The 1978 POR
I guess you could say that this is the first recorded VanTrippin Trip. It was before we knew of the internet, digital cameras, and telling the world all this---stuff we do.
This first appeared in a sports car magazine in a slightly abbreviated form. The photos were not used there.
1978 Press On Regardless.
“Mr. Brown, Mr. Brown, please come to the service department.” Squawked the loud speakers at the VW dealer in Racine, Wisconsin on a beautiful clear day in November 1978.
"Ahh, those long-awaited words. "My car must be ready," I thought, as I dragged out of my seat and left the cramped waiting room. It was 9:30 Friday morning. I was only 10 hours behind schedule. With luck I could make it to Houghton for pre-rally festivities.
"Oh, there you are, Mr. Brown, I'd like to show you something. It seems the minor repairs we discussed have turned out to be ...er...ah...a broken crankshaft. Unfortunately, we'll have to wait until Monday to get all the necessary parts for the repairs."
I blinked dumbly at the man, trying to get my brain in gear. Then it clicked. My God! What did he say? A broken crankshaft? Monday! Why won't my mouth work?
"Uh...uh...crankshaft?" I finally squeaked.
"Yes, Mr. Brown, we don't have all the parts we need and we'll have to wait until Monday to get them from the distributor. But, don't worry, you'll be on the road by Monday noon."
"But l have to be 400 miles from here by tonight ...tomorrow morning at the very latest! I'm going to cover the Press On Regardless Pro Rally, you know, the most famous rally in the United States!"
The poor man looked at me in shocked surprise as my voice rose to a shrill screech that sounded like rivets digging into a brake drum. Little did he know what I had been through to get as far as Racine, Wisconsin. Racine? Good Lord! I was not even halfway to Houghton, way up in Michigan's upper peninsula.
Looking back, the events of the 16 hours leading up to this moment were enough to make anyone's voice crack. 1 had left Indianapolis the day before at four in the afternoon with a supply of peanut butter sandwiches and coffee. I figured that would keep me going practically non-stop to Houghton, Michigan, for the 29th running of the prestigious Press On Regardless Pro Rally. I hoped to cover the drive of more than 600 miles in 13 hours and would then have plenty of time to rest before the Friday night reception. It was there I planned to meet the drivers and rally organizers to gather background information for my photo-story of the POR, as it's called by rally aficionados. Yet there I was, 16 hours into my journey and not even to the halfway point.
The three-hour trip from Indy to the Chicago area went without a hitch until I stopped at the first toll gate on the Chicago bypass. There it happened. The Rabbit shivered to a stop and refused to budge. Not a twitch! Looking behind me, it seemed as if I were blocking the only gate and all six lanes were trying to funnel down through it. The driver of the Mack 18-wheeler directly behind me looked about as friendly as the bulldog on his hood. His truck was coming closer in great snarling leaps as he played the hound. My Hare and I were his next meal.
It was at that very instant I found out how easily a Rabbit could be pushed into the bushes in the service lane. Opening the hood, I stared at the maze of air conditioner and fuel injection plumbing. Somewhere in there was a basic engine I should be able to reason with. After a few minutes of poking and prodding, I tried to start it. Miraculously, it fired right up. For a moment I thought I was a pretty good mechanic, but in reality I knew I hadn't completely solved the problem. At that moment, 1 didn't want to face it. The car wouldn't idle. Oh well, a minor point. I could just blip the throttle to keep it going until I had more time to make proper repairs. Press on!
The next toll gate was a breeze. I drove right up, raced the engine, threw my 30 cents in the basket, and away I went.
I stopped to get gas and give the Rabbit a checkup. Everything was in good shape except for its reluctance to idle. At the next toll gate, the Rabbit died again. Someone somewhere must be pregnant! Another push over to the bushes as 18-wheeler, 4wheelers, 6-wheelers and a kid on a unicycle snapped at my heels. I threw open the hood, fiddled and twiddled-nothing happened! It wouldn't start. It must be the fuel injection, the only thing I didn't understand!
My frantic call to the Chicago Motor Club brought a tow truck in about 30 minutes. This brought my time lost for unscheduled stops to 90 minutes. The tow truck driver was a jewel. He didn't know a thing about fuel injection. He didn't know a thing about where Rabbits were repaired. I began to suspect this guy didn't know his own name. He did know that Joe at his place could fix anything. And he was going to take me to Joe.
