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Monkey Run

The Monkey Run began in 2003 as a challenge between a 1973 Hillman Imp and a 1982 Jaguar XJ6 to see who would triumph in a return trip to Monaco. When the tortoise improbably beat the hare, a tradition was begun and 2012 saw the ninth and final running of what might be termed an endurance rally, rather than a race.

The five rules of entry are relatively simple: a car is eligible if it cost less than £500 (a “Monkey” in Cockney parlance); it had at least three seats when leaving the factory; the car, or one of exactly the same specification, was manufactured no later than 1980, and; its engine capacity is less than 3 litres. The fifth rule invokes a lack of political correctness whose vintage perfectly suits the cars taking part: no girls.

The team from Hitcham and Taplow (Jamie Barnard, Tim Browning and Martin Knight) combined skills in law, film-making and bridge design but our collective knowledge of the internal combustion engine was (and remains) nil. Consequently, finding a reliable car was of paramount importance. It also had to reflect our nostalgic memories of school runs, endless holiday traffic jams and backseat battles with siblings. These were the cars of our parents.

Although trawling eBay was huge fun, in late September 2011 we decided a manifesto was required to focus our hunt:

It's a race. Win. (N.B. For the benefit of our insurer, it was not a race.)

Style is essential.  Inverse style is twice as cool. 

A reliable motor makes mechanical knowledge obsolete.

Preferably built in Britain, large, inefficient, eversoslightly stylish (but only to connoisseurs and loved ones), erratic at speed, pulls to the left (or right) and held together by duct tape.  

We immediately agreed that “British made” was an unnecessary handicap.

Days later, we bought a silver Volvo 245GLT on eBay for the princely sum of £387. What a coup: only 120k miles and enough space for a whole troupe of monkeys. Needless to say, the autumnal purchase triggered a period of intense laziness and almost nothing was done until the last minute in June 2012. A modest service and four new tyres were purchased, followed by repairs to the Overdrive and both electric front windows. This last item was considered a luxury until we realised that, without operable windows, paying for Autoroute tolls would have to be done from the rear seat with the bonnet pressed against the péage barrier. Pas bon.

The start – Buckinghamshire to Le Mans (approximately 657km)

Jamie recalls… And so it was at 5.45am on 7 July 2012 that Number 53, sporting the team moniker “Swede As”, headed for the start at Beaconsfield. The line-up of rivals comprised the original Hillman Imp, a 1980 Vauxhall Cavalier, a Lancia Beta, a Volkswagen Beetle, two MGB GTs, a Saab 99 and the Audi 80 “Safety Car”.

With characteristic over-enthusiasm I sped to Folkestone, arriving nearly two hours before Le Shuttle departed.  This was our first schoolboy error: we sat and watched our lead evaporate as older, slower cars arrived and boarded significantly earlier trains.  So the pressure was on as we arrived on French soil and made our way to Le Mans, via the Road to Rouen.

We swiftly found our rhythm, spending two hours driving, two hours navigating and two hours lounging in squashy, padded comfort on the back seat.  Arriving in fourth place, the campsite at Le Chateau de Chanteloup was a peculiarly English thing to behold.  Vintage cars of unimaginable worth proudly parked next to shabby tents and clapped-out caravans.  Our rally cars were quite at home, arriving one after the other in a cloud of noise and smoke, to join the Le Mans Classics. 

Le Mans – Clermont Ferrand (487km)

Jamie continues… At just under 300 miles, Stage 2 was the shortest leg and our best hope of a Stage Win.  However, we got off to a bad start: too much adrenaline meant too much throttle, resulting in a 30ft skid mark across the campsite and a point deducted for bad behaviour.  Nevertheless, as the miles clocked up and the petrol gauge plummeted, we rapidly overtook the cars which had started ahead of us.  By the time we reached Tours, we were well in the lead but we knew the green MGB, winner of Stage One, would be bearing down on us as we got closer to the chequered flag.  Finding Clermont-Ferrand was easy.  Finding the campsite wasn’t and in the final 500 yards we went the wrong way.  As chaos descended and civil war erupted, Tim turned the Volvo on a French Franc, wrenching the long nose around and back down the hill.  We screeched into the campsite and stopped at the barrier.  First!  Thirty seconds later, the MGB pulled up and the sight of their fatigued faces, wracked with pain and disappointment, sugar-coated our glorious victory. 

