Experiencing the world through the eyes of Group B heroes

To say I am lucky is an extreme understatement. Not often are we provided with an opportunity to experience the world through the eyes of our heroes, let alone to walk in their proverbial shoes. An obvious challenge in most environments, but motorsports is that rare situation where the outside observer can have a similar experience to that of a master. While time itself can never be rewound, settings and machinery can piece together imitations of what life was like in the exact moments of brilliance. And I was granted such an experience, having been permitted the honor of driving not one, but two, factory prepared Group B specials.

To relay what this meant for a simple guy from small-town America, a little personal background is in order. Not many of us can remember the exact moment we saw our first racing car, but for me, it was through my uncle, who I idolized completely. He routinely visited early on Saturday mornings while I was nose-deep in cereal and cartoons, with loud, brightly painted cars that looked just like the photos of cars I’d seen in the car books I was allowed to gently thumb through (after washing my hands, of course).

Eventually, I procured a bootleg VHS tape with random rally footage, many without explanation of what was happening, just a montage of rally cars doing rally things. As a youngster, I didn’t know what I was looking at, only that this was the coolest form of racing I could comprehend. These were real cars, not the “fake cars” that raced on perfectly groomed tracks (my actual perspective while in single digits). They looked like versions of something my parents drove, and what my uncle actually drove. They had flashy graphics, shot flames while making fantastic sounds, and slid all over the place sideways. In the snow, on mountain roads, across deserts, regardless of the weather these incredibly brave drivers took their semi-recognizable cars anywhere, and they did it fast. The crowds nearby, reflecting the emotion for those not standing with them, were losing their minds with excitement. So desperate were they to have close access to their heroes they were nearly being hit. Who could imagine such a scene?

Although proving my advanced age, it’s important to note that this was pre-internet, and I was in a very small Pacific Northwest town. It was a 30-minute drive to anywhere with correspondence from the international motorsports world, and those trips didn’t happen often. If the magazine racks in my little town held anything automotive, it was about hot rods and muscle cars (which I bought, of course, they were about cars). In short, I had no access to any current information about what I loved most. For perspective, imagine loving football (any version), and not knowing what happened in the latest match. Not knowing for several years what feats your idols had accomplished. Not knowing that years after the tragic incident happened, the young up-and-coming star you idolized most had died (rest in peace, Henri Toivonen).

The drivers of these exotic cars in strange lands were my sports heroes. To be blunt, I had no taste for stick and ball games. I grew up wringing the neck of a backyard go-kart, destroying it multiple times and learning to patch it together long enough until an adult could permanently mend the broken frame pieces (yes, I drove it with only three wheels, and yes, it produced my first rollover). Emulating these talented people was what I did every afternoon. I was Stig Blomqvist. I was Juha Kankkunen, and my humble go-kart was a Peugeot 205 T16. While the fire-spitting exhaust was absent, it certainly spat gravel from its single-wheel-driven 5hp Briggs and Stratton engine, and I certainly was able to slide sideways. The crowds who cheered me on weren’t masses of enthusiasts jumping out of the way, but our family chickens (though in reflection, they weren’t nearly as brave as the crazy souls in my well-worn videos).

My rare access to rallying (for an American), was furthered along by the same uncle who provided my initial enlightenment. With enthusiasm that outweighed talent, I helped his team and others compete both locally and nationally, alongside the best the U.S. had to offer at the time. After a few years helping family, friends, and a few top national competitors, I was able to build my first car and compete. It’s hard to imagine a scenario in which I could become even more of a rally fan, but after witlessly flapping through my first rally, there was no looking back. I was hooked.

Now, this was club level rallying, as the prospect of anything else would have meant moving out of the country to an environment which recognized and fostered young drivers. That wasn’t on the cards, so I did what I could, living with my parents and working up to three jobs to feed my passion. The results were reasonable and the learning lessons critical, but weren’t anything that would plausibly be considered a substantial success. I was stuck in my local area, driving my humble car, wishing for greatness (a parallel I’ve often laughed about would be a small-village European lad dreaming of NASCAR fame, only to be “stuck” in a land unfamiliar with turning only left).

Well known to those afflicted with rally fever, there is a short list of important vehicles which were a high-water mark of rallying, remarkable for their speed, outlandish designs, and unforgettable sounds. It was a special era in which vastly different approaches were used to find a competitive edge, arguably the most varied and innovative in the modern era of motorsports. The vehicles themselves became heroes, equaling the brave drivers in spectacle (the jockey is revered, but it is the horse who ultimately wins the race).

