Nearly a third of the way into a tumultuous 2020, we’re just over four months away from the much anticipated return of Rally New Zealand (RNZ) into the World Rally Championship.
Yet, with every day that the Coronavirus pandemic wreaks havoc on our world, it’s becoming less and less likely that the rally will even be held, let alone as a round of the WRC.
The country’s lockdown restrictions may be about to be eased, but that does little to help major sporting events get up and running again, and particularly those that aren’t held in a contained arena.
With my airfares and accommodation booked long ago, the thought of not being able to enjoy RNZ this year brings me great sadness. It’s not only the thought of missing out on seeing the WRC cars in action though, it’s the memories of past years that I won’t be able to recreate.
RNZ has always held a special place in my heart, not the least because it was the first WRC round I attended back in 1984, and then again in 1986.
Even in my early teens I can recall the sight and sound of the fabulous Group B cars threading their way through the North Island forests.
Being passed on a road section by World Champion, Timo Salonen, in his Peugeot 205 Turbo 16 remains one of the most vivid memories I have of the sport. How he got away with driving like that I don’t know, but it sure was something to see.
In the early 1990s I spent many a long day following the route, getting up early, driving all day and arriving for overnight stops thoroughly exhausted, but ready for the next day to get underway.
It’s funny how certain things stick in your memory. I can recall the freezing cold mornings outside Rotorua like they were yesterday. The heavy frost crunching under your feet as you walked into the stages with hundreds of other like-minded fans.
An annual highlight were the ‘London bobbies’ who were ever-present, can of beer in hand (no matter the time of day or night), and carrying the blow-up doll that seemed to take on a personality all of its (her?) own.
Tied to fences, gateposts, guide posts or road signs, the poor lass was constantly bombarded with rocks as the WRC field slid by. But boy, did she see some action!
There were fans dressed in all kinds of gear, including team shirts and jackets, wearing their gumboots and flannel shirts, and usually dressed in shorts, despite the sub-zero temperatures.
I remember the endless streams of Rothmans bunting, hundreds of metres of the stuff attached to fences along the route, and which was usually then rolled up and jammed into your suitcase for the trip home.
Hands up if you still have a Rothmans sun visor for your windscreen, a rain poncho, or a photo taken with one of the lovely Propecia girls?
I also have vivid memories of getting lost out the back of Rotorua one night. To this day I have no idea where we were, but it was a dark, dark night and we must have travelled 150km out of our way. We missed a couple of stages along the way, but it’s a memory I treasure from the event.
Then there were the latter years, travelling north to the famous Hella jump, heading south to the breathtaking Whaanga Coast, and even riding in a helicopter as I followed Petter Solberg along a stage, with his wife Pernilla and his (now famous) son Oliver sitting beside me.
Sadly though, it’s becoming increasingly unlikely that I’ll get to add to these memories in 2020.
Whether I can in 2021 remains to be seen, and will be up to the goodwill of the WRC Promoter to include RNZ onto next year’s program.
We can only hope.
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