On Tue, 25 Mar 1997 21:47:36 -0600 Rick Jennings <ijsceva@kcnet.com>
writes:
>Anyone know the results? Survivors?
>(77 Mgb)
>
>(could be from Ian Jennings)
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Hello Ian et al.:
I think Robin Weatherall is going to post the results. Since he has the
official results, I don't want to scoop him, so will wait until tomorrow
to relate finishing orders as best as I can recollect them.
My son Bill and I ran our MGA mkII roadster and had a fine time. We ended
up logging 915 miles while I believe the winners came in with 865 miles.
It was a grueling but rewarding experience. It was cold and overcast on
Saturday, (the Illinois leg), but we ran with the top down anyway as did
most of the competitors. We packed up with three other MGAs for much of
Saturday's run, creating quite a stir when stopping for fuel together.
The route followed the Mississippi River north to Keokuk, Iowa (almost)
then a northeasterly sashay up to Kewanee, Illinois. From there we
skimmed the prairie back to St. Louis by way of Jerseyville.
Back at the check-in about 8:30 p.m., we ran a timed regularity run, had
a late dinner and then I vaguely remember tightening the valve cover
bolts and repairing a broken spark plug lead by the lights of the motel
parking lot.
Saturday pointed us west across more familiar environs (the sacred rock
and sod of our beloved Ozarks). We got off early, but after the first
check point (a hundred miles or so out), we bore witness to the now
legendary dicing between the Hedrick BL Midget of Chicago, and the
fierce flying brick TD of Bob Peterson (last year's victor).
As the Midget came up in our mirror, I found a straight stretch of road
upon which to let it by. A few minutes later a small but ominous blip
appeared in the mirror and we soon recognized the narrow, squared lines
of the TD. It appeared a little tallish and was slightly enveloped in a
blue haze as it loomed up in the mirror. Recalling the braking equipment
normally found on TDs, I determined to get the hell out of the way as
quickly as possible. As it came streaking around, it seemed to elongate
itself and squatted toward the pavement. The blue haze transformed, or
rather shifted to a red blur of ionized plasma as it simply fell away
down range overtaking a string of pickup trucks in front of us. I
glanced at my speedometer: 70 mph; how DOES he do that?
At Lake of the Ozarks we sneaked our roadster onto a ferry to make
passage across that body of water. While the rest of them were hurtling
down backroads and flying across single lane wooden bridges we were
topping off our crankcase and saving about twenty miles of odometer
space.
Two hours later though, disaster struck the Midget as it bent an exhaust
valve on Highway 54 east of Warsaw. We stopped to help, Barney stopped,
and we were soon rolling the poor thing up the driveway of a friendly
old retired couple. We managed to shoehorn an extra person into each MGA
and then, dodging the horse drawn Amish conveyances in that compartment,
proceeded to wend our way toward Jefferson City where a rental car was
secured for the Midget team.
We fairly well blew our time allowance with our unscheduled stop, but won
a far nobler prize by helping our fallen comrades. All told, a fine
weekend. We found out a lot about ourselves, our machinery, and our
fellow enthusiasts. Meeting six of you from this list in the flesh was
really the high-water mark of the weekend for me and I will always
remember your smiling faces.
Regards,
David F. Darby
Interior Highlands, Missouri
MGA with a beatitude: "Blessed be the sleek, for they shall merit their
worth."
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