Clermont Ferrand – Monaco (760km)

Tim recalls… Stage three was a day of glory, a foreshadowing of the great triumphant British Olympic summer. Relaxing on our hard-won laurels we settled into a leisurely sun-drenched pilgrimage of discovery, sharing the wide-eyed excitement of our Bridge Architect team mate as we sought out two marvels of European engineering, spanning vast gorges and the full breadth of modern history: the Pont du Gard and the Millau Viaduct. Happy for the other teams to battle out the day of racing, we spent our time bathing in rivers, eating elegantly, discussing ancient philosophical truths and broadening our minds.

This louche behaviour was the perfect precursor to an evening of sartorial glamour in the heart of Monte Carlo, dressed in black tie and dinner jacket to enjoy the city as Ian Fleming would have prescribed. A gourmet meal near the F1 starting grid on the marina was followed by martinis, supercars, megayachts, lavish gambling and extravagant fireworks. The taxi ride back to our quarters caught the first glimpses of the Mediterranean dawn.

Monaco – Mâcon by way of Mont Blanc (686km)

Martin recalls… While everyone else followed the longer but better-trod autoroute east to Italy we, Hannibalesque, followed a B-road north favoured by goats and tractors. Endless hairpin bends negotiated by Tim to the sound of squealing tyres and the smell of fading brakes led, at last, to Cuneo and fast, open Italian highways where I engaged Overdrive and we cruised.

Jamie took over for the hypnotic monotony of the 7-mile Mont Blanc tunnel, and then promptly over-compensated with a ridiculously rapid, snaking descent to Geneva. On to Bourg-en-Bresse where – in picking up Celeste, the only hitch-hiker of the trip – we broke Rule 5 and then to Mâcon, home for the evening to the Monkey Run and the Tour de France.

Mâcon – Nürburgring – home by way of Brussels (1407km)

Jamie recalls… Despite pounding the German autobahns, a bizarre last-second lane-change from Martin introduced an unplanned and charmless detour through Luxembourg and the MGB pipped us to the Nürburgring, final destination on the final Monkey Run. Spirits briefly crushed, the uplifting roar of supercars rapidly restored my happiness quotient and we entered the 20km Nordschleife race-track for the single most exciting experience of my otherwise quiet life.

We swapped €26 for the right to drive our now much-loved Volvo as fast as it would go around the world-famous German race-track.  I kept the pedal hard to the metal for 12 unrelenting minutes and 57 pant-wetting seconds, before crossing the finish line in hysterical disbelief that we were still alive.  The elation was so tangible that you could have eaten it with a spoon.  And then it was Tim’s turn to do it all again…

Martin adds… Under Tim’s command, the second lap brought more drama as a hard downpour and wet track took its toll on less expert drivers in flightier vehicles. We passed more than one entrant crumpled against the barriers before enjoying our own sudden, thrilling excursion across the grass, simultaneously flirting with disaster and revelling in our openly fragile mortality. A mudguard and some minor bodywork remains on the track, evidence of the heroic endeavours of a modest Volvo estate and team Swede As. With daylight fading, the track temporarily closed and my nerves shot to pieces, we spurned a third fateful lap and turned towards home. Another hopelessly unintended detour, this time through the heart of a dark Brussels, merely brought crazed laughter from a shattered but jubilant crew and Taplow was finally reached at 5am, twenty-two unbroken hours after that day’s start.

Martin concludes… All of which is by way of explanation, and perhaps apology, to the good villagers of Hitcham and Taplow who have suffered our glorious vehicle in various parking spaces over the past few months. Thank you.