Back to what shall be referred to as The Opportunity. Thanks to the trust and generosity of Big Steve, I was selected to showcase the ultra-rare vehicles which arguably represent the crown jewels in his breathtaking collection. And for the record, these are not prototypes or reproductions, these are real cars with real pedigrees, driven by the very heroes I idolized as a kid. A real chance to truly walk in the shoes of my heroes.

The track: Sonoma Raceway

Though I’ve amassed nearly 30 years of loose-surface racing, I am not a track guy. I have driven on many tracks, tested and demonstrated numerous vehicles for media and customer events, read and researched extensively the art of road racing, but have never raced wheel-to-wheel. And I’d never driven Sonoma.

Sonoma is, especially for enthusiasts of “real” roads, a fantastic facility. Plenty of pucker-inducing blind corners, engaging high speed sections, drastic camber changes, all the things a rally driver loves. As far as tracks are concerned, it is a track for rally drivers. The elevation changes alone recall proper mountain roads with severe consequences, and what seems like the faint feeling of irresponsibility to what is thrown at a driver, in all the best ways. What a place to drive rally cars!

Driving the Lancia Rallye 037

I must admit, I am lucky to have already had time behind the wheel of the 037. To say I was comfortable with it would be an (extreme) overstatement, but at least I knew what to expect. In this case the car was fitted with full slicks, which was new to me, so the potential grip would be considerably more than what I had experienced. Fantasies of sliding gracefully in the stereotypical method known to rally hooligans wouldn’t be likely. But that’s fine. Rally drivers are universally good at one thing: adapting. I would be able to witness the full potential of this beautiful chassis and find what the brilliant minds of Lancia had developed in their heyday.

Another item to bring to light: I do not possess what could be considered a racing driver’s physique. I’m not that rotund, but at 6’3”, this lithe Italian steed is a tight fit. But when presented with an opportunity to experience this amazing machine, figuring out how to fit would not be a problem…

Once contorted into the seat, the minimalist cockpit provides everything required for the heady business of thrashing rally stages. As a measure of provenance, aside from multiple successes during its career, this exact car placed fourth overall in the 1984 San Remo rally driven by Italian legend Fabrizio Tabaton. Sharp-eyed readers will note that this was when the event was still mixed surface, staggering between days of full gravel and full tarmac stages, and even sharper rally nerds will recall that this was in the venerable Quattro years. Placing a two-wheel-drive car that high on the timesheets was a true example of Signore Tabaton’s skill as well as the stout performance of this fantastic car.

Fully spec’d in its tarmac form, the car is an unassuming weapon. Although wildly shaped and clearly built with a purpose, it would be easy to dismiss the car’s capabilities due to its age. But rest assured, it is no slouch. The supercharged engine delivers smooth, linear power, which is deceiving. Without the iconic “whump” of eighties-era turbos, it doesn’t seem especially quick, but the classy Veglia speedometer says different, rapidly finding its maximum due to the short gearing meant for tackling Mediterranean mountain roads.

But the intent of the design is immediately felt. The 037 was meant to be in the correct power band at any moment, from one to 100 miles per hour (roughly the max speed in fifth gear with the current ratios). The dog-leg gearbox is also a unique experience; certainly a better layout for driving on stage, the opposite gear locations are sometimes confusing at speed, so I merely went for one gear more or one gear less than whatever I was in… thinking about it just got in the way.

What impressed me most in this sticky-shod-tire edition of the 037 was its immense braking ability. Being the last truly successful rear-wheel-drive car meant that weight reduction was the priority, and to me, that is felt most under braking. While still leaving considerable margin for error, the car provokes a driver into pushing harder, braking later, causing the belts to leave impressions on the shoulders of its occupants.

The tight hairpin of turn 11 was a great example: a long straight led to an imposing 180-degree turn surrounded by a daunting wall, lined with suspension-removing tire stacks, and most concerning of all, spectators. This unforgiving corner leads onto the main straightaway, so braking into the corner is critical as any missteps will at very least ruin a good run onto the straight and at worst, deliver an extended view of the car wrapped in the tire wall for the spectators. This corner highlighted the car’s ability to brake quickly from high speed, transition to maximum cornering, then on to full power and up through the gears. The 037 is a remarkably efficient tool and leaves little doubt as to why it was so successful.

Lap after lap of the surprisingly long 20-minute session, the car responded with continual encouragement, never once creating a situation in which it felt nervous or untrustworthy. It was only interested in delivering honest performance, giving all that it had for one purpose, to be fast in any condition.

