Pacenotes – Night crew

Another South Island rally, another blown engine, so we were slinking home with our tails between our legs.

I had no idea it was such a regular occurrence until the ferry stevedores presented us with an oil drip tray emblazoned with our team logo.

While the lads convened in the bar to conduct yet another mechanical post mortem, I wandered around the ship looking for a sympathetic ear.

There was a group of rally fans chatting in one corner, but I opted to sit next to an attractive redhead leafing through a magazine. (Editor’s note: because elderly motoring correspondents are presumably irresistible to women).

She was admiring a shot of a gleaming Citroen DS21, parked outside the historic Napier prison, with a couple of Art Deco-clad lasses posed alongside.

“I’ve actually been in that,” I said gesturing at the photo.

She looked suitably intrigued so I continued.

“I was competing in a rally in the Hawkes Bay back in the 90’s and we had just finished the final stage up in the foothills.”

“You don’t look like a rally competitor – you must be terribly brave.”

“I terribly am,” I agreed, with a line that has failed to work with any woman but I will keep persevering with until it does.

“Anyway, my driver announced that he thought our alternator was on its way out. I had noticed our spotlights were getting dimmer but just assumed it was the result of years of self-abuse.”

She appeared unamused at this attempt at self-deprecating humour. Nevertheless, I pressed on.

“We stood there in the gloom wondering how we could make it back to the Napier finish when another crew turned up. They’d had a fuel pump fail earlier in the day and stumbled over us on their way back to Taupō.

I had the genius idea of taking their battery but the prospect of being marooned in a heater-less car on a cold Kaweka night didn’t appeal to them.

“We could tow you back to Napier,” they suggested but I pointed out we’d be disqualified the moment any official spotted us.

We pondered the dilemma a little longer as the evening closed around us.

“How about you switch off all unnecessary electrics and follow us back to Napier?”

We all agreed this was a cracker idea until I spotted a fatal flaw.

“I don’t think we can trust your navigation skills to get us to the finish. You guys were aiming for Taupō yet we must be 20km off State Highway 5 here.”

The pair looked a little sheepish but admitted they could use a little help themselves.

We eventually settled on a compromise. I would sit in the codriver’s seat of their car, and guide us back down to the coast.

Their navigator would occupy my seat, and they would stick to our tails (all lights extinguished) down to the finish.

“It all should’ve worked perfectly,” I said to the redhead.

“Unfortunately for us, somewhere out back of Taradale, the battery was completely drained and the following car coasted to a halt.

It took us a few minutes to realise there was no silhouette moving in our mirrors so we turned back to find them. They were resignedly looking for the tow rope when…”

“… the Citroen turned up to save the day?” she offered expectantly.

I frowned, perplexed.

“What Citroen?”

She stabbed her finger at the photo of the French cabriolet with its attendant flappers.

“You said you’d been in this actual car. I assumed you meant they’d lent you a battery or acted as your trail blazer.”

I shook my head, but was painfully aware I was losing my audience.

“What I actually said was I’ve been in Napier prison. We ‘borrowed’ a battery from a cockie’s tractor but the cops were waiting for us at the finish. Making our getaway in a sign-written rally car was probably not the smartest move.”

I looked for her approval but she was gone.

This story first appeared in the June 2024 issue of NZ Autocar magazine.