Photos: Jacob Hopkins & Ian Skelton
In a jet lagged haze only a transatlantic red eye could induce, I trudged through the airport parking garage. There, my ride awaited. It wasn't your typical Uber. Instead, it was a 1977 Rolls Royce Silver Shadow with brown-on-tan leather. Burl walnut wood inlays accented the whole interior, and sliding into the luxurious leather backseat transported me in time. It was the 70s, and my driver, the spitting image of Ringo Starr, was guiding me through the English countryside. I was smoothly on my way to a 13th century manor, and to my surprise we even had ice cold air conditioning. What was a common luxury for Rolls Royce owners of the 70s still escapes me in my daily life of driving VWs. I truly was royalty, at least for a weekend.
When you receive a call to drive classic cars across the bucolic, rolling farmland of the English Cotswolds, you say yes. Even if you’re to participate in a regularity rally, and you hardly know what that actually entails. Lucky for me, I was invited by Swiss watchmaker, Tudor to participate in Hero ERA’s Fourth Annual Rally For the Ages, a novice event designed to introduce younger generations to the historic sport.
A regularity rally is not a race in the traditional sense; it's a challenge to see who can operate their vehicle as close to the exact pre-determined average speed over an open-road course. Originally started to test reliability, modern-day rallies celebrate the history of iconic cars and a form of navigation lost to time.
The day before the rally, Tudor and the team at Itineris–who put on Hero ERA rallies and many other bespoke road trips across the globe–hosted us on a shakedown excursion. The goal was to learn the cars and how to navigate using the road book before we took part in the actual rally the following day.
We began the morning with a prep session on reading the “tulips” in the road book. These were symbols that illustrated the road, including intersections and landmarks we might see along the way. No map, no phones; just a list of actions to take at specific distances. Miss one step and the next instruction no longer applies. You’ll be completely off course and way off your pace. Race, over.
To determine which car and driver pairing would be most compatible for race day, we took turns driving each vehicle. I was set to start the day in the 1975 Lancia Beta Coupe, a 70s rally car typically overshadowed by the legendary Stratos. This example featured a punchy twin-cam four cylinder and a striking Alitalia-inspired livery, complete with gold wheels and fender flares.
As we set off, we were already lost by the second step in our road book. I was here to learn how to do a rally. I wanted to do well, but as soon as I put my foot down and heard the raspy twin cam spring to life, I suddenly didn’t care. Any time off course meant more time behind the wheel of the Lancia. By lunch, we switched cars and I was piloting a 1977 MGB: the car that would be our competition vehicle for the rally the next day. 
Unlike the Lancia, the MGB’s gears were long, the suspension was bouncy, the roof rattled, and the engine seemed reluctant to do its job. I’ve always loved British cars and the mentality of light weight over displacement, but this wasn’t quite what I imagined the first time behind the wheel. Evan, my co-driver and fellow American on this trip, had spent his morning with the 1971 Alfa Romeo GTV 1750. We swapped musings on Italian induction noise and MacPherson struts while bemoaning our groaning little MGB.
By early evening, traffic caused a reroute. While most of the group avoided the road closure, we were trapped in deep afternoon heat idling at a standstill. After a half hour, I devised a quick diversion down a B road, making a right onto what looked like a gravel path. A sign read “Failed Road.” Evan and I gave each other a silent nod, agreeing on what needed to be accomplished.
Littered with ruts and rocks, tall brush enveloping on either side, dirt hovering in the air. We weren’t sure we’d be able to find a path, but the MGB soldiered on with Evan behind the wheel. The leaf springs we lamented hours before carried us safely through a road that surely would have thwarted the Alfa or Lancia. We might not have been good to this little British sports car, but she sure took care of us.
We laid the MG to rest for the night and began to strategize for the rally the following day. After the evening's misadventures, it was clear Evan was the superior navigator. Tomorrow, I would take the driver’s seat and Evan would study the road book. Maybe (just maybe!) there was a chance these Yanks wouldn’t embarrass themselves across the pond.
Early the next morning, roughly 60 cars assembled at Bicester Motion for scrutineering and last-minute preparations. Teams were feverishly making their final adjustments; the anxiety for the race to come was thick in the air. A young couple in a Land Rover placed numbers on their doors and a father and daughter highlighted integral steps in their road book. A few clearly experienced drivers in pre-war Riley’s kicked back with a coffee as the rest of us assembled in the paddock awaiting the first test.
