Nervous and jumpy, Kilian Doyle takes to a rally track in Monaghan - but travels home a lot wiser and calmer
Ever since I'd been asked to tear around the track at Rally School Ireland's facility in Monaghan, I'd been as jumpy as a netful of herrings. I hadn't slept in days.
I was understandably nervous - a 35-year-old motoring hack who'd never done a handbrake turn in his life, never mind thrown a snarling Subaru sideways around a rally course.
There were seven others - all males - in the group the morning I attended. My initial attempts to engage my fellow budding Colin McRaes in jovial patter were largely met with monosyllabic grunts. Oh dear, I thought. These chaps mean business. They probably know what torque is and everything.
First off, a safety briefing around a conference table that wouldn't have looked out of place in a Wall Street boardroom. The school's co-owner, David Smyth, ran us through the basics. (I suspect he may have missed his vocation. He's a stand-up comic trapped in the body of a car fanatic.)
The basics were, well, basic. Eyes where you want to go, not at the wall, or else the wall is where you'll end up. Brake straight or you won't brake at all. Hands on the wheel at all times. Forget everything you know about driving on the road or on the track. Most importantly, do what you're told. "That's why girls always do better than the lads," says David. "They listen. They don't all think they're the world's greatest driver already."
Time to get into fetching red overalls. Ladies be warned: they are singularly unflattering. And yes, one's bottom does look big in them.
Outside, we could see the school's various cars. Snub-nosed Ford Escort MkIIs, mean-looking Subaru Imprezas, a pristine Audi Quattro Turbo, and David's pride and joy, a Metro 6R4 ("It'll outrun a Formula One car up to 60 mph," he tells me with evident delight.)
We start in the 150bhp Escort. It's described in the leaflets as "tail-happy", which is a bit like describing the universe as "big".
I'm buckled in alongside my instructor, who maintains a constant commentary through the intercom as I falter my way around the track. I'm useless. The car is bouncing around like a shopping trolley in a hurricane. While far too polite to say it, I suspect my passenger is broadly in agreement with my assessment of myself as having the driving talent of a jar of pickled cabbage.
We persist nonetheless. With constant guidance from the brave soul to my left, I start to get the hang of it, throwing the back of the Escort out like we're doing the Lambada, loving every second of it.
But just as I think I've got it wired, I lose concentration and forget to brake. "Brake, man, will you brake!" he yelps. We shoot off the track into the mud, finally coming to a halt after pirouetting acrobatically several times. Luckily, the only thing damaged is my ego. He's not best pleased. "You won't do that again, will you?" he asks. "No, no I won't," I answer, sheepishly. Famous last words. I'm off four more times in a variety of different spots before the day is done.
In between sessions, the others huddle together, comparing lap times. I'm too ashamed to join in, feigning ignorance when I'm asked mine. At one minute 29 seconds, I'm eight seconds behind the slowest of them. My propensity towards panic, braking at every corner like a Woolly Mammoth has just jumped out in front of me and my complete inability to do a handbrake turn around the last corner isn't helping. After a massive lunch, I wanted nothing more energetic than a nice nap. Instead, I was strapped into a 320bhp Subaru identical to those used in the World Rally Championship.
This was a very different beastie. It went where you pointed it and stopped when you told it. Slamming the foot down on the accelerator, as I was encouraged to do at every available opportunity, brought with it a sensation not unlike being picked up and thrown against a wall. I was terrified. So much so that I could actually see the adrenaline running through the veins in my hands.
I shuddered to think what the Quattro and Metro were like. I decided to leave them to the experts. I'd learned my limits.
Finally, on my last lap, I nailed the handbrake turn, swinging the Subaru like it's on elasticated rails. Thirty attempts and I master it on the final one. Typical. My fastest lap - the last one - was 1.23. Quick for me, but still way slower than the others. I was elated and crestfallen all at once. "Ach, you did all right eventually," the instructor says, graciously, once we're parked safely. "What do you think you were doing wrong up till then?"
"Erm, not listening?" I answer, a tad ashamed.
"Well, there is that. But mostly you need to relax. You're concentrating so hard on every manouvre that you're not seeing beyond the end of the bonnet. The more relaxed you are, the easier your life will be, I promise you."
So there you have it. The Zen of Rally Driving. I may have been rubbish behind the wheel, but I'd learned a valuable lesson about life. I pondered the wisdom of the instructor as I drove the 80 miles home like an old lady. Albeit an old lady who can lap the Subaru in 1.23.