Driving the Peugeot 205 T16

This vehicle, I must admit, made me nervous. The car itself is a celebrity; one of my heroes, four-time world champion Juha Kankkunen, drove this very T16 to victory in the 1986 Swedish Rally. While the 037 is a precise, predictable machine, the reputation of a T16 is that of a true monster. This is one of the ‘Killer Bs’, and one I would approach with considerable respect.

It is mid-engined, so the balance should be fantastic. But was it? Would that ideal layout on paper create weird handling traits? The output of the four-cylinder, turbocharged engine is in the neighborhood of 400 horsepower. Would it be usable, or pathetically useless below stratospheric revs to the point that it would explode in sudden unpredictable leaps? It’s all-wheel drive, so the grip (and butt-saving potential) should be rewarding, but how would it behave? Prior experience of some passive all-wheel drive systems were truly appalling, with on/off throttle characteristics that didn’t match each other, and caused some less-than-stellar moments of “dear lord, why does this thing want to kill me?”. These individual traits could create a dangerous handful of a vehicle, but the T16 is considered the most successful Group B car of the era, so the recipe must be effective. Or were the chain-smoking nutcases wielding these things in-period blessed with superhuman talents to work around an ill-handling widow maker?

In reality, it is sublime. In comparison to the 037, the interior is roomy, even downright comfortable, with such exotic features known in the industry as head room and power steering. There are parallels, having a similar gauge layout and shift pattern, although the labels for everything this time are in French (which I don’t speak) as opposed to Italian (which I also don’t speak). Once the tricky starting procedure is completed, there is a subtle sense of the car’s brutality; your teeth rattle from vibrations, it’s hot (especially given the extreme California heat), and I have no method of communication to my passenger aside from wild gestures and joyous laughter.

The power delivery is excellent considering its engine size and overall output, with not a hint of unmanageable lag unless in completely the wrong gear. The drivetrain was in no way intrusive, only adding the benefit of impressive grip on corner exit, with absolutely zero negatives. It turned in perfectly, transitioned to power ideally, and allowed that addictive power to reach the ground with full effect. The layout did provide a hint of what was possible, with the potential for lift-off oversteer right there, and if in a more forgiving environment, would have been amazing to play with. But this was not that environment; the speeds were very high, and the grip available from the slicks and freshly resurfaced tarmac meant that the car would not be forgiving. It would have grip until it didn’t, and then when it came back… would be sudden.

Overall, it was the T16’s balance which proved why it was the best of the era. It is an amazing package, blending all of what makes for a great car into something which frankly felt modern, heck, better than modern. It was visceral, willing, a real race car with real potential, and despite my limited, cautious time behind the wheel, proved without a doubt why it was successful. The power was enthralling, the handling inch-perfect, the braking ability and flexibility matched the chassis beautifully. The T16 communicated perfectly what it was capable of delivering and provided assurance that, as long as I was smooth, it wasn’t going to bite. It was that good.

My favorite section of Sonoma for this car (and heck, the track itself), was turns two through four, consisting of off-camber corners, blind crests and severe elevation changes. This area is extremely unnerving to the uninitiated, and forces a driver to commit to their line, with no possibility of knowing what’s on the other side of the roller coaster crests. What made the T16 so enjoyable here was its stability in nearly weightless moments, yet there was confidence that it was also eager to change direction, should circumstances require it. It was thoroughly planted, but even minor throttle adjustments could change the trajectory in a predictable manner. The section ends with a steep downhill straight into an off camber right hand corner, where the tantalizing possibility of big slides were just within reach, had I lost my sense of reason. Even still, the T16’s willingness to slide presented itself in a nice rotation, which was easily controlled with throttle and the manic grip of the all-wheel-drive system. The giddy laugh the slide produced was my brain’s relief of managing an unexpected slide, but also the sheer elation at discovering the true sense of the car. It wanted to go, and it wasn’t going to hurt you.

Soon enough, the checkered flag waved, and reality beckoned. My time enjoying the otherworldly experience was over, it was time to return to Earth. Exiting the track towards our paddock, the immensity of what happened began to sink in. To those outside of the rally bubble, I had pointlessly driven in circles inside super-heated, forty-year-old deathtraps with zero creature comforts. The benefits questionable, the consequences immense.

But in my skewed perspective, I had walked in my heroes’ shoes and glimpsed with my whole body what their experiences were like. I had driven two vehicles which I never thought I’d see in person, let alone drive. And they were incredible. Each remarkable in their different solutions to the same problem, and each delivering the firm impression that they were built with a purpose, and it was to be the best, to be a world champion.