood is the Bachelors' Sports Car Club of Hollywood (so farseeing, in fact, that it has an auxiliary: the Bachelorettes) in whose contests driving ability is strictly secondary to animal cunning. A typical rally staged by this clutch of spirits ended with the winner being selected on the basis of his date wearing the most revealing bikini at the beach party afterward.

Such antics are also typical of another extremely loose-knit west Coast organization, Los Borrachos Visitandos Sports Car and Rat Slugging Club, whose time-and-distance contests are chiefly concerned with getting to the proper destination on the right day and in a sober state—so as to be in shape for the prolonged socializing which is rigidly plotted. The club (whose name may be translated as "The Visiting Drunkards") rallies only to the weekend festivals that are so popular with natives and tourists in the West and where a degree of gaiety not compatible with the old home town is permissible and, in fact, is both expected and encouraged.

From these travesties on the principles of the Alpenfahrt it is possible to move upward in infinite degree, but, with the exception of strictly professional rallies, it must be said that the social aspect and the attractions of the opposite sex are in no small part responsible for the popularity of rally clubs.

Between events, there is a great amount of planning that calls for meetings and get-togethers which, more often than not, take place in the congenial atmosphere of restaurants or private clubs whose surroundings are conducive to an easy informality. The coeducational bias of these clubs is emphasized by the current favor with which the young professional woman and college student look upon the sports car or small imported auto. Acquiring one usually leads to contact with other owners of the same make, and should one be the adventurous, pleasure-loving type, entree into this sporting activity is the net result.

Romances are born, flower, culminate and disintegrate in various ways as drivers and navigators form teams or trade partners over the course of a season. And many a fiancée who has refused to learn math or expose herself to the elements has found herself left home on weekends or has seen her boyfriend with another woman coolly manipulating a slide rule as they roared past.

Very few experienced contestants ever run out of gas, but an amazing number suffer from an inability to consistently distinguish right from left, and thus take the wrong turn. If they forge ahead and end hopelessly lost in some bosky dell or find themselves so far off schedule as to make continuing out of the question, and stop for refreshment at a hospitable inn, who can point the finger?

One Midwestern club's Moonlight Rally, which takes place in the lush early summer, meanders through fertile-smelling farmlands and alongside wooded lakes and rivers so appealing that it suffers from an almost embarrassing number of stragglers, considering the simplicity of the route.

The subject of getting lost, aside from such romantic peccadilloes, is a touchy one among the serious minded, simply because it can happen to the best and the consequences can be thrilling as well as amusing. Whenever a car fails to show up at the finish, it is generally assumed that the pair went astray and, rather than face the gibes of fellow competitors, headed for home. However, there is no guarantee that the missing persons are indeed at home or will ever be heard from again; they could well be in the hold of a freighter bound for Tasmania. One event in the great open spaces looked pitifully simple because of the paucity of roads on which the careless could take the wrong direction; yet, somehow, a dozen cars drove right up to the opening of a mine shaft and were apparently prepared to accept it as merely a drastic hazard, had they not been restrained by the caretaker of the abandoned property.

This press-on-regardless attitude of rallyists is legend and stems from two inherent qualities that must be present: (1) the directions of the committee are in most cases absolutely accurate and (2) each contestant must have supreme confidence that he has performed each and every instruction correctly. To waver or doubt is to fall into error and end up last or in a different country. Even if all the other cars are going north and your navigator says "head south," you carry on—even at the price of your neck.

An overlooked instruction in a fast-moving series once sent a pair of enthusiasts onto a busy suburban freeway in the dim light of predawn, headed the wrong way—a chilling fact not discovered until they had cheerfully waved, honked and blinked their lights back at a number of friendly drivers who had saluted in similar fashion.

These mental lapses are often aided and abetted by instructions which, contestants sometimes feel, border on the misleading even in the "navigational" rallies, not to mention those designed as "trick" rallies. Even the clearest and most revealing instructions are taxing when they come thick and fast. A typical example will illustrate the point:

"Continue on State Street at 34.3 mph. Turn R. at Mobil station. At first blvd. stop, change average speed to 27.5 mph. Turn L. 1100 yds. past stop sign. Turn R. at first paved road past railroad tracks. (Note: You must obey RR flagman, do not cross in front of trains, this is a switch yard.) At end of paved stretch change speed to 41.7 mph and turn L. at first road designated as state route. (Note: Whenever a numbered route you are on goes neither to the right nor left at a T and the next route instruction cannot be executed at this point, turn right and follow the new route to the next action point.) ..."

