What happened in MOTOR 18 years ago? We went Daewoo spec-racing on a budget!

BIG DAE OUT: MOTOR isn’t all glamour and supercars, sometimes we try to drive Daewoos for 500 kays…

This article was first published in the June, 2003 issue of MOTOR

It’s a gig I’ve been mulling over in my head for a couple of years now, ever since helping some friends compete in the last one. Which, by the way, sucks. You only help mates with their race stuff when your own half-arsed plans to blag a drive fall off the perch stone dead the day before the event.

Not this time; I wanted, nay needed, to do the Wakefield 500, in a 63kW Daewoo Lanos, and I wanted to do it well, dammit.

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A bit of background: I’ve gone around in the ’Woos a few times before, and for me it’s a one-make racing series that lacks nothing but the hands-deep-in-pockets action common to those who suffer the addiction that is car racing.

The go with the Wakefield 500 is you and a couple of CAMS C3 licence-holding compadres, with a couple of grand to spend, can take part in a full-spec, six-hour endurance race, complete with fuel stops, driver changes and tyre swaps, without explaining to your Financial Controller that no, the kids will not be going to that ritzy private school she’s had her eye on.

Took some figuring, though, once Paul Pickett at MoPro Australia assigned us a car. I needed two drivers to complement my, ahem, modest talents and to hold the MOTOR flag high and proud. Logical first choice was Dean Evans, a former Mirage Cup champion and a runner in the inaugural 500 in 2001.

The second seat, though, took some delicate negotiating skills to sort. See, Ed Taylor had been sitting in the Editor’s Chair, helmet on, ever since he heard about the gig. Unfortunately, he’d let his CAMS licence renewal fester under the fridge magnet at home, and was therefore outta luck.

Enter Melbourne testing cove and PCOTY helper guy – oh, and former Formula Vee national champion and national Formula Ford competitor – Hart Mason. Hart had also just driven the ’Woos in MoPro’s Chance of a Lifetime competition, trying to win himself a V8 Supercar steer for the season. His loss, our gain.

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Now we needed someone to manage this rag-tag race team. Bossy boots and math nerd dep ed Jesse Taylor was the ideal fit.

Then there was the small matter of pit gear. The aim, you see, was to keep the overheads on this tour as low as humanly possible. Fortunately, my driveway is home to a slowly rusting go-kart trailer, complete with a pop-up shade and other necessary gubbins.

Then there were tools; regulations stipulated that we could only use a regular trolley jack and a couple of wheel braces. No rattle guns, then, eh? A quick call to Young Robbo and we had ourselves the tools – and a mechanic to boot.

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Practice does make perfect

Hart: Maybe it was the smell of the petrol, or simply the fact that I hadn’t changed my socks after driving for eight hours. Whatever it was, I was excited. No all-nighters in the name of preparation; just slap on the MOTOR stickers and we’re ready to turn the key. How good is this!

Robbo was the guinea pig, first out of pit lane and the man to test the equipment. We had heard stories of cars losing wheels and slamming themselves into walls; better him than us, right? Dean showed us on his first pass that his spot was well earned; in fact, the pace he set in each session made sure that I was kept on my toes.

As it turned out, I was quicker in our car and so it was a huge buzz (read sigh of relief) that car 32 was called to take part in the shootout. The fastest five cars in class were to battle it out in a single-lap qualifying bonanza. The fastest would reap the rewards of grid position one.

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My slot behind the wheel was reasonably uneventful and it wasn’t until my shot at pole that the gravity of the situation hit me. As I crossed the start line, all I could see were the faces of the MOTOR crew lined up like sheep at a New Zealand B&S Ball and just as nervous.

Powering (a relative term, or course) down the straight on my flying lap, I found myself talking out loud, trying to guesstimate the amount of speed that the car was capable of hauling through the next corner. I was new to the one-lap dash situation and was loving the thrill of it. As I pitched the car around the track, I was petrified of missing gears or locking wheels.

With the chequered flag looming, I could make out the same ugly mugs that I had seen earlier that lap, except this time they were smiling, fists in the air, jumping up and down. What on earth could be so exciting? Could this actually be a good lap? I couldn’t help it; I, too, got caught up in the hysteria, flashing the lights and fist in the air as I crossed the timing line… P1!

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Jesse: To be honest, I probably wasn’t taking the whole team manager thing too seriously until Hart managed to bung the thing on pole. Until this point I’d spent most of my time strategising about how many Magnum ice creams one could eat in six hours. Basically, my team of drivers had been instructed to go around and around until it got so f-ing boring or the 228 laps were up, whichever came first.

