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From: jpappa01@InterServ.Com
Date: Sat, 24 Dec 94 07:18:58 PST
Subject: Re: 	The Land Rover Owner Daily Digest

HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO EVERY LAND ROVER FREAK THE WORLD `ROUND!! PEACE AND 
PROSPERITY FOR 1995!

cheerz
Jim
roverheadus burnoutium preposterodotus

------------------------------

Date: Sat, 24 Dec 1994 16:09:29 -0800
From: Roger Sinasohn <sinasohn@crl.com>
Subject: Re: License plates

Ian Stuart had been saving "21444U" for his license plate and it took me a 
bit...
>>Okay, I give up.  I don't get it.  Oh, waitaminnit...  I get, I think.  Too
>>gross for you?  (2 144 4 U)
	 [ truncated by lro-digester (was 11 lines)]
>       U
>(how about RUA 0?)

or RUA LRO?  or IMA LRO...  how 'bout BTRNAJP?

>:-)
>{perhaps we could get a thread going on obscure reg plates?}
>Yup.
>It's a shame you can't have fractions:

I've cc'ed the list...  <g>  I once saw the plate "AMIXAM" and it took me 
quite a while to figure it out, until I realized it was on a Nissan Maxima.  

I was once driving across the Emporer Norton bridge and having a good time, 
talking to people in other cars and singing with the radio and such, and I 
saw a plate that said "PARAPSY" and so I said at the guy (who certainly 
couldn't hear me) "So, what, are psychic or something?" and I'll be damned if 
the guy didn't turn around, look right at me and nod his head!

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Uncle Roger                         "There is pleasure pure in being mad
sinasohn@crl.com                                that none but madmen know."
Roger Louis Sinasohn & Associates
San Francisco, California                               

------------------------------

Date: Sat, 24 Dec 1994 16:09:23 -0800
From: Roger Sinasohn <sinasohn@crl.com>
Subject: Re: critical mass environmental ratings of cars and light trucks

Someone posted this once before, but without as much detail I think...  So I 
fiddled around with the numbers, and here's what I came up with. 

Column A and C are the same -- Multiply A by 1.82 to get D.  So don't bother 
counting this twice.  Recycling is kinda silly since the Land Rover will last 
for 30 years or more.  And you can't expect a smallish company like Rover 
(compared to GM/Geo) to have already invested in converting their factory 
yet.  So throw that one out too.  So what we're left with is A, B, and D.  
Average these and here's what you get:

MODEL   A B D
        
The Best        
Geo Metro XFi                   69.33
Geo Metro (Tier 0)              67.00
Geo Metro (Tier 1)              70.00
Honda Civic CX                  67.33
Oldsmobile Achieva              66.00
Honda Civic DX/LX/del Sol S     68.33
Buick Skylark                   66.00
Honda Civic HB VX               63.00
Pontiac Grand Am                65.67
Chevrolet Berretta              66.67
        
The Worst       
Range Rover Defender 90         42.33
Chevrolet S10 Blazer 4WD        21.67
GMC Jimmy 4WD                   21.67
Chevrolet S10 Blazer 2WD        22.00
GMC Jimmy 2WD                   22.00
Chevrolet S10 Pickup 4WD        22.00
Chevrolet S10 Pickup 2WD        22.33
Chevrolet S10 Blazer 4WD        23.67
GMC Jimmy 4WD                   23.67
Chevrolet S10 Blazer 2WD        24.00

So the highest ones are in the 60's, whilst the Defender comes in at 42.  
Respectable for what it is, I'd say.  Interesting that the Chevy 4WD's beat 
out the 2WD's by their calculations.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Uncle Roger                         "There is pleasure pure in being mad
sinasohn@crl.com                                that none but madmen know."
Roger Louis Sinasohn & Associates
San Francisco, California                               

------------------------------

Date: Sat, 24 Dec 1994 16:09:51 -0800
From: Roger Sinasohn <sinasohn@crl.com>
Subject: Re: GPS popularity?

Dixon says there's a lot in the Bay State club and gives some excellent 
reasons why they're not super useful here...

