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Enjoy this read by Philip Lacefield, Jr. on his adventures driving the SAAB on Spring Thaw events....
"On driving a 1966 Saab 96 Monte Carlo 850 on the 2014 Spring Thaw Rally - 27 April 2014 at 20:18
Every year, newbies to the Spring Thaw Rally will come up to us at dinner or in the parking lot and say, astonished, “How the hell did you keep up with me?!” Doesn’t matter what they’re driving – Porsche (very likely), Mini (also), Aston-Martin, Jag, BMW, MG, Renault, Alfa, whatever. Doesn’t matter where, either – could be along the utterly terrifying and exhausting Duffy Lake Road, or equally death-defying Route 3 east of Osoyoos, or any number of things that could very sarcastically be referred to as “roads”. Doesn’t matter up or down, wet or snow (yes, all three days), or so much sand left over from a harsh winter that hadn’t been swept off the road yet.
Here’s the thing: I cannot stop. A.) I have what can only very technically be defined as brakes, 2.) the engine in our car will only run at its best at full-tilt boogie, 4500RPM or more, wide open throttle, uphill or downhill, and iii.) there is a very high likelihood that, were I to slow down and be forced to restart a climb or descent, I would foul a plug and be running on TWO cylinders. At altitude. With questionable gas and plugs soaked with 2-stroke oil.
Yes, as they gape, three cylinders. This engine packs 55 horsepower and 61 pounds of torque (about that of a good Harley engine), with a total displacement of 841cc, or 51.3 cubic inches. That's less than the displacement of a single cylinder of a Ford 5.0L engine. There is no valve train, so there is no engine braking, all slowing must be done by manually-pumped MGB disc brakes in the front and squishy drums in the back (made squishy by constant boiling on the hills, even with ATE Blue in the lines.) The sound it makes coming out the carburetors is exactly the same as that coming out the tailpipe, even with the air cleaner in place; it's like riding inside the nacelle of a 737's turbofan engine. It has a freewheeling transmission so that coasting at idle is possible, technically; however, this engine has never idled for more than ten minutes the entire time I've owned it. Most times, on downhills, rather than blip the throttle constantly trying to keep the revs up (because letting off downhill causes the carbs to flood, which means an urgent yank on the freewheel lockout T-handle to disengage the freewheel and allow a manual bump-start), I would simply turn off the engine, and coast. For, at times, five miles or more. The reason you never heard us approaching is because the engine is shut off, and we're coasting.
Now add in a large fellow, his ultra-navigator-snack-maker wife, their son and stupid dog in the back (usually sound asleep from all the noise), baggage and a sack of spare spark plugs, and you're in for a hell of a ride. To drive on a four-day mountain rally through the wilds of British Columbia, this car requires two beefy arms, three legs (why do you think I wear a kilt on these things?), and at least four good eyes to see through the flapping metal wire coat hangers smacking against the windshield, pretending to be wipers of some sort. all the while sitting in a very early (and very comfortable) Recaro seat, whose seatback mechanism randomly decides that yes, in fact, I WILL be 3/4 reclined into the back seat, usually while we're bombing around some corner, praying to the gods for no oncoming uphill traffic. Most of the time while driving this car, I'm sitting bolt upright, with no real back support, which is why I usually skip the bar and head for the hot tub when we arrive.
For a good approximation of what this car is like to live in for 350 miles a day across this fantastically beautiful and desolate (and barely paved) landscape, imagine doing it in a big upright washing machine from a laundromat on four wheels, with the drum rolling, water on, and some rocks we picked up on the side of the road slamming around in the back seat. All the while dodging local drivers who seemed, at times, seriously out to kill us, plus snow, rain, ice, wind, and the constant threat of running out of gas, because the gas gauge has never once worked right the entire time I've owned this thing. It has a radio, and it actually works, and it actually sounds okay, but at speed you can't hear it anyway so it never turns on. Apparently we also are equipped with a cloaking device, because of the number of times locals just pulled right on out ahead of us, never once noticing we were there for whatever reason, keeping us constantly vigilant for sudden stops. Such as they are.
It sounds horrifying, but really, it is mostly completely exhausting. And despite how much we sometimes bitch about it, it is the highlight of our spring, and many times our year. We moved to a friggin' island stronghold three weeks ago and STILL found time to drop everything and make a run for the border, now less than 20 miles away. And we would do it again. Tomorrow. And next spring. And this fall. And whenever the boys decide to gather the family again for some shenanigans. Thanks, guys, for the annual time of our lives."
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Select a gear, bring up the revs and release the clutch...off you go!
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