But now we’d established ourselves as the Daewoo to beat, I’d better hold up my end of the bargain. Time to read the supplementary regulations and hold a team meeting. Surprise number one in the rules was the inclusion of MGFs in the Daewoo race. You see, MoPro run both the Daewoo and MG series, so they figured they’d combine them in a 500-kay enduro. I suppose that would explain why they were lapping in practice today.

With the MGs around six seconds a lap quicker than the ’Woos, the powers that be decided to start them at the conclusion of the first fuel stop on lap 17, thinking they’d make up the laps over the course of six hours. With traffic and other factors, such as safety cars, I reckoned this might be a bit generous. We just might have a shot at an outright victory. A champagne-flavoured Magnum, thank you.

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With the race due to stop under pace car conditions for the compulsory fuel stops on laps 17, 88 and 159, including three compulsory tyre changes, there was plenty of room to catch Ferrari’s attention with a blinding race strategy.

With loads of front-wheel drive race experience and plenty of starts from the front row, it was decided to stick Deano in the car for the start. His instructions were to stay out of trouble for the first 17 laps, come in for the fuel stop and run for as long as possible before handing over to Robbo.

Let the racing begin

Dean: Rolling up to pole position thanks to Hart’s hot lap, Robbo crackles over the radio: “C-c-c-c-ean-c-c-c, they somtim-c-c- pop out-c-c-first gear-c-c.” Or something.

The friendly starter waves an open-hand hello. Can’t wave back. My left hand’s already on the hand brake for false-start insurance, though someone should have taught that to red car 12 alongside.

Five seconds later the red lights illuminate and matey next door creeps a foot.

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The Daewoo’s tacho-less start technique is simple: rev until it bounces, then back off a bit. Red lights off and go! It launches – or rather gains a modicum of forward momentum – and we’re clear by second gear. Maintaining pace and position was the priority, but cornering had the street radials screaming in protest, the chassis twisting like a maxipad on a TV ad, and the top speed was only marginally more than what we saw on the freeway this morning.

What makes a quick lap time around Wakefield is using the thoughtfully smooth kerbs. I’m using them to keep pace, trying not to punish the car and make up for the three car lengths we’re mysteriously losing in speed down the straight.

While Mr Creepy’s start earned a rap on the wrist with a drive-thru (for Maccas, probably), lap 17’s compulsory fuel stop was looming. But on lap 16 it happened. A slight knock from the front end and the steering cocked 10 degrees to the right.

“Coming in, coming in!”

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A quick check and compulsory tyre change so quick that I wonder if it came down on four wheels had us in prime pozzy, fourth behind the pace car for the fuel stop as we trickle in. Another quick check at the fuel stop reveals nothing, so we plod on.

“Okay, I’m nursing it to the next stop Jess, so order me that ice cream!” Didn’t think I’d be eating it that soon. As the green flag drops after two laps behind the pace car and the joining MGs, the engine free-revs with no drive, no gears. “Pitting again, pitting!”

Coast into pit lane, get a push for the last 50 metres and with the front end jacked up, the MoPro mechanic shakes his head and says game over. F&#k!

An hour later a person formerly known as a friend leaves a message on my mobile: “Deano, can you come over and break my chassis, too?” Bastard.

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Lap 18 of 228, car 32, DNF

Robbo: After head wrench Daryl Ritchie took one look at the car and shook his head, Dean just sat in the car. Didn’t get out for five minutes. And there’s nothing quite like standing next to a deader-than-dead race car all suited up and helmet on.

As Dean rolled slowly out of the queue of cars about to take the restart and headed for pitlane, I knew… I just knew… it was all over. After Hart’s simply amazing pole lap, Dean’s inspired early running, our awesome pitstop on the hop… nothing.

No point cursing, but I wanted to. No point blowing up, even though it’d feel good. The fickle hand of motorsport’s particularly busy Lady Luck hadn’t rested on our bonnet this morning, ’tis all. And damn her and all her offspring for the oversight.

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It’s not just that day that you feel crap. I think we all walked around for a week afterwards with our shoulders about two inches lower than normal. Jesse tortures us all more with detailed analysis of how well we would have gone, based on how the other teams fared. Dean feels responsible for the car breaking, although he shouldn’t. Two more Daewoos dropped in quick succession suffering from the same terminal ailment: cracked front left chassis.

There’s talk of an attack on next year’s event, but we’ll think about that later. Right now, there’s the pain of defeat to deal with.

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