Antrim became mad-car territory this weekend, as racers drove 'like frig' around the Ulster Rally circuit. It's hard to work out what motivates them, but it's definitely not money, writes KATHY SHERIDAN
IF TESTOSTERONE could be measured in decibels, this would be the place to come. We’re following Una Warnock and her six young charges 30km across country from the Ulster Rally service area in Antrim town, over the bridge of Toome, through a network of little roads and handkerchief fields, to the foot of the Sperrins. You know you’ve strayed into mad-car territory only when the yellow ribbons suddenly appear across the road and a couple of apprehensive-looking marshals are standing guard over a “square left” (tech speak, you know, for a 90-degree bend).
We finally pitch up somewhere near Draperstown, Co Derry – or “boy racer central”, as one spectator dubs it. This is Eugene Donnelly’s native ground, where he rode his bike as a boy. Sizing up the one-track roads and multiplicity of square lefts, we reckon there must have been a few locals who judged him a bit of a scourge. But the third-time Ulster Rally winner is now the local hero, and Draperstown is on the map.
Since Warnock is stepping out with his brother, we listen carefully for the tech speak. She points to the short, orange, twirly bits on the rally map (where the competitive parts run on closed roads) and explains: “That’s where they drive like frig.”
Mmmh.
An ear-splitting, whining snarl rends the air somewhere across the hedges and crashes towards our tiny, muddy square left. “That’s the sound of testosterone,” says Warnock. With a series of satisfyingly macho pops, bangs and backfires, the driver “dogs” it through the gears (ie whacks it straight down to first), then screams away into the straight, over the crest of a hill and into another bend, where earlier a car shot into a field, sending three spectators to hospital.
That apart, it’s all deeply satisfying, even if to some, it’s still a bit dawdlin’. “They’re only takin’ the bend at 50 to 60 miles an hour,” says one laconically. “When you can read the writin’ on the car, they’re not goin’ fast enough.” Shane Donnelly, Eugene’s 19-year-old nephew, who is studying motor-sport engineering in Swansea university, not only loves the pops and bangs but knows what causes them: “They’re over-fuelling the engine.”
The testosterone is not entirely male. Of the 66 entries in the International Rally, three of the drivers and seven of the co-drivers are female. Mary O’Kane, from Swatragh, Co Derry – “Charlie Haughey country” – is dictating the pace this weekend for Liam Egan, a wealthy New York builder. “I work in a primary school [she’s the principal, it emerges], which is a very sedate job. For me, it’s an escape from work. I get very car sick – I’m the one who always has to sit in front – but rallying is totally different. With all the adrenalin, I feel no motion sickness . . . Nothing compares to driving through a stage at speed. This is my hobby but these are my friends,” she says, gesturing to those around her.
The strong support for the rallying culture in the North is manifest in the “go-faster” decals on the wannabe-boy-racer cars of the spectators. One outsider describes the sport as peculiarly Northern, “almost an inbuilt aggression . . . a tension trying to get out”. It’s a culture that many perceive has crossed the Border into the Republic.
A local man takes exception to this notion, claiming that it looks like Northern boys are to blame down South, only because “the Southern boys get their cars up here because they don’t want to pay duty”.
It’s worth noting that a quarter of the drivers and more than a quarter of the co-drivers in the international rally hail from the South. Two feature in the weekend’s top 10.
The surprise of the outing is not the speed and aggression but the sophistication of the technology and the size of the cars.
These cars are tiny – Donnelly’s is a little 2005 Skoda Fabia, Gareth McHale’s is a Ford Focus; Subaru Imprezas, Mitsubishi Lancers, Ford Fiestas and Renault Clios hog the field. And frankly, some of them look a lot like old bangers. But they can be worth anything between €12,000 and €400,000. Gareth McHale’s 2006 Ford Focus (this year’s runner-up) is reckoned to have cost him about €500,000.
Maintenance alone can cost up to €200,000 a year, a blown engine about €50,000, a gearbox €30,000.
Special tyres (thinly threaded and prized for the “stickiness” that leave rubbers on the road) cost €750 a set and might be changed every 50 rally kilometres. What one driver calls “the rocket fuel” but Mitsubishi championship coordinator Simon Slade prefers to call “the specially-blended motor-sport fuel” is pumped in at €3.45 a litre.
The standard Mitsubishi Evolution- turbo-charged, two-litre, four-wheel drive is already fast by any standard. Even then, it has to be heavily modified. Weld in a roll cage, some massive seat-belts (harnesses) and get in the fire extinguishers, special wheels and suspension; then use the all-important on-board computer to suck in as much air and fuel as possible and you’re almost there.
In Derek McGeehan’s 11-metre truck, amid vast array of tools and tyres, is the kind of computer technology usually only seen in a high-end hospital. At 37, McGeehan makes his living out of preparing rally cars and today his team is servicing cars for three drivers, including Donnelly and Liam Egan.
In the small kitchen area of the truck amid the ginger cake and Jammie Dodgers, Peter, a young north European software engineer, has been hired to handle the technology. “Everything is computer-controlled,” says McGeehan, eyeing a blizzard of spikes and colour codes on screen that can tell precisely what a driver is doing in any split second – “the G-force in the cornering, the braking, what gear he was in, when he was in full throttle . . . Just to install the software in a car costs £5,000 [€5,750]. It’s like Big Brother. The driver can’t lie.”
Why would he? “Some won’t admit a mistake. If he spun hard to reverse back and he says he overshot, we can look to see if he held the hand-brake too long, or the footbrake or even the indicator.”
So given the right car, team and technology, what is actually left for a driver to do? They stare disbelievingly. “He has to have a good set between here to drive fast,” says McGeehan, indicating an area between his legs. “But it is a big team effort. No doubt about that.”
So what’s in it for McGeehan? The money? They nearly explode with hilarity. “It’s definitely not for the money. And it’s not for all the aggravation and shouting that you have to listen to . . . ”
The software engineer (working for €350 a day plus expenses) interjects: “It’s like an addiction. It’s not normal. You’re working 6am to 12 midnight so it is something beyond money, that’s for sure.”
McGeehan nods. “It’s mad I suppose, but in a good way. It’s in you or it’s not in you. And it keeps you out of the pubs. You’d rather spend it on a rally than piss it up against a wall.”
“And everyone is all friends,” adds a mechanic, “there’s no one wouldn’t help you out.” Everyone looks at him. “Well, most of them would anyway,” he says, after further consideration.