The Rabbit was towed to HIS place, a large fenced-in building that for all practical purposes looked like a front for a very lucrative towing service. The door was closed, the fence was locked, and Joe, giving the closed hood a cursory glance while picking his teeth with a dirty match, announced he couldn't fix a sick Rabbit. Joe's friends gathered around me and my Bunny while they seemed to chorus that they could tow me to the VW dealer in the morning or, better yet, to still another friend who would do a much better repair job than the factory-trained mechanics and at a much lower cost! I suggested leaving the car outside until morning, but they wouldn't do that because all the local hoodums would strip it. 1 kept telling myself to relax as I slowly began to realize I was definitely a prisoner. I was beginning to think I would rather face the formidable fuel injection and the neighborhood hoods out in the alley than argue with this group of Mafia mechanics any longer. After a little negotiation, they agreed to tow the car to a nearby motel for a "slight" extra charge-$40, "cash only." Later I was in the parking lot of the seediest motel imaginable. With a sigh of relief, I, alone at last, opened the hood and peered into the Rabbit's innards.
With a stroke of pure genius I loosened the distributor and advanced the timing, or maybe I retarded it. Who cares? The Rabbit started and I drove around the block several times to be sure it would keep running. I had wasted all that time, had all that trouble and spent all that money because of a loose distributor. I was on my way at last. Nothing could stop me now. Press on... REGARDLESS.
It was a good feeling to be back on the toll road. I actually made it through two more toll booths before the Rabbit had a relapse. Undaunted now, I knew exactly what to do. At one of the fastest toll road pit stops on record I deftly advanced, or deftly retarded, the timing and I was on my way again, four hours behind schedule.
Everything was going great (except for a silly, persistent knocking noise) when I crossed the Illinois-Wisconsin state line. This noise went away when I turned on the air conditioner. My new-found mechanical genius led me to believe it was only a minor problem with the AC drive. Suddenly I noticed I had the gas pedal on the floor and I was only doing 50mph. After gradually going slower and slower, the Rabbit again stopped. One more adjustment of the timing! "Why does the darn thing keep coming loose!" I wondered. A few miles later it slowed to a stop again. Only this time it didn't start at all.
A short walk brought me to an all-night service station. I was able to find a towing service that towed the Rabbit to the Racine, Wisconsin, VW-Mazda dealer. It was shortly after midnight. I thought wearily, "At least, I'll be the first in line when they open in the morning."
Hours later the service manager arrived and listened to my tale of woe. His was the first honest face I'd seen in hours. His crew started in on the Rabbit right away. I was reassured to hear it might be just a jumped timing belt and probably would be ready very soon.
There I was sitting in the customer waiting room in my zombie-like trance trying to rest and relax when I heard that call. "Mr. Brown, Mr. Brown, please come to the service department."
Like an innocent lamb I went to the service department where the service manager told me that my problems were a little more serious than a slipped timing belt. It seems the crankshaft had broken. Luckily it had broken in a main bearing journal and that saved totally destroying the engine. But, and this was a rather big but, it would cost something like $700 to fix and take several days. His explanation blamed the break on the aftermarket air conditioner which set up certain harmonic vibrations that cracked the crankshaft clean through. I, of course, could see how all this could be true and swallowed my remark about this piece-of-shit German Gem busting a crank at 35,000 miles.
My initial reaction finally subsided and my thoughts finally became a little more rational. My voice returned without the panic and in relative calm I said, "Let's make a deal, my broken Rabbit for something that runs." That was fine with them. All I had to do was wait for the salesmen to come in. Finally they did, and after an hour or two of negotiations, I was back on the road in a rental Mazda with a new Rabbit Diesel on order. I tried not to think about the $700 loss I had to absorb because of the Rabbit's repairs. It was only on paper anyway, green paper.
I guess you could say that this is the first recorded VanTrippin Trip. It was before we knew of the internet, digital cameras, and telling the world all this---stuff we do.
This first appeared in a sports car magazine in a slightly abbreviated form. The photos were not used there.
1978 Press On Regardless.
“Mr. Brown, Mr. Brown, please come to the service department.” Squawked the loud speakers at the VW dealer in Racine, Wisconsin on a beautiful clear day in November 1978.
"Ahh, those long-awaited words. "My car must be ready," I thought, as I dragged out of my seat and left the cramped waiting room. It was 9:30 Friday morning. I was only 10 hours behind schedule. With luck I could make it to Houghton for pre-rally festivities.
