Trial For The Family

Press, Volume XCVII, Issue 28542, 22 March 1958, Page 5

Trial For The Family

rpRYING to combine the thrills 1 of trial driving with Sunday motoring with the family produces some unforgettable moments, as the joint owners of a 33-year-old Sunbeam and their three children discovered on a day trial organised recently by the Vintage Car Club. Admittedly it was a hard day for the driver, who was making his debut in competition; for his mate, who combined the usual motherly and wifely duties with those of navigator, look-out and time and motion expert; and for the children, who bore the fre-

quent tossing from the back seat to the floor or roof with remark- - able fortitude over the wild and hostile country the organisers had discovered in seemingly civilised North Canterbury.

Errors

Forty-five miles in 100 minutes did not seem too difficult, but as they left the calm of Hagley on a quiet Sunday morning armed with a sheet of stark directions —“take Ist left, 3rd right, 2nd left, bear right, carry on” etc.— the task took on a sterner air. Too much regard for the ageing bones of the chassis and the softer bones of the children, plus two wrong turnings, cost time and mileage along the uncharted Waimakariri stopbanks. First left over the bridge and left, right, left brought them to the banks of a turbulent stream, through which the bare-legged crew of a scarlet and silent O.M. were heaving their car. Recalling the lore of the earlier days of motoring, they draped a floor rug over the radiator of the Sunbeam, ignored insistent demands from the back seat that a halt should be made in the middle for a paddle, and plunged in and, surprisingly, out on the far bank, streaming steam and water. But the dip had its effects. Two

further on, an alert daughter reported a violent oscillation of the temperature gauge. When the steam had cleared, the rug was removed from the and Progress resumed. But the next corner had to be taken on two wheels as the water had gravely impaired braking efficiency.

Debate

A disagreement about directions followed. The driver insisted that a mere cart track could not be classed as “2nd left.” The ”n Vlgator insis ted that it could. ‘‘But,’’ she cooed, “you’re the boss Stirling Moss.” Six miles further on the driver, anxiously surveying the far horizon, observed clouds of dust thrown up by fast-moving fellow competitors on a far-away road. The car was turned and driven back to the cart track in a pregnant silence even the children dared not oreak. This, and the over-running of a corner for which inadequate preparation had been made, led to the evolving of a foolproof technique.

As each direction was negotiated the navigator read out the next to the children, who repeated it over and over in a monotonous kind of a chant. Thereafter, mistakes were impossible. The chant served, too, as a kind of spur. After the driver had heard “left at the fork, left at the fork” repeated dozens of times in piping trebles, he made all haste to reach the fork so that the chant would be changed, if only to “second to the right” etc.

75 M.P.H.

And time was pressing. A rapid calculation showed that an average speed of 75 miles an hour through the wilder nills beyond Cust was necessary to

reach the destination anywhere near E.T.A., after which points would be deducted. This sort of speed is undignified in a car of such years, but it responded nobly. To mask the roar of the engine, the rattling bodywork and the crash of shingle on sump, gearbox and diffy, the children were encouraged to sing some rollicking choruses. Over some rutted roads, even they were inadequate. The extraneous noise rose to double forte and beyond; and after a masterly piece of slithering round an S-bend there was a bang and whimper like the world’s end. The youngest, fast asleep, had crashed from the back seat among the lunch things.

At last, there were no more directions. Neither was there any sight of the destination. They went up the road and back. They stopped and listened. Then round

a bend in the road bounded two sheep closely followed by a venerable Fiat. The Sunbeam fell in line behind, splashed through a ford and down a creek oed where the other crews were eating their sandwiches. There was a lovely silence, broken only by a faintly ominous hiss from the firebox of a beautifully-restored Stanley Steamer (circa 1920}, the star of the trial.

Afternoon

Recollections of the afternoon trial are hazy. For a time they Clung grimly to the. tai] of a sporty Alvis, became embroiled in traffic heading for ah air pageant behind Rangiora and somewhere behind Ashley slithered and bucketed down a scrubcovered hillside, polishing the

sump to the gleaming brightness beloved by vintage enthusiasts. Unfortunately, this section jarred a radiator connexion beyond tolerance and when they were again in the long cog (vintagese, they found, for top gear) on the main road, the engine temperature was high and the humidity low. The search for water gave them a chance to stretch their legs again and in no more than half an hour they were limping on to journey s end at Waikuku, just as some more fortunate competitors were organising a search and rescue organisation. They came tenth and getting their names in the papers has sharpened their enthusiasm. From the oldest to the. youngest, they are determined that though trials are trials for the family as well as the car, they will be on the starting grid next time.