While Kiwi rally fans were overjoyed to see Hayden Paddon secure back-to-back European titles, they’ve also had plenty to celebrate locally.
The return of the legendary Daybreaker Rally saw a huge turnout of competitors in 2023, with only a slight drop in numbers for this year’s incarnation.So why is this event such a big deal?
Well, the word ‘iconic’ is grossly overused these days but the original Daybreaker used to be an absolute brute.
The first car would cross the Palmerston North start ramp on the stroke of midnight and, by the time dawn arrived, the bleary-eyed field would be filtering into the Waiouru military camp.
We’d chuckle watching the recruits being subjected to mud-runs through ice-filled ditches but it was the squaddies that had the last laugh.
They knew they’d have hot showers and cooked breakfasts within the next hour, while we still had a day’s hard competition before reaching the finish back in the Manawatu.
However, for the 2024 version the promoters must’ve been feeling sorry for us as we only had to endure a 4am start. What they hadn’t organised was a balmy spring morning with lambs gambolling in the paddocks.
An icy polar blast from McMurdo Sound had rocketed up past the Southern Alps and was doing its best to deep-freeze the entire Rangitikei district.
As we headed north towards Hunterville, the car was constantly buffeted by wind gusts and torrents of rain.
In the words of the Penguins of Madagascar – “Well, this sucks”.
When we finally reached the opening stage, somewhere in the backblocks of Marton, we had already had a gutsful.
What should’ve been eager anticipation for the forthcoming competition instead saw our spirits somewhat um…dampened.
“Where exactly are we?” enquired my driver Dave.
“We’re sitting in a rally car, in the dark,” I answered truthfully.
I couldn’t see his face in the gloom but I was pretty sure that witty retort hadn’t scored any points.
I chose to double down on this foolishness.
“I’m here on the left, and you’re over there somewhere on the right.”
There was a considered silence, then he answered, “You know I can reach your throat from here, don’t you?”
I switched on the overhead light and peered at the map. “Geographically we’re at a place called Tutaenui.”
A look of resignation came over him. “That figures – I think you’ll find the Maori translation for that is Big Faeces.”
I switched the light off and we sat there quietly with our thoughts.
I don’t know what he was thinking about but my attention was becoming increasingly focussed on my bladder. We’d left our cosy motel room a couple of hours ago and the pre-event hydrating us elite athletes indulge in was making its presence felt.
I knew the occupants of the cars around us were probably experiencing the same internal pressure but nobody was game enough to race out into the downpour.
For drivers there’s nothing worse than getting mud on your race boots, as it can create havoc with your pedals. And wet overalls are a nightmare in themselves.
Before you know it, body heat turns the damp to steam and your windscreen fogs up in the blink of an eyelid.
The rivulets of rain coursing down the glass were playing hell with my subconscious and I knew I couldn’t last much longer. My hand was straying towards the door handle when a miracle happened.
‘The rain’s stopped,” said Dave.
Up and down the queue of cars figures emerged and headed towards the roadside shrubbery. I should’ve tried to avoid the deepest puddles but the call of nature was too strong.
A bitter wind numbed me and I cursed as the tree above sent a fresh shower of icy drops down the back of my neck. To try to alleviate the moment,
I called out to my fellow sufferers, “I’m so cold, I can’t even feel my own dick!”
“That’s because you’re holding mine,” said a voice to my right.
This article first appeared in the November 2024 issue of NZ Autocar magazine.