"Oh, there you are, Mr. Brown, I'd like to show you something. It seems the minor repairs we discussed have turned out to be ...er...ah...a broken crankshaft. Unfortunately, we'll have to wait until Monday to get all the necessary parts for the repairs."
I blinked dumbly at the man, trying to get my brain in gear. Then it clicked. My God! What did he say? A broken crankshaft? Monday! Why won't my mouth work?
"Uh...uh...crankshaft?" I finally squeaked.
"Yes, Mr. Brown, we don't have all the parts we need and we'll have to wait until Monday to get them from the distributor. But, don't worry, you'll be on the road by Monday noon."
"But l have to be 400 miles from here by tonight ...tomorrow morning at the very latest! I'm going to cover the Press On Regardless Pro Rally, you know, the most famous rally in the United States!"
The poor man looked at me in shocked surprise as my voice rose to a shrill screech that sounded like rivets digging into a brake drum. Little did he know what I had been through to get as far as Racine, Wisconsin. Racine? Good Lord! I was not even halfway to Houghton, way up in Michigan's upper peninsula.
Looking back, the events of the 16 hours leading up to this moment were enough to make anyone's voice crack. 1 had left Indianapolis the day before at four in the afternoon with a supply of peanut butter sandwiches and coffee. I figured that would keep me going practically non-stop to Houghton, Michigan, for the 29th running of the prestigious Press On Regardless Pro Rally. I hoped to cover the drive of more than 600 miles in 13 hours and would then have plenty of time to rest before the Friday night reception. It was there I planned to meet the drivers and rally organizers to gather background information for my photo-story of the POR, as it's called by rally aficionados. Yet there I was, 16 hours into my journey and not even to the halfway point.
The three-hour trip from Indy to the Chicago area went without a hitch until I stopped at the first toll gate on the Chicago bypass. There it happened. The Rabbit shivered to a stop and refused to budge. Not a twitch! Looking behind me, it seemed as if I were blocking the only gate and all six lanes were trying to funnel down through it. The driver of the Mack 18-wheeler directly behind me looked about as friendly as the bulldog on his hood. His truck was coming closer in great snarling leaps as he played the hound. My Hare and I were his next meal.
It was at that very instant I found out how easily a Rabbit could be pushed into the bushes in the service lane. Opening the hood, I stared at the maze of air conditioner and fuel injection plumbing. Somewhere in there was a basic engine I should be able to reason with. After a few minutes of poking and prodding, I tried to start it. Miraculously, it fired right up. For a moment I thought I was a pretty good mechanic, but in reality I knew I hadn't completely solved the problem. At that moment, 1 didn't want to face it. The car wouldn't idle. Oh well, a minor point. I could just blip the throttle to keep it going until I had more time to make proper repairs. Press on!
The next toll gate was a breeze. I drove right up, raced the engine, threw my 30 cents in the basket, and away I went.
I stopped to get gas and give the Rabbit a checkup. Everything was in good shape except for its reluctance to idle. At the next toll gate, the Rabbit died again. Someone somewhere must be pregnant! Another push over to the bushes as 18-wheeler, 4wheelers, 6-wheelers and a kid on a unicycle snapped at my heels. I threw open the hood, fiddled and twiddled-nothing happened! It wouldn't start. It must be the fuel injection, the only thing I didn't understand!
My frantic call to the Chicago Motor Club brought a tow truck in about 30 minutes. This brought my time lost for unscheduled stops to 90 minutes. The tow truck driver was a jewel. He didn't know a thing about fuel injection. He didn't know a thing about where Rabbits were repaired. I began to suspect this guy didn't know his own name. He did know that Joe at his place could fix anything. And he was going to take me to Joe.
The Rabbit was towed to HIS place, a large fenced-in building that for all practical purposes looked like a front for a very lucrative towing service. The door was closed, the fence was locked, and Joe, giving the closed hood a cursory glance while picking his teeth with a dirty match, announced he couldn't fix a sick Rabbit. Joe's friends gathered around me and my Bunny while they seemed to chorus that they could tow me to the VW dealer in the morning or, better yet, to still another friend who would do a much better repair job than the factory-trained mechanics and at a much lower cost! I suggested leaving the car outside until morning, but they wouldn't do that because all the local hoodums would strip it. 1 kept telling myself to relax as I slowly began to realize I was definitely a prisoner. I was beginning to think I would rather face the formidable fuel injection and the neighborhood hoods out in the alley than argue with this group of Mafia mechanics any longer. After a little negotiation, they agreed to tow the car to a nearby motel for a "slight" extra charge-$40, "cash only." Later I was in the parking lot of the seediest motel imaginable. With a sigh of relief, I, alone at last, opened the hood and peered into the Rabbit's innards.