While in the queue to begin our race, Evan and I synced our 39mm Tudor Rangers, modern interpretations of the classic field watches worn during the British North Greenland Expedition from 1952-54. It was the perfect watch for our own journey into the unknown; assisting us with the precise timing needed to effectively compete in a regularity event. The Dakar-inspired Dune white dial contrasted perfectly with black hour markers, making easy work of my frantic glances to check pacing.
Evan was meticulous with the navigation book, crossing off each step and concisely communicating each detail. I had lucked out in my pairing. We passed the first two performance tests without incident. Where other cars went off track and missed cones, we were hitting apexes. It was a good start, but the real challenge was going to be the navigation.
We left Bicester and ran through our road book. At certain checkpoints a marshal would scan our timing sheet, and a timed regularity would start. We had to navigate to the next checkpoint maintaining a perfect average speed.
Evan zeroed our trip meter and we were cruising at an average of 25 MPH. It’s funny being in a race where you’re meant to go slow, but something hit me as I was holding a steady speed. I finally relaxed mentally and was present in the car for the first time. The bouncy ride and sluggish motor that previously incensed me melted away. We were focused, our communication was flowing, and the sprawling fields of waving wheat filled my whole vision.
It was abundantly clear that the way we were driving the MGB the day before was all wrong. It wasn’t meant to be thrashed down B roads with aggressive downshifts, pushing it to the limit. We weren’t using this tool for what it was designed for. Old cars require a dialogue and the MGB was telling us how it needed to be driven. I was finally listening.
By lunch we were feeling exceedingly confident. We had yet to make a wrong turn, our MGB was running like a top, and our teamwork was seamless. We had already decided that midway through the afternoon we would switch roles: Evan would take the helm and I’d take another crack at navigating us through the course.
As the sun was heating up I zeroed the trip, opened the road book, and started shouting. “In 1.5 miles turn right at sign post ‘Bicester!” The numbers climbed, and I was determined to keep us on course. At 1.25 miles I yelled out a warning, “Quarter mile turn right. Bicester!” Evan gave me an affirmative; we made the turn. 
First checkpoint down. I went through the list: “0.5 mile, turn left. Good!” “1.3 miles four way intersection, turn right.” Evan listened, I was keeping us on track. “1.2 miles, bear right at the triangle intersection.” We spotted the intersection, kept right but the next turn was only .01 miles down the road. I wasn’t reading ahead. We missed it.
Off course, off pace, and surely out of the running for any remaining glory. We were only three checkpoints away from the last performance tests. Evan stayed composed, but I could sense his frustration.
By the time we pulled up to the start line, Evan was chomping at the bit to show this MGB who’s boss. Evan piloted our little roadster with full-blown opposite lock power slides through the course in a way only the frustration of a sub-par navigator could fuel. He nailed it. A marshall flagged us, surely to congratulate us on an excellent performance test.
But our MGB had left a trail of fluid behind us. We’d overdone it, with the help of a 90℉ sun and a frustrated driver pushed our trusty MGB to overheat.
Thankfully, as we were in a non-timed zone, we could wait as long as we needed to for the car to cool down, finish the last test, and still cross the finish line without penalty. We watched as Miatas and Minis took to the track, our radiator bubbling and steaming with boiling coolant.
As the last few trucks and support vehicles crossed the finish line, we were in purgatory. We had pushed our car hard, said a few unkind things to her, and she fought back. We still weren’t listening to the MGB and, at last, we paid the price.
Cooled down and topped up with water, we did our final test and completed the rally. We crossed a finish line filled with exhausted competitors waving us on, anxious to get out of the scorching sun.
While it didn’t matter for the timing that we crossed the line last, our egos were still bruised. But we dared to face the challenge of navigating foreign roads with just a sheet of paper and a watch. It was restorative to step behind the wheel of a truly analog machine and attempt to hone historic navigation techniques.
It’s true: you learn a thing or two when you really slow down. It’s not always about being the quickest, especially in a historic rally. And if I was to do it all again, I think I’d choose that MGB every time. If she’ll have me.
