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Welsh Revhead
By Roderick Eime
18 February 2012





Hiding amongst the idyllic Welsh countryside is a notorious school for boys and girls.

Phil was a lousy tour guide. Here we were in the gorgeous green dales of Wales and what was I going to see at around 200 km/h? Mighty trees, a mere metre or so from my door handle were an unseen blur and I never even saw the hundred metre drop barely an arm’s length away. The little Ford Escort coupe had rock-hard suspension, very poor noise insulation and was caked in thick dirt. But I asked for it.

Phil Price is one of the UK’s top rally instructors. Located in the lush, picture-postcard hills of Wales, about 50 miles west of Birmingham, Rally HQ is a modest demountable under a giant oak tree and full of photographs, trophies and model cars. Phil caught me staring at a shot of a 1980s-era Mk.II Escort at full noise. I thought I recognised the vivid yellow helmet behind the wheel. “Yep, that’s Ayrton Senna. He loved it here.” Many of the world’s top rally teams use his vast forest facility for pre-event and off-season testing, but I’m here for day of “hands on” tuition in this knife-edge sport.

Wales has proud rally heritage and is the current host to the oldest regular international rally event, Rally GB. Now branded Wales Rally GB, the Welsh Government is underpinning its support of the event with an impressive economic promotion. Despite the unforeseeable and premature termination of the 2005 event, Wales have committed to support the event until 2011, reinforcing the broad public and governmental backing.

Meanwhile, back at Phil’s, ten of us gather around in the “briefing room” for a run-down of the day’s activities. Scanning the motley assemblage, his quiet, laconic demeanor belies the intensity behind sharp, steel-blue eyes. A dignified, albeit minimal coiff of grey hair frames his lean, chiseled features. There are the inevitable “hey-day” anecdotes, near death experiences and “there I was” tales related in a straightforward, matter-of-fact manner.

Phil is refreshingly light-on for whiteboard coaching and bureaucracy and we’re soon revving up for our first laps of his artificially muddied, kidney shaped circuit with all the traction of an ice rink. It’s pretty evident from the get-go that none from this batch of freshmen are of the calibre they imagined with numerous tail-slides, understeers and plain ol’ balls-ups.

Despite our impressive and comprehensive array of driving violations, our instructors (one of whom is female) are sympathetic and delightfully non-judgmental, thereby preserving our fragile male egos in the face of abject devastation. No “sergeant major” debasement required – we were doing just fine on our own.

Just when we thought we were getting the hang of it, out would come the water truck to deal us another hand of wildcards. In spite of all earlier predictions, our cumulative skill pool appeared to rise. Wild ‘tailies’ were tamed, throttle feet were unleaded and white knuckles turned to pearl.

Then, after some lunch, Phil calmly announced we were all going to have a steer of his AWD Turbo Cosworth Escort on the forest stage with him calling the notes. Talk about in the deep end.

Despite my own attempts at psychological desensitisation, the process of strapping into a full-blown (pun intended) rally car is highly intimidating. Helmet and microphone are installed and Phil’s voice, complete with signature Welsh accent, came across the invisible headphones in a barely intelligible stream of crackles and Cymraeg.

I don’t notice the speed as I attempt to hammer up the rocky hill toward the hairpin, engine struggling to stay on the power. What I do notice is the wholly incredible traction in this little car and I sense a glow of confidence as we slip noisily between the trees, Phil’s excited chatter still hissing in my ears. Fortunately, the route is fairly self-explanatory; this way road, this way trees and pain.

“Go right! Go right!” Phil yells when the car clearly wants to go left. I gather it up inelegantly and continue to the finish, my upper arms and shoulders protesting at the unusual exertion. Phil looks me plainly in the face, “not bad”. So ends my assessment.

As the racks of the initiated continue to grow, smug satisfaction spreads amongst us like teenage debutantes. And as a grand finale and effective quench for our conceit, Phil unveils his secret weapon, another Cosworth Escort, only this time rear-wheel-drive and, according to Phil, “much more fun!” One-by-one, we’re installed as mute navigators and hurled around the same forest stage at roughly twice the speed. As we’re extricated, breathless and quivering, our day is complete. Trophies, for what I don’t know, are distributed and we depart knowing that, while we’re never going to steer like a real rally driver, we’ll never lose out on another parking spot at Coles!

 

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Keywords: fun, gorgeous, Noise, pretty, See, London


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