With a stroke of pure genius I loosened the distributor and advanced the timing, or maybe I retarded it. Who cares? The Rabbit started and I drove around the block several times to be sure it would keep running. I had wasted all that time, had all that trouble and spent all that money because of a loose distributor. I was on my way at last. Nothing could stop me now. Press on... REGARDLESS.
It was a good feeling to be back on the toll road. I actually made it through two more toll booths before the Rabbit had a relapse. Undaunted now, I knew exactly what to do. At one of the fastest toll road pit stops on record I deftly advanced, or deftly retarded, the timing and I was on my way again, four hours behind schedule.
Everything was going great (except for a silly, persistent knocking noise) when I crossed the Illinois-Wisconsin state line. This noise went away when I turned on the air conditioner. My new-found mechanical genius led me to believe it was only a minor problem with the AC drive. Suddenly I noticed I had the gas pedal on the floor and I was only doing 50mph. After gradually going slower and slower, the Rabbit again stopped. One more adjustment of the timing! "Why does the darn thing keep coming loose!" I wondered. A few miles later it slowed to a stop again. Only this time it didn't start at all.
A short walk brought me to an all-night service station. I was able to find a towing service that towed the Rabbit to the Racine, Wisconsin, VW-Mazda dealer. It was shortly after midnight. I thought wearily, "At least, I'll be the first in line when they open in the morning."
Hours later the service manager arrived and listened to my tale of woe. His was the first honest face I'd seen in hours. His crew started in on the Rabbit right away. I was reassured to hear it might be just a jumped timing belt and probably would be ready very soon.
There I was sitting in the customer waiting room in my zombie-like trance trying to rest and relax when I heard that call. "Mr. Brown, Mr. Brown, please come to the service department."
Like an innocent lamb I went to the service department where the service manager told me that my problems were a little more serious than a slipped timing belt. It seems the crankshaft had broken. Luckily it had broken in a main bearing journal and that saved totally destroying the engine. But, and this was a rather big but, it would cost something like $700 to fix and take several days. His explanation blamed the break on the aftermarket air conditioner which set up certain harmonic vibrations that cracked the crankshaft clean through. I, of course, could see how all this could be true and swallowed my remark about this piece-of-shit German Gem busting a crank at 35,000 miles.
My initial reaction finally subsided and my thoughts finally became a little more rational. My voice returned without the panic and in relative calm I said, "Let's make a deal, my broken Rabbit for something that runs." That was fine with them. All I had to do was wait for the salesmen to come in. Finally they did, and after an hour or two of negotiations, I was back on the road in a rental Mazda with a new Rabbit Diesel on order. I tried not to think about the $700 loss I had to absorb because of the Rabbit's repairs. It was only on paper anyway, green paper.

That isn't my Rabbit, it looked like that except it had less lights, chrome bumpers, no writing all over it, and a broken crankshaft.
Since the car I just purchased was still enroute from The Fatherland, they were only too glad to rent me a Mazada GLC, the rental cost would be deducted from the money I was paying for the new Rabbit. I couldn't lose, could I? Anyway, the little GLC was a pretty nice little ride and scooted along with rest of the cars just fine.
It seemed like 137 hours later when I finally pulled into Iron Mountain, Mich., 80 miles short of my goal. It was 10 p.m. and I was pooped. I had missed the Friday night festivities, lost $700 on my busted Bunny, had eaten all my peanut butter sandwiches, exceeded my self-imposed weekend budget three-fold, and worn myself to a shred. But, most important, I had pressed on REGARDLESS.
After checking in the small single story motel I called my wife, Nan Lou, to tell her about my adventures. She offered me several “poor babies” and asked if she could do anything. I said it’d be nice if she could come up to the UP, that’s Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, and have all this fun with me. An hour or so later she called back and told me she’d be at the Iron Mountain airport the next day at 8:30 in the evening. Her mom was going to stay with the kids and she booked a flight to Iron Mountain through Chicago. This was the first good news I’d had all day.