I thought they may not be that useful.  I mean, I've only been to the Black 
Rock Desert a couple of times, but I feel confident that with a decent map, I 
could start out from Gerlach and go wherever I wanted and get back.  (not in 
the middle of winter, in a blizzard, though.)  Just because you have 
landmarks, and aren't *that* far from a "civilized" road.  

I, however, am definitely a gadget head, and if I could afford one, I'd have 
one.   I also wouldn't mind one for Africa, like in the Sahara and such.  
Perhaps they'll come down in price to the point where we'll *all* have them, 
like having a CB radio or something.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Uncle Roger                         "There is pleasure pure in being mad
sinasohn@crl.com                                that none but madmen know."
Roger Louis Sinasohn & Associates
San Francisco, California                               

------------------------------

Date: Thu, 22 Dec 1994 17:43:26 GMT
From: Pierre Antony Ketteridge <ketteridgep@glub.demon.co.uk>
Subject: Pierre on the Mille Rivieres 94

Well, I've beeen promising you this for a long time, and I've only just 
got around to formatting it and mailing it. Consider it my Xmas 
contribution to the list.

It's a report on a rally we completed recently - "Les Mille Rivieres" in 
Southern France. My navigator, Geoff Fong Wah, and I decided to enter 
as a charity drive for the Yorkshire Kidney Relief Fund. In my wisdom, 
I had decided to participate in "Allah", my 1952 80" Series 1. Fools!

For the charity, we decided to take along 2 doz fresh eggs in the back, 
and get people to sponsor the eggs' safety.

Anyway, here it is, warts an' all. If you are offended by foul language, 
hit 'del', 'n' or 'esc' now. This rally report was originally posted to 
alt.tasteless (yes, *they* adopted our rally as their '94 charity!).  The 
official version can be found in the Jan' 95 issue of LRO. You have 
been warned:

DAY ONE  - PURGATORY BY BUS
-----------------------------------------
Geoff and I meet at The Central Bar in Leeds, by the coach station, at 
12:00. He's got his entire family in tow, including his wife, who wants 
to make sure that it's only me that's going with him, and that he's not 
being abducted by aliens from the planet Zog. I'm getting a really bad 
feeling about the entire trip, as Geoff has been whining and moaning 
and threatening to pull out for over a week now. A lot of extra expense 
has been incurred, due to last-minute mechanical failures, and essential 
tools going south unexpectedly (water pump packing up; high-lift jack 
exploding, wheel nuts shearing etc etc etc). And now I've got to face 
Glub knows how many hours on a frigging bus getting to southern 
France.

Geoff's wife is begging me to look after and protect "her Geoff".  Their 
son Simon is sullenly flicking peanuts at the ill-disciplined seeing-eye 
dog at the bar (see posts passim) and causing havoc. The rest of the 
Fong Wah family set there, long-faced and silent. I'm wondering who's 
gonna protect her Geoff from me if he carries on with his whingeing.

Eventually, all the goodbyes said, we leave Leeds at 13:00. Now I 
remember why I stopped using buses for long-distance trips. It is a total 
nightmare. Cramped, noisy, and hot, which accentuates the poor 
personal hygiene of my fellow coach travellers, and no alcohol allowed. 
The real killer, however, is NO SMOKING. I don't realise it at the time, 
but I have just embarked upon a 23-hour coach trip to Hell. Naturally, 
Geoff flakes out and sleeps through the whole distasteful journey.

Some pasty-faced, cheesey blonde strikes up a conversation, wittering 
on about how she just lurves France, and how she's studying to be a 
Master of Wine. She keeps it up for the 3 hours it takes to reach the 
outskirts of London, and the further hour it takes to get to the centre. 
All change.  We grab a quick couple of pints of Bitter in a pub (=A32 A 
PINT! FUCKING HELL!!!!) before grabbing the onward-bound bus. 
This is better, as it's operated by a French company, and with French 
drivers. Certainly smellier, but at least we can smoke. Cheesey paste-
face starts chain-smoking Gauloises, and telling me all about her 
extended family holidays in Provence. This lasts until the ferry at 
Dover, where I manage to lose her and go and try to get shit-faced at the 
bar. I fail miserably - I can't even get sleepy. I don't know what 
happened to Geoff - I guess he got overlooked and left in the bus on the 
cargo deck.

