"By any standards it was a foul evening. The rain had started
at tea time. It was not a gentle drizzle, but an unrelenting
torrential downpour. San Remo was awash. There wasn't a soul on
the streets. Darkness had come prematurely that Thursday. The
gutters were raging torrents. Such was the ferocity of the
downpour that the rain bubbled back up from under the manhole
covers. If it was so bad at sea level what could it be like in
the mountains above the seaside resort?
It was a question which Ari Vatanen and Walter Rohrl had
asked themselves. Instead of relaxing, they had gone into the
hills. Despite weeks of practicing, the pace notes would have to
be checked one more time. Terry Harryman and Christian Geistdorfer
laboriously reading them back. It was a wise precaution. The
twisting, narrow tarmac roads which made up the final eight stages
of the San Remo rally were awash, not only with rain but mud.
There was no let up. It was still raining as hard by the
re-start a few hours before midnight. Now there was a thick
swirling fog and, to add to the misery, a ferocious wind
succeeding in uprooting trees. It was a night on which the
imagination could run wild, the mountain hamlet of San Romolo
taking on a macabre eerie appearance as yellow arc lights from
service vans cut a swathe through the clawing mist ...
... San Romolo was crucial. It came at the end of the longest
stage of the event; nearly 29 miles of asphalt which are difficult
enough on a clear, sunny day, let alone such a tempestuous night ...
... As midnight approached the wind dropped, the cloud vanished
and the open tap in the heavens was at last shut. A few minutes
into the new day and the Peugeot (of Vatanen and Harryman) eased
its way through the San Romolo crowd and into the chained-off PTS
service area. In the harsh lights, Vatanen and Harryman sat for
a minute inside the car, with the engine switched off. The strain
showed on Ari's young face. The uncompromising lights picked out
his wet hair, and emphasised the glittering streams of sweat
which ran down his cheeks ...
... Harryman sat quietly, shaking his head slowly from side to
side. When Ari made for the small PTS camper van and the comforting
attentions of his wife Rita, Terry wandered around the car.
Lighting yet another cigarette, and finally agreeing to take
some secret potions from the team doctor, Terry was sufficiently
relaxed to talk about the experience. He said: "Nothing can
explain just how bad it is. You can't know unless you've been
through it."
The first 12 miles had been hidden in thick fog, and although it
cleared, only to come back again, the conditions were at best
treacherous. It hadn't been raining, but the roads were still
criss-crossed with torrents of water which had brought down all
sorts of mud and debris from the mountain sides. The cars
seemed to be out of control more often than not, both Vatanen
and Rohrl reporting huge aquaplaning slides which went on for
an eternity.
One moment out of many stuck in Harryman's mind. At the end of a
twisty section, the Peugeot went wild. Despite four wheel drive,
there was no grip whatsoever, Ari unable to do anything as they
slid for most of the distance, the perspiring Finn just able to
regain control as the left-hand bend approached. There, at
least, was some armco, but for most of this alarming moment
there had been nothing to stop them flying off the mountain into
oblivion. Walter reported an equally alarming moment at the same
point, his Quattro Sport completely sideways for 80 metres.
"I'll tell you how bad it was," said Terry, who by now didn't
need to explain any further. "During that stage Ari reached over
three times and gently squeezed my knee. He hasn't done that for
a long while - it's his way of saying it won't be long before
it's over."
