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2001 Targa Tasmania

A Personal Adventure
by Doug Mepham

Scratch off whatever is at the top of your list of things to do before you pass into the next world and write in, "Targa Tasmania." You have to trust me on this.

Trying to capture the essence of the 2001 Targa Tasmania in a few pages is like painting the Sydney Harbour Bridge: When you get to the end, you just know you’ve missed something.

Billing it as ‘the Ultimate Tarmac Rally’ is, perhaps, to sell Targa Tasmania short. It may be the ultimate rally, period. Maybe even the ultimate motoring adventure. This year’s event, the 10th anniversary running, mixed more than 280 exotic cars, competitors from across Australia and around the world, literally thousands of volunteers and many more thousands of spectators, and some of the most challenging and diabolically difficult paved roads anywhere into a heady brew that intoxicated anyone who came close to it. Most of all, perhaps, me.

Exactly how I failed to find the event for the first nine years of its existence is something of a mystery. And I might never have discovered it without the tip from Walt Kammer, himself afflicted with a vintage rally car and nowhere to compete. Walt presented Targa Tasmania as the best event in the world. He wasn’t wrong.

How a seven-day, 50-plus stage, 2,400-kilometre tarmac rally even came to the Australian island state is a subject for its own worthy yarn. Suffice it to say that its visionary founders saw the island’s intricate, twisty, narrow roads and understood their appeal to the owners of sporting cars of all ages. Originally conceived as primarily an event for vintage and classic cars, Targa Tasmania has also attracted a stellar stable of new, high-tech sporting cars that today share the spotlight with a dazzling and eclectic list of the world’s finest automobiles. And they’ve all come to compete.

How the organizers manage to virtually shut down the island -- closing main streets and major highways as well as rural roads and parks -- is another story that won’t get told here. The politics of running Targa Tasmania must surely be the equal of a John LeCarre novel.

But these and many other issues fade into the background as 284 teams, their support crews, organizers, fans and related hardware converged on Launceston on the north coast for this year’s event, many arriving on a special Easter Sunday sailing of the Spirit of Tasmania ferry that serves the island from Melbourne. Co-driver Jim Kenzie and I had picked up my Volvo in Melbourne after its 45-day sojourn across the Pacific by container ship, and when we join the queue for the boat we join a party-in-progress that embraces us immediately. After the first 20 minutes, there are no strangers in Targa Tasmania.

Aboard ship, we were tracked down by a crew of Volvo-types from Queensland. A party breaks out spontaneously.

The two days prior to the start of the event are eaten up with formalities -- a breakfast for foreign competitors, briefings for novice navigators, sessions for all competitors as well as technical inspection and registration. Imagine the efficiency required to tech nearly 300 cars in a single day.

All the cars are marshalled into a beautiful velodrome and sports complex in Launceston before the start of the event. The view of a mosaic of the world’s most interesting cars, as seen from the mezzanine above the floor, leaves even the most jaded car fan breathless. Picture everything from a rare Porsche 356 long-tail factory racecar sent from the company’s museum in Germany beside a new all-wheel-drive Porsche 911 Turbo (one of many)... no less than four Bugattis... a brace of super-prepared Minis... a twin-turbo, 4WD, 500+ horsepower Nissan Skyline GTR... 1938 Alpha Romeo Mille Miglia Spyder... Acura NSX... spectacular Austin Healeys of every vintage... new Lotus Elise(s)... a Fiat 600... Schnitzer BMW 3-Series... squadrons of Australia’s homegrown Holdens and Fords with snarling V8s and fat fender flares... and on, and on, and on. Eye candy in every direction. Every car interesting, every car worthy of a stop and a chat with its eager owner.