DAY TWO - MORE BUS PURGATORY
-----------------------------------------------------
And so we motor on down through France. After a few more hours, I 
*am* starting to feel tired (it's 3 am), but can't get comfortable, and 
Philadelphia features is monologuing about her friends in Bordeaux. 
My legs are all cramped up, and every time I recline the seat my head 
rolls off the headrest. If I lean against the window the vibrations hurt my 
head and bring on sneezing fits. If I lean out into the aisle the spotty 
incontinent 12-year old keeps concussing me every time he runs to the 
on-board john. And all the while that waxen-skinned bimbo is blowing 
Gauloise-smoke ito my face (imagine smouldering dogshit - it's the 
homegrown black tobacco they use) and listing recent Rhone vintages. I 
finally end up kneeling on the seat and wedging my head in the Vee 
between the seats in front of me (I seem to remember having done that 
before, but for a different purpose). Cheesey gets off at Dijon at 7:30, 
and I finally nod off at around 8:15. We arrive in Lyon at 9:30. Fucking 
marvellous. 1 1/4 hours sleep in 28 hours.

I wake Geoff up and we go off to find the Landrover. I'm struggling with 
a laden rucksack with the billy cans and pots and kettles 
ClankClankClanking away, two travel bags, and my not-so-portable 
Olivetti PC. I think Geoff has his washbag.

Three hours later and we still haven't found the freight depot. It 
transpires that it's not in Lyon at all, but about 15 Klicks out of town. 
We end up taking a train, then a bus, and walking the last 3 Kilometres. 
But at least we find it. Intact, eggs and all. But there is a *very* large 
damp patch under it - the water pump has finally decided to call it a day 
and piss all over.

Filling the radiator up as best we can, and refueling, we set off for that 
night's Hotel, at Montmerle sur Saone, "about 20 kilometres north of 
Lyon". More like 60, and with stopping to top up the rad every ten 
minutes, it takes us a good couple of hours to get there. Once checked 
in and refreshed with a beer, we set to work stripping the engine bay 
down and swapping out the faulty pump. This actually went quite 
smoothly, and only took a couple of hours.  Only I got my forearm 
wedged between the (still *very* hot) engine block and the exhaust 
downpipe, resulting in mucho screeching and swatches of burnt 
epidermis hanging off my arm. Next, we had to swap the tyres around 
front to back, as we were having problems with grounding the wheel 
arches at the front. One of the pairs of tyres had a chunkier tread 
pattern, which raised the wheel profile by a couple of inches (pay close 
attention, this has a bearing later in the rally). Halfway through this 
procedure, the Landrover and the Hi-Lift jack decided they wanted to 
get to know each other better, and tilted towards each other. 
Unfortunately, my hand was in between them, and the fleshy art just 
below the little finger got mashed.

"AAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHH!!!!!!", and, <sotto voice> "Help 
Meeeee!"

"Woossormarra, man?" enquired Geoff, kindly rocking the vehicle 
further into me as he struggled with the wheel nuts.

"Eeek." I bit my lip. "The jack........ the car................ GET THIS 
FUCKING BASTARD FING OFF MY FUCKING HAND RIGHT 
NOW YOU LITTLE YELLOW BASTID!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

"Way Aye! Reet enuff, jes move t' jack back a bit, reet..."

"AAARRRGGGHHH!!!!!!!" I got my hand back out, and it was all 
squashy like one of the Cantonese flat ducks you see hanging up in the 
windows in Chinatown. It had gone all bluey-grey around the fleshy 
part, and the ruptured bit was oozing a watery blood, like plasma. A 
pretty goddamn big blood blister was forming round one side.

"Fuck this for a game of soldiers," and I retired to the Hotel to get 
patched up and bandaged, and consume copious quantities of beer.  
Geoff carried on rocking on the wheel brace, looking at me inscrutably, 
and mumbling about pain thresholds and learning control. I was a bit 
worried whether the hand would affect my driving, but as it turned out, 
it just looked a lot worse than it really was - I just ended up with a 
blood blister and a sore hand for the rest of the trip.

