Pacenotes – Aussie bashing

For the past couple of rally seasons I’ve been competing in a Honda Jazz. This might scream ‘Granny’s car’ to you but in this case Nanna has been liberally lacing her Wheaties with testosterone. 

This particular Jazz is powered by a V6 plucked from a Honda Legend, which has been shoehorned into the cabin behind the driver and codriver. The addition of a supercharger means the beast generates around 500 horsepower, which can make your eyes bleed when you’re trying to wrestle it to a halt at the end of a long straight. 

“Why?” I asked, the first time I saw it.

“Why not?” was the answer. 

The Jazz had been created with one target in mind – the biannual Silver Fern marathon rally. We’d become accustomed to getting our asses spanked by Ford Escorts; despite being a 50-year-old design the Escort still reigns supreme on smooth gravel roads when combined with modern engines and suspension. We needed something with more power than the Ford for the South Island’s flowing shingle stages. 

‘If you wanted an escort beater, you should’ve hired Prince Andrew,” I pointed out. 

One noticeable feature of the Jazz is a huge air intake positioned on the roof. The V6 needs lots of oxygen so it made sense to mount it high, particularly with the many water crossings we were likely to encounter.

“That hole’s big enough to swallow a baby.”

My driver Dave, ever the pragmatic one, quietly checked the distance. “It’d have to be in a pram to get that high off the ground,” he countered.

To ensure we did not disturb the airflow, we had two smaller roof vents located above each of the occupants. These are essential, not just to keep the competitors cool in the heat of battle, but to keep the cabin pressurised. This keeps dust from entering the car, so avoids having to peer through a haze on your side of the windscreen. 

One issue with roof vents however is they are (by definition) open to the air. This means you can get the occasional dribble of rain coming through, or, more commonly, stunned insects.

We were thundering through the Hakataramea valley when there was a strangled noise through the intercom. “I think a bee has just landed in my lap,” gasped Dave.

I looked over and confirmed his findings – there was indeed a groggy insect perched above his nether regions. “Don’t make any sudden moves,” I instructed, which is hard to comply with when you’re travelling at 200km/h.  Luckily for us I was able to brush the critter into the floorwell without coming into contact with its sting or Dave’s genitalia.

We were still musing over this encounter when a huge hare bounded out of the ratty tussock in front of us. He must’ve had his afterburners on as he kept pace with us briefly before darting off into the scenery.

‘That could’ve got ugly,’ I thought to myself. ‘It would’ve made a helluva mess of the radiator and looked tall enough to have come over the bonnet. Lucky there’s nothing bigger than that out here.’

But I was wrong.

We were powering down a rocky pass when I noticed that one of the boulders appeared to be bouncing towards us.

In the split second before impact I had time to think, ‘What would Indiana Jones do?’ just before I realised the object was more marsupial than metamorphic. 

The wallaby cleared the grille and the windscreen, but was not expecting the roof vents – which promptly shredded it to mincemeat. The cabin exploded with a blizzard of fur and entrails, and an eyeball that impaled itself on the bridge of my nose. 

Dave slammed on the anchors and the Jazz slewed to a halt, as we fought to calm our jangled nerves.

‘The engine still sounds ok,” said Dave breathlessly, the adrenaline still pumping. 

“Yeah,” I agreed. “Lucky it wasn’t in a pram.”