The format of the competition is special stages -- called Targa Stages -- where only speed counts. These are sewn together by leisurely Touring Stages through town and country, conducted at a strictly controlled speed. Each Targa Stages has what is called a Targa time and a base time. The Targa time is the target time to get through the stage, usually set to require a very quick pace. The base time is even faster; if you make the base time, you get no penalty points. Every second over the base time becomes a penalty. The base times are set to be fast and get faster as the event progresses. By the second day of the competition, most competitors are taking penalty time. No one gets through Targa Tasmania without penalty time. No one.

The event takes seven days. The first day is a "prologue," a single stage run to seed the field. Your result on the prologue stage determines your starting order for the six days that follow. Unlike other rally events, the slow cars start at the front. In the novice briefing you are told, "Expect to be passed."

The official start reveals the level of pomp and circumstance that accompanies the rally. Under the portico of the Country Club Casino and hotel, we get the big send-off from the dignitaries and sponsors. We wave a Canadian flag at the throngs of people everywhere.

The prologue stage is a similar revelation. Marshalled in a park in the port city of George Town, we head to the stage start to discover we are about to race through suburbia! The stage starts on what could be a residential street in any North American city! When we take our start in the pissing rain, we go slithering off around 90-degree bends, left and right through the houses, dump out onto a commercial street, do a big, spectator-pleasing handbrake turn onto the main street and race its entire length. Spectators crowd the sidewalk as we jog into a parking lot, down another street, into a park, over a jump, through a commercial district and take the flying finish at the city’s downtown park -- all at racing speeds! This is nuts!

And it’s just the start. Day One, the next day, is the first of two that will start and finish in Launceston. The start of the first day was indicative of the skill of the organizers and the support of the community for Targa Tasmania. At the height of the morning rush hour, in the state’s second largest city, 284 snarling cars are herded into the blocked-off downtown area for the official start, replete with political dignitaries, flag-waving, throngs of spectators and much ceremony. The island stops for Targa Tasmania.

The first real competition starts with an easy stage in the country called Legana -- fast and open with good sight lines and good pavement. We are quick but cautious and clean the base time. So does almost everyone else. More stages follow, with names like Sheffield, Moriarty and Glengarry. We pick up the pace, determined to see where we fit in the competition. We stop in the seaside town called Devonport and do a stage there. Stages are short sprints or longer races of 16 kilometres or more, where the results really determine the shape of the rally. Wide and open gives way to tighter, twistier, with elevation changes and choppy pavement. Now we get a taste of what’s ahead. Tally for the day is 10 stages, and we return to the velodrome and parc ferme with a list of things to check on the car.

In the evening, the facility is open to the public and local charities collect the admission price as the community fills the aisles between the cars. Our Canadian flag inspires hundreds of questions. The two most common are, "Did you come here just for Targa?" and "How did you find out about this?" We stumble back to the hotel, tired and talked out.

An early start for Day Two and another loop from Launceston. Like the first day, the scenery on the touring stages is literally breathtaking. Grand vistas of green and mountain on one side, Caribbean-blue seas on the other. The stages are equally spectacular, but we have less time to see them. We are pushing, and quickly find the Nokian NRV tires we’ve selected for wet weather are equally capable in the dry (although they don’t do especially well on the oil laid down on the racing line by a wounded MGB). We skate through with limited drama, but the driver is working much, much harder. I’m wringing wet at the end of the long stages. We run a stage called Elephant Pass, but don’t overtake any. Near the end of the day, we do laps of Symmons Plains, an odd, kidney-shaped road racing circuit where we execute a demon passing move at the hairpin on a Holden as we clean the base time. We aren’t there when a Renault Gordini gets overly excited at the same spot and barrel-rolls. A Porsche flies off and does big damage. The list of carnage is growing. Beyond the usual broken wheels and blown clutches, a BMW Z3 has melded with a tree, which tries to fall on the rescue team extracting the crew. The last stage of the day is another town stage, through the historic village of Longford which was once the home of the Australian Grand Prix, conducted over some of the same roads. A pub on the corner is a shrine to Australia’s racing past.

