ARMIN THE PORTALOO…
They say that, at the point of drowning, a person’s life flashes before their eyes. Odd, then, that at the very moment I resign myself utterly to the inevitability of death by World Rally Car, the one overriding image Blu-Tack’d to the petrified pinboard of my mind is that of Bob Monkhouse at full smirk.
For one of the gags almost lost to posterity as a result of that now famous attack of light-fingers upon his joke-that-came-to-me-in-the-bath book concerns death: How, he was asked, would he like to die? “Peacefully, in my sleep, like my father” came the instant reply. “Not screaming in terror like his passengers…”
That little gem rarely fails to set the veranda over the toy shop a-quiver with delight. But not this morning. Somehow, this morning, folded like a partially collapsed camp bed into passenger seat of Armin Schwarz’s 300bhp, turbocharged Skoda Octavia WRC, it simply feels like a particularly sick joke of which I’m about to become the victim.
And it gets worse. If I am fated to perish in a car, I’d always rather hoped it might be more of a DIY affair, and as a result of something going horribly pear-shaped whilst cocooned within an object of considerable beauty: The notoriously bad brakes of Ferrari’s Daytona failing to prevent the involuntary ram-raiding of that house on the hairpin, for instance. Or perhaps the glorious Miura’s propensity for lift-off at speeds over 80mph inducing the full Donald Campbell, Coniston Water style aerobatics. But not, please dear Lord not, blubbering in the co-pilot’s seat of a marque that has been the butt of more bad motoring one-liners than you can shake a stick at…
Now, racing cars I understand. They sport great big, hot, sticky tyres which provide something called ‘grip’, and they run on scrupulously maintained tracks free of oil, gravel, snow, ice and trees. Rally cars, by contrast, boast tyres nobblier than the face of a Dr. Who extra, revel in surfaces that even a French boules expert would deem unplayable and, judging by the TV footage that is my sole rallying experience to date, spend far too much time coming over all Christmas decoration half way up the nearest conifer. Of which, unfortunately, here at Bela, an ex-Russian military base near the team’s Motorsport HQ in the Czech Republic, Skoda has thousands at its disposal.
Sadly, awaiting my turn gives me ample opportunity to view the plight of preceding victims and get some first class quaking under my belt. A World Rally Car passing at full chat is a beast of extraordinary violence: No discernibly smooth, racing car surge up and down the gearbox here but, rather, a constant cacophony of sound akin to a vastly over-amplified bowl of angry Rice Krispies being endlessly executed by firing squad.
Too late, though, to back out now. Besides, I’ve waited over a year for this first-hand frightener; attempts to hitch a ride during pre-’99 season testing came to a grinding halt after just 35 yards when the as yet unproven Octavia WRC went pop in a very pronounced fashion, subsequently refusing to shed travel rug, pipe and slippers for the rest of the day…
Inevitably, then, with one last wistful glance over at the lone Portaloo, and strangely unenthused by the sight of Armin Schwarz’s blood type (O+) cheerfully emblazoned on the car’s wing, I’m bustled aboard. Tripping over one of the myriad bracing bars that cage the cockpit and nose diving unceremoniously into a bucket seat is no way to greet one of the rallying greats, but I give it a go anyway before struggling into a more conventional position. Being originally contoured to the curves of someone who can spell gymnasium, the bucket seat’s something of a squeeze, whilst the multi-point racing harness is as co-operative as an octopus with PMT. Finally, after an ecstasy of fumbling, a mechanic takes over and tugs straps so tight that if I cough I’ll crack a rib, whilst my testicles appear to have taken a leaf out of the Sumo wrestler’s handbook and slunk off, unsolicited, north.
With barely a moment to ascertain that this bare metal and carbon fibre workplace shares absolutely nothing in common with a road-going Skoda, we’re accelerating at impossible pace over an impending disaster of wet tarmac, ice, slush and mud. Yet, helmet on, connected by radio to Mr. Schwarz, I’m surprised at how quiet things are after the Octavia’s external aural outrages. All that I hear as we surge up the first straight is transmission whine, occasional gravel shot-blasting the underside of the car, and some twit panting like a fox on Boxing Day.
It isn’t until Armin’s ears ring to a steady stream of unabridged invective from the Anglo-Saxon section of the dictionary that I realise I’m swearing my way stolidly round the course. Quieter than expected this ride may be, but progress is still, frankly, terrifying: The nose of car swings incessantly to and fro like a compass needle directly atop the North Pole, turning window selection for the view ahead into little short of a lottery. And, when he’s not crushing the throttle through the carbon fibre Axminster, Armin’s constant brake testing of conditions underfoot instigates either a traction free lunge at the nearest copse or the requirement for me, once again, to retrieve my tonsils from the glove box. If I could stop my helmet wanging off stout bits of the Octavia’s interior every 5 seconds I’d be a happy man. You can share this experience at home: Simply stick your head into a large metal dustbin and have friends thrash it soundly with cricket bats…
Nor can I second guess what’s coming next: Every time braking appears imperative Armin accelerates, every time I manage to pick out the road ahead through the snow, he promptly thumps off piste to cut the corner, and every time I consider that conditions are so vile as to merit simply parking up and huddling over the Thermos to await the AA, he pushes harder still.
I’d sit on my hands, but am wedged in so tightly there’s no room for so much as a single sheet of Andrex twixt me and seat. Stupidly, though the swearing’s already given me away, I’m determined to keep my hands in my lap and avoid wild, white knuckled lunges at the superstructure. Wasted pride: One glance at Armin tells me he’s far to busy to pay attention to my plight. Behind the endlessly yawing helm, he’s busy as cheese.
Someone once suggested that pop icon Michael Jackson was the new Fred Astaire but, watching his feet pelt about the pedals, my unfathomable footwork vote would have to go to Armin. Using both left and right foot braking, depending on the circumstances, his toes tap out the complex tempo of the course’s demands at a pace that would baffle even Buddy Rich. Throw in hands ceaselessly cranking the helm in between lighting grabs at the next gear, and Armin’s extremities are busy enough to suggest that his chair is permanently plugged into the mains.
All too quickly yet, somehow, not nearly soon enough, it’s over. And dumped, mewling and on the cusp of puking, into the large, muddy puddle that invariably passes for a service area in the world of rallying, I’m forced to reconcile myself to the fact that driving skills of this order are, along with scoring a symphony and making love standing up in a hammock, forever beyond be. Oh, and, the next time a co-pilot’s position comes up for grabs, include me out