Round about this time a small convoy of Land Rovers started pulling up 
outside - the advance party we had arranged to meet. David Davenport, 
the UK organiser, and the LRO photographer, Chris Bennett, who had 
covered this year's Camel Trophy in South America. They were followed 
by Steve Fagioli (immediately christened "Mr Bean") and his navigator 
Matt, and a father and son team, Kit and Angus. I was later to rue ever 
having crossed paths with Kit, but that comes much later in this 
narrative. 

They too had roadside repairs which needed attention - remold tyres 
that had stripped their tread in David's Range Rover's case, and a faulty 
fuel pump in Steve's Series 2A.

Supper that evening was a time of introductions and making 
aquaintances. Chris was a quiet, shy personality, who freely admitted he 
was relieved he didn't have to write the words for LRO this time, as he 
preferred to stick to photography. Good, that meant we had an 
immediate understanding. Steve was loud, and brash, but good 
company, and working the Formula Ford circuit, certainly knew his 
stuff in the automotive industry. Matt looked like Dana Carvey in 
Wayne's World, and brayed like a donkey at anything anyone said. Kit 
was somewhat aloof, as befits a consultant at British Rail, or RailTrack, 
or whatever the hell they call it now, and kept his son Angus well in 
check. David Davenport was a large, bearded, bear of a man, and turned 
out to be somewhat of a gourmet (and a gourmand), and demonstrated 
his trencherman's skills to the utmost. All our hotel bills were 
horrendous the next morning, anf geoff and I decide to eat seperately in 
future, and spare the plastic.

DAY THREE - INTO THE MOUNTAINS
------------------------------------------------------
Friday morning we set off for the start point of the rally, about 200 
kilometres away, south of Lyon.  The weather was foul, really pissing it 
down, and the roads were, slick, greasy and treacherous. Combine those 
elements with the fact that we were rolling on mud terrain tyres, and it's 
hardly surprising that it wasn't long before we went into a high speed 
power skid on a bend in the motorway. I managed to recover it, but I 
still shit my pants in a minimalistic way <Squeeee>. We hit real trouble 
almost immediately afterwards - just south of Lyon, a 38-tonner 
jacknifed in front of us on the motorway and we lost about three hours.

We reached the mountain village where the rally was to commence, Le 
Chambon sur Lignon, by late afternoon, and checked into the Hotel. 
Well, at least it had a bar. A quick wash and brush up, and we went off 
to register. Hey, this was in a bar as well! I think I'm going to like this 
rally after all. Loads of paperwork and documents and food vouchers 
etc. Then off to get the vehicles scrutineered and liveried up with the 
sponsors' advertising stickers. B F Goodrich, Euromaster, General Tire, 
you know the sort of thing... the idiots even tried to cover up the 
existing stickers - Hey! Don't you dare touch those a.t. bumper stickers! 
Oh yes, and lots more enquiries about Choads. I told them the truth this 
time.

Then it was time to go to the civic reception. There were about 400 
people there, including the press photographers and journalists. About 
140 vehicles worth, at a guess. Speeches from the Mayor and other 
dignitaries. "we're a small mountain village, with 3,000 inhabitants, and 
a small school, we're so proud you chose us for your rally"...Yawn, 
yawn. I snagged a bottle of port and curled up in the corner. Then the 
organisers did their pitch... "Follow all instructions... to the 
centimeter... highly dangerous... 600m drops.... insurance waivers.... 
please declare your bloodgroup to the medical team..." Hang on a mo', I 
thought this was meant to be a good-natured 4x4 ramble in the forest? 
Oh well, too late to worry about that now... anyway, what can possibly 
happen to us? Fateful words indeed...

We got trashed, hit a few bars and got more trashed, then went back to 
the Hotel for supper and got totally trashed. Tomorrow the rally proper 
started in earnest...

DAY 4 - THE START
----------------------------
And so the first day of the rally dawned. Apart from David Davenport 
and Chris the LRO photographer, who set off early with the first group 
to get maximum daylight hours and plenty of photographs, the rest of 
the British pisshead contingent elected to join Group Two. We had to 
be at the start point at 7:40 for an 8:00 start. It was a hilarious and 
chaotic pandemonium in the village, with parked-up offroad vehicles 
littering the streets and pavements, and trail bikes roaring up and down 
the centre of the road. Locals weaved in and out of this loud and 
colourful pageant, making their way to the immutable Saturday market.