Back in Launceston, we bleed brakes, rotate tires and put the car away in the velodrome, grateful we aren’t out scouring the night for flywheels and transmissions and fenders like some teams. Remarkably, most make the starting call the next morning.

Day Three and the entire rally ups and moves to Burnie on the northwest coast. But getting there is our first drama. Still in clear, bright weather, the stages are getting tougher and faster. We have eased our pace a little, having established who we can beat and who we can’t. The top three in the class -- a 3.0-litre Marcos and a pair of 2.8-litre Datsun 240Zs -- aren’t catchable. Some Alfas, MGBs and even a Porsche or two are beatable. If we keep the same pace and let the other guys make the mistakes, we reason, we can do well. Except we make our own mistake.

After a stage called Cethana that everyone says is tough (we do very well), we run a 24.5k stage called South Riana that is legendary for catching the unwary. Before half distance, we pass three cars writing their own war stories. A new Holden has come to serious grief on a rock face at a fast lefthander, almost blocking the road; a Lotus Elise is buried dangerously far into the bush and a fast VW is beside the road at the entry to a medium left uphill. We clear the stricken VW and drive straight into blinding sunlight which turns the windshield -- freshly smeared by well-meaning Boy Scouts at the stage start -- into impenetrable glare. By the time vision is re-established, the road has turned right, we’re into the gravel and the brakes do nothing to help. With a sickening ‘dunt’ sound we shove the left front corner of the Volvo into the earth bank.

"Shit. Sorry, Jim."

By prior arrangement, Jim leaps out and rushes down the road with the warning triangle. With cars coming every 30 seconds, it’s the first order of business. I back the car gingerly out of the bank and jump out to inspect the damage while waving the ‘OK’ sign at the first car that passes. Cursory inspection and a pull on the wrinkled fibreglass fender shows no major damage. Steering wheel is where it’s supposed to be. "Let’s go!" I yell, as Jim rushes back down the hill to fetch the triangle. Back aboard, I start to pull the car out of the way of traffic and hear bad news from the injured front corner. Jim rushes back down the hill with the triangle. More pulling and tearing at the fender where it intersects the wheel. Jim rushes back to fetch the triangle again. The crash hasn’t hurt us, but Jim may yet suffer a cardiac infarction racing up and down the hill.

Belted in, we complete the stage -- tentatively. The car feels straight and good. Further inspection builds our confidence, and we finish the day’s last stage at a reasonable pace. When we get to the overnight stop at Burnie, strangers, new friends and other helping hands set on the car. On a downtown street, we tear into it, determining that there is no structural or mechanical damage. Some crashed lights need attention and Jim sets to jury-rigging directional signals and a fix for a newly acquired astigmatism of the headlights while I look after alignment. We roll the car into the indoor parking garage that is parc ferme, bent but not bowed. I need a beer.

Veterans tell us that Day Four will determine the rally. The stages are the longest and toughest of the event. We will end the day in Hobart, diagonally across the island. Much of the route is flat-out motoring over very fast stages.

Hellyer Gorge is revered by Targa people. Run in the morning through a rainforest on a fast two-lane road that almost never sees the sun, we encounter a unique hazard: moss growing on the road. It always rains in Hellyer Gorge. Except today, although we’re warned it’s slippery -- even icy. Switch-backs and hairpins, uphill and down, it is exhilarating and exhausting. It leads us to the too-beautiful fishing town of Strahan, a post card on the remote west coast. More stages, and to the mining town of Queenstown where they close the main street to serve us lunch. It is surreal.

From almost the middle of town, we begin a dangerous uphill sprint on a narrow road with no guard rails and steep drops. Drivers don’t seem to appreciate the risk; co-drivers see it too clearly. And then on to Mount Arrowsmith.

