In the context of the virus pandemic, 2020 hasn’t been a good year for motorsport. In fact, I only made it to the start of one rally before lockdown put a stop to everything and permits were withdrawn. First world problems perhaps, but frustrating nonetheless. However, if there is one tarnished silver lining to have come out of the ongoing pantomime, it’s prompted me to look at alternative ways to get my competition kicks.
You may recall that I visited Shelsley Walsh last year for the Classic Nostalgia meeting, and I immediately fell for the place. As I said at the time; “the hamlet of Shelsley Walsh is nestled in a valley cut by the River Teme, a stone’s throw from where Worcestershire kisses Herefordshire. This is England at its most idyllic and provides a stunning backdrop for the Shelsley Walsh Speed Hill Climb. Things change slowly round these parts and it’s a fitting location for one of the world’s most historically significant motorsport venues. They’ve been running cars up the hill here since 1905 and the course has been extended only once, in 1907. Excusing wartime interruptions, Shelsley has been continuously operational and is the oldest motorsport venue in the world still using its original route. The new course length (new as of 112 years ago) is 1,000 yards (914m) but it climbs 328ft (100m) in that short distance, winding up through the trees on a ribbon of tarmac that in places narrows to only 12ft wide. It’s a place that requires a lot of commitment to carry momentum and there’s precious little space should anything not go to plan. The winner of the inaugural meeting recorded a time of 77.6 seconds at an average speed of 26.15 mph in a 35hp Daimler. The record on the fractionally longer current course is 22.58 seconds which equates to an average speed of 90.55 mph. From a standing start on a twisty country lane with a gradient as steep as 1 in 6, that’s staggering.” And those 232 words are still perfectly valid a year later so why should I rewrite them?
Despite chasing the clock in cars for 20 years, I’d never previously entered a hillclimb. The first reason is that it seems overkill to have to get expensively suited up to drive less than a mile up a private road when I’ve done things infinitely more dangerous and lived to tell the tale. The second reason is that compared to stage or road rallying, hillclimbing seems to represent very poor value for money from a pound per mile perspective if you only consider entry fees. However, a single venue stage rally will see off at least six tyres and a tank of fuel, 25% of a set of brake pads plus whatever damage is picked up along the way, so from a pure cost perspective the needle needn’t bend so far to point favourably at hillclimbing. But really, any cost analysis is irrelevant just now. Coronavirus means that choices are limited and any opportunity to lash about like an idiot is welcome. Hillclimbing is permitted, on condition that spectators stay away.
To be truthful, I was quite glad to have an excuse to throw an entry into the Midland Automobile Club’s Summer Spree. I had originally planned to use my BMW 2002, but my partner Cath wanted to drive too and didn’t want to bear the risk of potentially snotting the historic car into the historic scenery. Therefore, we elected to enter in my well-used BMW 318Ti Compact. Feel free to switch off your computer in disgust if you wish. Being in stage rally trim we didn’t qualify for the Standard Car class, although it is essentially standard under the skin. We did qualify as a Series Production Car although our state of tune meant that any modified hot hatch would run rings around us. Put it this way, dedicated Series Production hillclimb cars aren’t usually built with heavy multipoint rollcages, bomb proof sumpguards, tankguards and forest proof mudflaps. Horses for courses, and the Compact is more Shire than Arabian. I knocked up a Burt Strut and that was the extent of my tailoring. Knowing that we weren’t about to trouble the engravers was secondary, because just getting out and doing something felt like a victory in itself.
As for Shelsley, you’d struggle to find prettier surroundings in which to compete. The road starts in a tiny hamlet consisting of a couple of houses, a church and a watermill dating from 1800 but first established in 1308. The sense of history seeps through like a virus far more benevolent than the one we’ve been dealing with. To walk the course is to walk in the footsteps of the greatest drivers in the world, and in doing so I was struck by one inescapable fact; it’s bloody steep, steeper than it looks from the spectator path. The 1 in 6.5 gradient at the left hander known as the Crossing was enough to defeat four cars during that opening meeting in 1905. With the exception of the surface being paved ninety years ago the course is the same as it ever was and you can legitimately compare your performance with the heroes of yesteryear. The fastest time of the day (FTD) in 1905 was recorded by the Daimler of E.M.C Instone with 77.6 seconds, though with a weight/speed formula being applied the DeDion of G. F. Heath was awarded the overall win. By the time of the first tarmac run in 1930, Basil Davenport used his 3½-litre Austro-Daimler to dispatch the course in 42.8 seconds. By the outbreak of World War II, Raymond Mays threaded his ERA up the incline in 37.37s. Having looked at current times for contemporary saloons similar to my BMW, even achieving a pre-war FTD would be a tall order. Perhaps focus on Hans Stuck’s 1936 ascent when he slithered his twin rear wheeled 5.3-litre AutoUnion up a rainy Shelsley in 45.2 seconds. The current course record of 22.58 seconds requires a terminal speed in excess of 150mph over the finish line. Stand at the finish line with arms outstretched and you can almost touch the wooden barriers that line each side of the final approach.