A small, indignant French woman came scurrying up to me, saying I was 
blocking the parking space for "La Poste", and how would she get her 
mail if the van couldn't park? We looked up and down the street, and 
laughed. You'd be lucky to get two bikes abreast up that drag, let alone 
a Post Office van! "Uh, Postman Pat's gonna be late today," I tried to 
explain to her, but when she wouldn't calm down, I had to direct her to 
one of the marshals. No sooner had she disappeared into the crowd, 
than I heard a Peep!Peep! from further down the street. It was a large 
white van, with "La Poste" emblazoned across it, trying to negotiate a 
turn into the thoroughfare!

In the large parking area at the top of the street, offroaders of all types 
were jockeying for position. Toyota Landcruisers appeared to be very 
much the order of the day, as well as the expected turnout of Shoguns, 
Troopers and Patrols. I spotted a couple of Umms, and a solitary 
Auverlander, as well as a surprising turnout of Lada Nivas and 
Cossacks. A few G-Wagens, and the serried ranks of Daihatsu 
Fourtracks and Sportracks, and Suzuki SJs and Vitaras completed the 
rollcall of "foreign" offroad vehicles. Except for a small one at the back, 
a French-registered Willys Jeep,  painted in a tasteful mustard. It's 
occupants were kitted out in flying suits and leather helmets, and 
looked like nothing else but Dick Dastardly and Muttley, embarking on 
another of their "Whacky Races"!

I was pleased to see a large Solihull contingent, and not only from the 
British entrants! The Lode Lane products seem to have found favour, 
especially with the Dutch and Belgians. Range Rovers, Discoveries, 90s 
and 110s, all were represented.

Drivers and navigators convened around Pierre Friederich of "Club 4x4 
Haut Alpin", who was officiating for the FSGRM with repeated 
warnings to follow the roadbooks religiously, heed the marshals' 
instructions, and to stay on the marked tracks. He distributed the day's 
"tulip diagram"road books, and explained the deviations and changes 
from the marked routes, including the change of starting location. 
National organisers translated for him where necessary. No more time 
for dillydallying, no more excuses - we were off!

MUD-PLUGGING
We decided to stick together as a mini-convoy of three - KIT BT leading 
as vanguard, our very own ALA 208A in the middle, and Mr Bean's 
GEB 441E covering our backs.

The first hour or two were very pleasant, following country roads in 
between stretches of muddy green laning. heading west towards St 
Julien Chapteuil. Nothing too arduous and strenuous, although we lost 
traction on a steep section littered with wet slabs of granite. It only too=
k 
a couple of minutes to get hooked up to the back of Kit's 90 and clear 
the obstacle.

Returning to metalled road, I found I couldn't disengage 4-wheel drive. I 
tried all sorts of tricks - spinning the wheels on the grass verge, futilel=
y 
going up and down the ratio and speed gears - all to no avail. I looked at 
Geoff, "Whaddya think, Kato?" He shrugged. "Dunno, man, why dinna 
ya jes' goferrit?" so we plugged on ,deciding to get off the road at the 
next section to investigate. We didn't have to wait that long. 200 metres 
down the road, there was a loud <POP> (audible to Steve and Matt in 
the Series IIA) and puff of blue smoke, and we were back in two wheel 
drive.  OK, OK. Now we should have realised that a loud <POP> and 
blue smoke usually means something seriously amiss, but we were 
being gee'ed on from the rear. We proceeded, gingerly.

Dropping off the tarmac once more, we descended a long, windy, rock-
strewn path down the right flank of a hill. The scenery was incredible, 
with the chestnut trees in their autumn splendour, flashing russet and 
gold in the morning sun. In the distance, in the clefts of valleys, patches 
of mist were slowly evaporating. Far below, a river, the "Gagne", 
meandered its way through the wooded valley. No-one was paying close 
attention to the driving. We had caught up a larger convoy which was 
working it's way slowly down the track, and from just about every 
vehicle I saw both drivers and navigators leaning out and taking 
photographs. They needn't have worried - there was plenty of scenery to 
go around, and the convoy ground to a halt as we approached the river 
crossing, a wide metal and concrete bridge. 