The Mount Arrowsmith stage is the soul of Targa Tasmania. At 48 kilometres, it is a horsepower stealer. It slices across the flat topland of the island in a ragged diagonal south and east with endless small elevation changes and blind corners that drop away. There is a turn after almost every crest. It is blindingly fast. Flat in 4th overdrive with the speedo wound off the end is common. We could only imagine the ride in a 911 Turbo. Early in our deliberations, we elected not to run the rally with pace notes, though most competitors do. With no pace note experience and no chance to pre-run the route, we reasoned, we would be safer to drive the road we saw and take the performance penalty. We pay that penalty on Mount Arrowsmith, at the rate of 1 or 2-seconds a kilometre vs our competitors. It means lifting -- however briefly -- at every crest. Eight times out of ten I am glad we do.

We finish with a ‘town stage’ through the grounds of an abandoned mental hospital, after which we stop for tea and jam scones provided by the Chamber of Commerce. It seems appropriate somehow.

We are numb when we get to Hobart.

Day Five: Rain. The competitors are subdued as we prepare to leave Hobart, many anxious about driving in the rain. With vastly changing road surfaces, even over a single stage, no two corners are the same. One Australian competitor, who seemed to have missed the chapter on political correctness, confesses, "I’m a bit of a girl in the rain, you know..."

In the Volvo, we’re quietly confident. The Nokians have a great reputation as rain tires. Besides, we’re at home in slippery conditions and joke that a little snowfall would help us level the playing field. The Australians are appalled.

The first stage is through a city park that has been the scene of many misadventures in previous years. It’s difficult and fun, and we pass a large spectator point in a big, lurid slide. Other stages tend to be short sprints through difficult farm country with narrow roads and lots of places to get it wrong. Thanks to the rain, we are making up ground on our competitors who are having their own dramas. We come around one corner to find a beautiful Cobra Daytona-looking replica literally broken in half against a bank, its crew waving merrily to us. We end the day with a long list of maintenance items but a comfortable position in the standings.

The finale, Day Six, is more rain. It is a day to avoid mistakes. We are reminded of that when a lovely Ford Escort goes off the road on the difficult Howden stage and ends up on the tidal flats and the crew ends up in the hospital. Stages like Oyster Cove are very fast and technical; the Cygnet stage is the same and claims a Porsche from Switzerland and a pair of local cars. There are seven crashes and several injuries in the closing hours of the rally. We agree to keep it on the island.

The exhausted rally descends into Hobart in the drizzle to a grand reception at the casino, with TV cameras and families and throngs of fans. The rain doesn’t seem to dampen anyone’s enthusiasm. Australian touring car and four-time Targa winner Jim Richards and navvy Barry Oliver capture the Modern and overall categories in a new Porsche 911 Turbo all-wheel-driver, thanks to a dazzling display of wet weather driving on the last day. They are 2 minutes, 19 seconds clear of the second place Porsche after six days of rallying. A local twin-turbo Supra is third and national rally champs Neal Bates and Coral Taylor are fourth in a Lexus IS200.

The Classic competition -- our league -- is won by a Porsche 911 team, just 46 seconds ahead of a well-driven Datsun 2000. Our class is won by the fast Marcos, leading the two 240Z Datsuns. We are credited with 6th in class, 57th overall. Despite our indiscretion on Day Three, we are awarded a Targa Plate for meeting the Targa times when some stages are scrubbed. Jim and I have become a good team and, I hope, good friends. The party goes on all night.

There is no single memory or moment at Targa Tasmania that stands out above the rest. There are simply too many competing images of glorious automobiles, achingly beautiful scenery and spectacular competition to pull one out as the best. The best part of the event is easier to identify: the people. Wonderful, gracious, hospitable, funny, irreverent, passionate, proud. The madcap Simon and Steve, with sober-sided Gary and Ashley in the Swedish Racing Green Volvo 122S from Queensland. Mike and Robert in the insane V8-powered MGB-GT; the Mini blokes; Russell and Russell, who were never short of a smile and a helping hand; Peter and Andrew, sampling the pubs across Tasmania. Too many to name, and all fast, fast friends.

Go back? Sure. When do you want to leave?

-- Doug



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