Ofttimes the rallymaster becomes so engrossed with introducing obstacles to create pressure that he throws logistics out the window. Recently, one big event piled up a fantastic traffic jam at a ferry crossing which the committee had envisioned only as a sweatbox. The ferry made a crossing every ten minutes and the picture of the poor soul who just missed and had to wait while ten precious minutes ticked off was undoubtedly hilarious. However, overlooked was the fact that the ferry had room for only five cars at a time and, if they arrived on schedule there would be a car a minute, not counting regular Sunday traffic. At the appointed hour, twice as many rally cars were arriving as were able to depart, and after a few trips the monumental chaos and loss of temper can perhaps be imagined.

"Trick" rallies in which every effort is made to confuse the entrant fall somewhere between the competitive runs and the sheer-luck, out-to-have-a-ball affairs which resemble treasure hunts. Verging on the serious are the "photo" rallies, where the route changes are revealed only by aerial photographs which bear little resemblance to the same spot when viewed from ground, or car, level. At the end of the scale nearest the jaunts of the Bachelors, or the Borrachos, are mirror rallies which have instructions printed upside down and backward; or poker runs (contestants pick up a playing card at each check point and the best five-card hand wins); rallies where the instructions are in the form of scrambled anagrams; rebus rallies, wherein drawings or cartoons replace words; rallies in which a check-point official cuddling a Teddy bear could be a mule cue for you to head for a nearby wild-animal farm (if there's also a spot called Big Bear Falls within driving distance, lots of luck). There are also demoniacal rallies which employ little-known symbols—distances might be indicated in leagues, links, furlongs, poles or perches (a World Almanac will prove as indispensable as your ignition key in such cases); there are rhymed rallies, crossword-puzzle rallies, and rallies which defy description and the participants.

Since the avowed intention of the rally is to enable the enthusiastic car owner to participate in a nonracing event that will give him the pleasure of handling his car under circumstances different from his everyday driving and return him a sense of well-being and happiness, it becomes a case of to each his own. The level of skill and devotion applied to the cause will determine whether the rally fan remains in the "rally to the beer keg" class or seeks out the type of thing the Colorado Region of the Sports Car Club of America stages in February of each year: the Seven Passes Rally—a high-speed tour through the snow-covered, ice-encrusted back roads of the Colorado Rockies.

The progression might go something like this: Young man buys car, feels sporting, joins club which contains good-looking women available as rally partners, attends functions, dances, parties, has ball. At one of these parties he meets another y. m., a real rally nut who was once 13th in the Continental Divide and would have been higher placed had his navigator not been a complete clot. He describes the intricacies of keeping on schedule while nosing through herds of cattle that roam the unfenced pastures and the tingling sensation of passing a huge diesel truck blind on a 12,000-foot pass. Fired with drink and enthusiasm, the first young man asks for a chance to navigate for this expert on the next big one and is accepted.

He knows navigation, having helped his own lovely but somewhat inept navigator, but he now discovers that his inexpensive circular slide rule is much too basic for the big leagues and he must invest in a Curta "pepper mill" binary calculator, if he is not of a mind to go into the more esoteric electronic computers priced at several hundred clams. He will probably spring for a couple of good stop watches and has, or should have, an extremely accurate pocket or wrist watch, in case one or the other stops. In addition, he will need a clipboard equipped with a light and a supply of pencils.

The car owner will undoubtedly have equipped his vehicle with a brand of tire known among the clan as one that retains its original circumference to a high percentage regardless of speed (so that his special odometer reading in one hundredths of a mile will not be too affected by variations in tire size) and he is also likely to have installed a set of high-powered driving lights or a spotlight and even a short-wave radio, as mentioned earlier. This aggregate can tack on more than $500 to the list price of his car, but the combination would be in pretty fair shape to compete. If the car is an open roadster, preferred by many, car coats and other motoring habiliments would run up the total another notch or two.

If the team finds itself working well together, the girlfriends will quickly be relegated to lolling beside the pool or before the fireplace at rally headquarters while the males challenge the conditions that prevail.

Thus the cycle begins, and if the enthusiast has the temperament and freedom to travel, he might wind up on a factory-sponsored team competing in the great overseas rallies such as the Monte Carlo, the Liége—Rome-Liége, the wildly improbable East African or the Round Australia, which spares no obstacles of mountain and desert for 12,000 incredibly difficult miles.

This might seem a far cry from a Bachelors' Sports Car Club's Wine Cellar Tour, but the end result is the same: press on regardless and have a good time.