There was a spontaneous dash by all drivers and navigators to the large 
Chestnut tree, adding to the already flush water table.

The wooded ascent on the far side seemed steep, from what we could 
see, and was obviously giving someone some problems, as we had to 
wait about fifteen minutes before we could continue.  Geoff had been 
calibrating our Brandtz trip computer, and declared himself pleased 
with its accuracy - he'd got it to within 70 metres over 10 kilometres. 
Personally, I was equally impressed with Geoff's navigation - OK, so 
we'd been playing "follow my leader", but Geoff had been double- and 
triple-checking bearings, distances and landmarks, despite the handicap 
of not speaking a word of French, in which the roadbook was written.

DISASTER STRIKES!
After a while, the convoy moved on again, and we crossed the bridge, 
and started our ascent through the woods. The going wasn't too bad, a 
muddy, mulchy surface with sharp rocks poking through, easily enough 
avoided in the early stretches. The track had sharp hairpin bends which 
occasionally needed a shunt. About halfway up we ran into trouble. The 
track had become steeper, and we were attempting a left-right dogleg 
over a sheer granite slab. We just couldn't maintain traction, and kept 
sliding back. Taking run-ups (with Matt and Geoff jumping up and 
down on the rear like a couple of manic Barbary Apes) and giving it lots 
of grunt (or as much grunt as a 1600 sidevalve engine can provide) 
wasn't having any effect either. It was then that Matt noticed that our 
front wheels weren't spinning. So that was what that pop had been! 
We'd blown the front diff! [NOTE: It later transpired that it *wasn't* the 
diff, but a "Hardy-Spicer" tractor joint on the offside front halfshaft] It 
must have been those damned mismatched tyres resulting in 
transmission windup! Engaging the freewheeling hubs, we called to Kit 
to pull us up. Once we were roped up, he headed off up the hill. It was 
now, with some unease, that I realised he was using a kinetic rope. This 
snatch recovery up the mountainside wasn't exactly comfortable, with 
the sudden jerks pulling me all over the place, but at least we were 
making progress. A lot of progress, in fact - Geoff had stayed outside 
the vehicle, and we were now about three quarters of the way up the 
mountain. He'd have one hell of a trot to catch us up!

Suddenly, I felt the lurch as the rope took up the slack and shot the 
vehicle forward. We were approaching a hairpin, almost 180=BA, and as the 
slack coiled in front of me, I saw the rope disappear to the left as Kit 
changed direction. Uh, oh. Fuck. The rope seemed to be attached to the 
offside bumper, and I knew that couldn't be right! I tried sounding my 
horn, but to no effect.  Kit couldn't hear me, and wasn't even looking in 
his rearview mirror. Nor was Angus in the vehicle, one of the prime 
rules of recovery. He was still down the bottom of the mountain. I tried 
to fight the steering, but the offside wheel was fouled in the towrope, 
and I could only watch in helpless dread as Allah was dragged 
diagonally, against the lock, across the track and up the mountainside. 
A tree loomed, and there was a crunch. The nearside wheel found 
purchase and ran up the trunk. I was near vertical now, but I knew that 
wouldn't damned last long! I felt us reach the point of equilibrium, and 
exceed it. I remember thinking, with perfect clarity, about the fact that 
the vehicle had a canvas tilt and no roll cage, and then wondering how 
far down we'd fall...

Oh Fuck, Jesus, Mary Mother of God...

They heard the tinny crash all the way down the valley, and came 
running. It was as if Glub had tripped and dropped his cosmic teatray. 
Geoff, bless 'im, was first on the scene. I could hear him shouting about 
the eggs. I was crouched on the passenger door, pinned down by jerry 
cans, ammo boxes, and the high lift jack. I was staring up at the steering 
wheel. As I watched, the centre boss came away with a tired "ping" and 
landed on my forehead, serrated edge down. I managed to push off the 
jack, and the jerry cans. By now Kit was peering in through the drivers' 
window, and managed to snag the ammo boxes and shift them. "Are you 
all right?" he asked. I just grinned at him inanely. He reached down and 
grabbed my arm, trying to pull me out. "No, no, Piss Off, don't do that!" 
I gasped. "My legs! My legs! I can't use my bastard legs! I can't stand 
up!" I shifted around and glanced down. I was kneeling on the tails of 
my Drizabone, that was all. Relief flooded through me, and with Kit's 
help, I climbed out.