The next morning I arrived at rally headquarters in Dee Stadium, the local hockey rink, just in time to register as a free-lance photographer, pick up the press package, and attend the drivers' meeting. A quick glance at the entry list showed an impressive array of about sixty names, addresses and car makes, but NO CAR NUMBERS! Hell, I can't even go to a football game and tell the good guys from the bad without a program and great big numbers! Refusing to be discouraged, I hurried over to the "parc ferme" (that's rally talk for parking lot) to spend the next hour running to all the cars checking drivers' names, co-drivers' names, car makes and NUMBERS. I had about 90 percent of them when car to start fired up and pulled out for the starting line.
Since the car I just purchased was still enroute from The Fatherland, they were only too glad to rent me a Mazada GLC, the rental cost would be deducted from the money I was paying for the new Rabbit. I couldn't lose, could I? Anyway, the little GLC was a pretty nice little ride and scooted along with rest of the cars just fine.
It seemed like 137 hours later when I finally pulled into Iron Mountain, Mich., 80 miles short of my goal. It was 10 p.m. and I was pooped. I had missed the Friday night festivities, lost $700 on my busted Bunny, had eaten all my peanut butter sandwiches, exceeded my self-imposed weekend budget three-fold, and worn myself to a shred. But, most important, I had pressed on REGARDLESS.
After checking in the small single story motel I called my wife, Nan Lou, to tell her about my adventures. She offered me several “poor babies” and asked if she could do anything. I said it’d be nice if she could come up to the UP, that’s Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, and have all this fun with me. An hour or so later she called back and told me she’d be at the Iron Mountain airport the next day at 8:30 in the evening. Her mom was going to stay with the kids and she booked a flight to Iron Mountain through Chicago. This was the first good news I’d had all day.
The next morning I arrived at rally headquarters in Dee Stadium, the local hockey rink, just in time to register as a free-lance photographer, pick up the press package, and attend the drivers' meeting. A quick glance at the entry list showed an impressive array of about sixty names, addresses and car makes, but NO CAR NUMBERS! Hell, I can't even go to a football game and tell the good guys from the bad without a program and great big numbers! Refusing to be discouraged, I hurried over to the "parc ferme" (that's rally talk for parking lot) to spend the next hour running to all the cars checking drivers' names, co-drivers' names, car makes and NUMBERS. I had about 90 percent of them when car to start fired up and pulled out for the starting line.

The first few cars had already left by the time I ran down there. Yes, true to form, I had missed a shot of the potential winner starting the 1978 POR. Spinning my wheels like crazy, well, it was actually my legs, I elbowed my way through the mob of onlookers with my two cameras and bag full of lenses. I found myself in the middle of the street along with 300 other professional and amateur photographers also trying to be in front.
After the first twenty or so cars left, I headed for my car to work out a plan of action. I had a small scale map of the surrounding counties and a Chamber of Commerce map intended for the summer vacationer. There was little similarity between the two! Luckily, the press package had detailed instructions on how to reach the various roadside service stops. At least I'd be able to see a car or two along the route.
The special stages were marked on the small scale map but no one I spoke to knew exactly how to get to them. When I asked an official-looking gentleman who looked like he knew what he was doing and what I should be doing, he said, "Just follow the map-it's right there in black and white!"
"That's great," I thought. I pride myself in being a pretty good map reader, but I soon found out the map might indicate a "T" at a crossroad or a road where there wasn't a road, trail or bear tracks to follow. I finally gave up looking for a special stage and followed the directions to the first service stop. Arriving there I was told the cars were going to be an hour late. Some shotgun-wielding farmer refused to let anyone go down his road. Rather possessive people these Wisconsiners.
At last the cars came around the corner and slowly cruised to a stop. The drivers and crews exchanged a few words, minor problems were dealt with, and they drove off as peacefully as anyone going to church on Sunday morning. Not very exciting from a photographer's viewpoint. I could just imagine the editor of FAST CARS AND GIRLS GALORE going through my photos of parked cars thinking, “These people are pressing on regardless, regardless of WHAT!”
After the first twenty or so cars left, I headed for my car to work out a plan of action. I had a small scale map of the surrounding counties and a Chamber of Commerce map intended for the summer vacationer. There was little similarity between the two! Luckily, the press package had detailed instructions on how to reach the various roadside service stops. At least I'd be able to see a car or two along the route.