Nudging the start line for my first ever practice run I let the Compact settle back against the marshal’s wheel chock, the car rocking as he edges me back behind the timing beam. Sitting suspended on the incline in neutral without any need for the handbrake feels alien. The traffic light turns from red to green, signalling that I can depart in my own time. I select first gear and chirp the rear tyres, finding plenty of traction on the rubber-coated start line. Straight up into second gear by the 64ft marker and flat though the open right hander. The red line on the tacho is breached and I take third, the bank obscuring the apex at Kennel. Up into fourth gear for Crossing as I funnel though the blind bend, a momentary confidence lift proving to be unnecessary. Wishing for another 100bhp, my right foot rests like a stone for the length of the long climb up to the Esses. After what seems like an age the road bends gently left and the Bottom S comes into view, the outside guarded by an unyielding wall of planking. With a pedestrian sounding 65mph recorded by the speed trap but my attention elsewhere, I move my foot to the brake as late as I dare, momentarily reaching the point of lockup before banging down the box into second gear and throwing the car at the apex. The nose tucks in as I plant the gas again, the revs immediately climbing and running out of headroom as I thread right into the Top S and take third somewhere near the apex. Nothing to do now but keep it lit and change up to fourth on the long climb to the finish line, flashing through the timing beam. 41.49 seconds.
Shelsley lacks a return road so competitors wait in batches at the top of the hill. They experimented with a return road for one meeting in 1947 when a rough return track was co-opted, but it was immediately abandoned when a competitor ran into a sapling and blocked it. As I cooled off in the morning breeze I mulled over my unnecessary confidence lift at Crossing and resolved to keep it flat on my next practice run. Suitably fired up I chipped my time down to 41.03 at the next attempt, and improved again on practice three by using third gear instead of second at the Esses, gaining extra momentum on the exit and saving a full half-second to record a 40.76. Practice is all very well but it’s the timed runs that matter. I knew that with only 140bhp, I had no chance of beating the various modern Lotuses. I could accept being slower than the modified and hill-focussed Peugeot 106 GTi, but was glad that a first timed run of 40.73 was quicker than our class-rival MGF. Raymond Mays was still showing me a clean pair of heels though, by 3.36 seconds and 81 years. Many hillclimbers spend their lives chasing the ghost of themselves, focussed only on achieving their personal best. With this in mind I left the line for my final timed run with all the commitment I could muster, throwing the car into Bottom S as hard as I could before entering Top S a little too hard and losing a micron of momentum on the exit. Nevertheless the clock recorded 40.38, my fastest yet. Phew.
The Compact was double driven by Cath, usually found in the navigator’s seat on a rally. She also beat our class rival MGF (and Hans Stuck’s wet weather time) and a number of competitors from other classes who should, on paper, have been quicker. It’s all about making the most of what you’ve got. As I descended for the final time I started thinking… next time I should perhaps take some pressure out of the tyres, running with less tread on the Michelins would surely help, I wonder if the regulations would allow me to ditch the navigator’s seat, why didn’t I take the jack out when I removed the spare wheels, it was stupid to miscalculate running with half a tank of fuel, that must be worth a quarter of a second…?
As I write this wordscramble we’re still hoping to have the chance to enjoy a long overdue day of historic rallying before the end of the year. If we don’t, just consider there is other stuff to do if you go out and find it. In these difficult times, it’s just about taking any opportunity to burn some dinosaurs, lay some rubber, and live while you can. Even though the phrase makes me recoil, “stay safe”. Just try to do it sideways.