Allah was lying on its side, like a tired hippopotamus that had decided 
to take a nap. Competitors and assorted gawkers stood around, 
gesticulated and gabbling away excitedly. I suddenly got a bad case of 
the shakes, and a raging thirst. Steve tossed me a can of coke, which, try 
as I might to drink, I just managed to spray and shake all over myself. 
Kit was of the opinion that I'd been out cold for a while, as I hadn't 
answered his first worried enquiries. Personally, I think I had just been 
lying there, mulling over the wisdom of taking a 42-year old vehicle on 
a rally of this nature.

The recovery process (electric winch and strops from the track above) 
were hindered by excited bystanders taking photographs. "'Scuze? 
'Scuze? You move aside for me, please?", "Allo, you smile and looka 
me, please?". Once we got the vehicle back up the right way, I 
remembered the eggs. "The Eggs!" I scrabbled into the back, turfing out 
the piles of detritus. Would you believe it? NOT a SINGLE egg broken! 
Geoff and I were laughing like loons in amazement and relief.

The Landrover was not in quite such good shape. Amazingly, there was 
no bodywork damage - we'd picked the one ten-foot stretch of track 
with no exposed rock, just mud and leafy humus, to roll in; but we had 
no brakes, the flexihose or banjo having been damaged when the rope 
fouled the wheel, and the engine was running ragged, missfiring and 
backfiring. Certainly not enough power to get us out under our own 
steam, and without brakes, that was out of the question anyway.

We pulled Allah out of the way, to a convenient level piece of trackside, 
to allow the backlog of vehicles to pass us (all of Group 2, and quite a 
few of Group 3, by this time). As it was obvious that we weren't going 
anywhere, Kit and Steve continued with the mornings course. Once the 
vehicles had passed, the FSGRM marshals came to our help.

This is where they came into their own. I have never seen such good 
organisation on a 4x4 event in my life, and cannot praise the organisers 
highly enough. Jean Michel Husson and Jean Louis Montagu, marshals 
from Cap Offroad, towed us up the rest of the mountain section with the 
ubiquitous Landcruiser, using a second vehicle roped behind us as a 
brake for the downhill sections. The operation, from accident to 
reaching a main road, took a good couple of hours. At no point were we 
left alone, or in any doubt as to what was going on. Once we reached 
the plateau, a strange, barren area littered with volcanic rock, with steam 
or smoke escaping from between them (steam, or spontaneous 
combustion of the vegetation beneath?), we stopped to discuss the way 
forward.  By now two more marshals had joined us, Georges Faure and 
Bruno Herpson, both of Club 4x4 Haut Alpin. There was a little garage 
in Laussonne, not far from the lunch stop, where we could get some 
temporary repairs carried out. Adrien Lombard, the club president, 
turned up in his 90, complete with wife and dog, and, producing his 
electronic organiser, gave me the number of a Land Rover parts supplier 
in Paris (yes, Series One parts!). However, the combination of the 
weekend and a religious holiday on Tuesday made this a long shot - the 
rally would be over before we could replace the diff!

Hooking up a rigid towbar, we made our way to Laussonne. At the 
garage, we discovered that the flexihose was intact, but that the banjo 
had been distorted by the enormous strains imposed upon it - the copper 
washers no longer sealed the aperture, and we were losing fluid while 
taking on air. The best we could do was to bleed it, top up and tighten 
the banjo as best we could - oh, and take several bottles of brake fluid 
along with us. "Pompe, pompe, pompe, pompe..." the mechanic exhorted 
us, as we limped off to Le Monastier sur Gazeilles to rejoin the rally, 
meet up with the lads and have a belated lunch.