The special stages were marked on the small scale map but no one I spoke to knew exactly how to get to them. When I asked an official-looking gentleman who looked like he knew what he was doing and what I should be doing, he said, "Just follow the map-it's right there in black and white!"
"That's great," I thought. I pride myself in being a pretty good map reader, but I soon found out the map might indicate a "T" at a crossroad or a road where there wasn't a road, trail or bear tracks to follow. I finally gave up looking for a special stage and followed the directions to the first service stop. Arriving there I was told the cars were going to be an hour late. Some shotgun-wielding farmer refused to let anyone go down his road. Rather possessive people these Wisconsiners.
At last the cars came around the corner and slowly cruised to a stop. The drivers and crews exchanged a few words, minor problems were dealt with, and they drove off as peacefully as anyone going to church on Sunday morning. Not very exciting from a photographer's viewpoint. I could just imagine the editor of FAST CARS AND GIRLS GALORE going through my photos of parked cars thinking, “These people are pressing on regardless, regardless of WHAT!”

Some wise pundit said that if you like driving like Hell on a dirt road in the woods not knowing what's around the next bend you would make a pro rally driver. Sounds like fun to me.
With a slight panic creeping upward from the pit of my stomach, I drove off down the rally route determined to find something with a little more excitement. As I bounced over a rough railroad crossing adjacent to a dirt road, ! had a hunch I should turn around and go on down that road. It wasn't on the map, but it looked like a "Rally Road." For once something went right. The road led to Stage 7 which had been changed to Stage 6 because of the fearless farmer. It was one of the few opportunities I had to photograph the cars at speed. And they were indeed something! Buffum, Blok, Jones, Harvey, all the big names came barreling around the loose gravel road with all the speed and confidence of anyone who knew what lay ahead. Finally, with the satisfaction I would have something on film other than parked cars, I left for bigger and better things, the rally at night. Some very exciting photos can be made of the cars at night, such as highlighting the brilliant beams of driving lights or the squiggly red streaks of taillights as they round a curve and bounce away. Of course, you usually don't know who you've photographed until you have returned to the darkroom. That doesn't matter though, it's the visual effects you're after. With a little luck, you might find Heinonen's Toyota or Blok's Arrow creating some spectacular light show second only to the aurora borealis.
With a slight panic creeping upward from the pit of my stomach, I drove off down the rally route determined to find something with a little more excitement. As I bounced over a rough railroad crossing adjacent to a dirt road, ! had a hunch I should turn around and go on down that road. It wasn't on the map, but it looked like a "Rally Road." For once something went right. The road led to Stage 7 which had been changed to Stage 6 because of the fearless farmer. It was one of the few opportunities I had to photograph the cars at speed. And they were indeed something! Buffum, Blok, Jones, Harvey, all the big names came barreling around the loose gravel road with all the speed and confidence of anyone who knew what lay ahead. Finally, with the satisfaction I would have something on film other than parked cars, I left for bigger and better things, the rally at night. Some very exciting photos can be made of the cars at night, such as highlighting the brilliant beams of driving lights or the squiggly red streaks of taillights as they round a curve and bounce away. Of course, you usually don't know who you've photographed until you have returned to the darkroom. That doesn't matter though, it's the visual effects you're after. With a little luck, you might find Heinonen's Toyota or Blok's Arrow creating some spectacular light show second only to the aurora borealis.
This a nighttime repair stop. Even though this was the premier Pro rally in the USA facilities were rather primitive compared to something like the European rallies or our Indy 500. Being out there at night is also a bit more mysterious. During daylight, even though the cars can't be seen when they're a half mile away, you know there's NOTHING WRONG. But, at night, out of range of the street lights or the temporary lights of the service crews, there's an eerie feeling that makes you wonder what's happening out there. Especially true if you Happen to be standing next to Buffum's service crew when the two-way radio crackles and spits out the news that John is out of his TR-7 walking around it shaking his head. You almost wish you're somewhere else when Salty, Buffum's crew chief, hears this.A few minutes later some of the cars started to arrive. It was no longer the "Sunday drive" I had seen earlier. Lights were out, fenders were torn, brakes didn't work. Buffum did make it in though, but the cable to the starter was broken. This meant he needed a push start every time he stopped. That could have been disastrous if he made the slightest mistake out there in the boonies without anyone around to push. Too bad we weren't closer to Chicago, I could have tipped him off to a great towing service there. The cars came and went. There was jubilation in the crews that found their drivers and cars all in one piece and on schedule too! There was a guarded quietness in those crews that waited and waited and waited ...only to have a friendly competitor finally come up and tell them their car is somewhere "out there" with a broken this or a busted that. This bad news is 10 times worse when the sun is down and the night chill creeps up around their spare parts. That's John Buffum who went on to rally in the European rally circuit. At this time he was regarded as the best rally driver in the USA. In the middle of the night, with an ailing car, he was not above helping his mechanics dig in and try to cure it. Soon it was time to move on. My next stop would be the half-way point where major repairs could be made. I packed by gear into the car, tried to find the steering wheel under the myriad of maps, papers and empty coffee cups, and headed for Iron Mountain. Iron Mountain, Mich., 8 p.m., Saturday night, Nov. 5, 1978. Everything looked about normal. The sidewalks had been rolled up. Most stores had closed. The restaurants were full of dirty, noisy strangers. The parking lots had been turned into instant repair shops. That's normal? Yes, for the POR weekend. I ran around taking pictures of cars being repaired and tried to find the standings. Those 300 photographers who were at the start had dwindled down to just about three or four. I was soon to leave them and all the rally talk to find the small airport where the matching small plane that delivered Nan Lou had landed. I was a little late meeting her there since I had spent so much time hanging out with rally people, always a negative thing no matter what the circumstances. I related the day’s excitement to her and we had a late night dinner before hitting the sack. |
After a short night's sleep and the 120-mile dash back up to Houghton in the morning, I arrived in time for the finish. The cars came limping in. Triumph, Toyota, Datsun, the old Volvo of Walker's that looked like I felt. It had sideswiped a tree or two. I had sideswiped a Pro Rally. But I had Pressed On ...Regardless!!
From there it was all downhill. The first stop on the following day was back at the VW dealers where my poor sick Rabbit was laid up. I was going to show Nan Lou what our new Bunny was going to look like. But, it seemed there were some problems about my getting a new Rabbit diesel. It was going to take a longer time than the dealer and I expected. So long I decided it was not going to happen. That bit of news wasn’t too disappointing since I had grown to like the peppy little GLC. I found out they had a more sporty version which we both liked and opted for that. The deal was made and we headed for home in the new little Mazada.
The next couple of days were spent in the darkroom and at the post office sending photos out to various car magazines. Some were sold, more were rejected. This POR story was bought by a sports car magazine. I was in seventh heaven. I covered the cost of the trip, except for the money lost because of a broken crank, but it would have broken anyway.
Epilog
Once one of the premier pro rallies in America, the Press On Regardless is still run as a local event up in northern Michigan. My Personal Press On Regardless has also changed direction, now Nan Lou and I press on regardless in our camper van which has almost 200,000 miles on it. We do it leisurely, with all the necessary pit stops for personal and mechanical reasons. Sometimes I feel the need for support vehicles, my own mechanics, and there are times when I think we deserve one of those big trophies at the end.
POR information: History The latest POR
From there it was all downhill. The first stop on the following day was back at the VW dealers where my poor sick Rabbit was laid up. I was going to show Nan Lou what our new Bunny was going to look like. But, it seemed there were some problems about my getting a new Rabbit diesel. It was going to take a longer time than the dealer and I expected. So long I decided it was not going to happen. That bit of news wasn’t too disappointing since I had grown to like the peppy little GLC. I found out they had a more sporty version which we both liked and opted for that. The deal was made and we headed for home in the new little Mazada.
The next couple of days were spent in the darkroom and at the post office sending photos out to various car magazines. Some were sold, more were rejected. This POR story was bought by a sports car magazine. I was in seventh heaven. I covered the cost of the trip, except for the money lost because of a broken crank, but it would have broken anyway.
Epilog
Once one of the premier pro rallies in America, the Press On Regardless is still run as a local event up in northern Michigan. My Personal Press On Regardless has also changed direction, now Nan Lou and I press on regardless in our camper van which has almost 200,000 miles on it. We do it leisurely, with all the necessary pit stops for personal and mechanical reasons. Sometimes I feel the need for support vehicles, my own mechanics, and there are times when I think we deserve one of those big trophies at the end.
POR information: History The latest POR