Their route had taken them through several wooded valleys and to a 
broken viaduct, where they'd had to descend to the river and cross via a 
wooden bridge, before ascending the far side of the valley through 
deeply rutted, muddy zig-zag tracks.

It looked as if our rally was over, and we arranged to transfer the eggs to 
Steve's SIIA, so that they at least could fulfill their mission.  Geoff cam=
e 
back some time later and announced that he'd put the crate in Kit's 90.
"You did what?!" That settled it. "You gave them to who? Kit?!" We 
weren't giving up, no way. I couldn't abandon my charges to a vehicle 
used for ill-fated snatch recoveries - I had to press on. We agreed to try 
and repair the brakes and get the engine running smoothly, and follow 
the rally here on in by road, only attempting sections suitable for 2-
wheel drive, high or low ratio.

After lunch we drove on by road towards Pradelles, averaging about 
fifteen kilometres an hour, and frantically pumping the ineffective 
brakes at every corner. The rally passed us, waving, and disappeared 
around a bend. We followed round, and... horror! They were all backed 
up, waiting to enter the next stage. I remembered the mechanics words: 
"Pompe, pompe, pompe, pompe..." but it did no good. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, 
fuck...!".We coasted in to the back of the line, a Daihatsu Fourtrack. 
CRUNCH! Looking through the windscreen, I was able to observe the 
<WHAP><WHAP><WHAP><WHAP> domino effect of whiplash 
down the line. We all had a good laugh about it later. No one was 
seriously hurt, and no vehicles damaged. Oh boy.

This was a particularly nasty section, as the delays resulting in the 
backlog testified. A track peeled off to the right through trees, dropping 
down for about 500 metres, before turning a 180=BA hairpin to the left, 
tight and steep, round and into  a narrow V-gulley on top of a ridge, 
with an angle of descent of about 45=BA. The narrow approach opened into 
the gulley, which was a granite formation, with deep steps hewn into the 
rock. The vehicles lumbered carefully down, left-right, like a fat man 
descending some steep stairs. It was here that quite a few vehicles 
sustained severe body damage, including a Land Rover 90 that tipped 
and scraped its way down on its side, and a log pile that collapsed, 
sending a heavy trunk crashing through the rear window and panel of a 
brand new Discovery and out through the other side. Ever seen a grown 
man cry? 

The river crossing at the bottom, near Goudez, was closed due to water 
depth, and the vehicles were redirected along the river to the main road, 
where we met up with them again. Another zig-zag ascent on the far side 
of the valley greeted the surviving competitors, and the tailback 
suggested more vehicles getting stuck. We bade them goodbye and 
headed off for La Bastide-Puy Laurent, that night's stop. As it turns out, 
they didn't get much further, as a couple of sections later, the Umm 
getting stuck on a steep ascent, and the approach of darkness convinced 
the marshals to close the section and redirect the convoy onto tarmac. 
They arrived at La Bastide with 12 pages of roadbook incomplete.

The meal that evening was a jolly affair, with everyone fired up by the 
day's events and traumas, and it was here that I found out that we 
weren't the only casualties. About twelve to fifteen vehicles had suffered 
varying degrees of damage (we'd already seen a lot of vehicles in the 
local garages, awaiting attention. The local mechanics must pray like 
shit for this event, every year), and at least half a dozen had been writte=
n 
off.  It was the end of Mike Nelki's challenge, too. He'd blown his diff, 
or the transfer box, in a muddy forest section, and it had taken about 
three hours to recover his immobile Range Rover. He had to wait for the 
AA, who couldn't get to him until Monday.

There really wasn't much any of us could do, apart from get horribly 
pissed and hope for a miracle in the morning (like... no hangover).

DAY 5 - THE GORGES OF THE TARN

Geoff and I spent the morning fighting with the brake hose banjo, 
without much success. Every so often, Mike would wander over and 
offer encouragement. There was nothing we could do to help him out of 
his predicament. Eventually we admitted defeat and called the RAC. 
They sent out a local mechanic from Langogne, a M Dececco, an old 
boy who had us fixed in no time! A master artisan, he quickly realised 
that the oversize copper washers we were trying to clamp were not 
forming a seal. A quick blast with the oxy-acetalene, change the 
copper's molecular structure, and Voila! we were back and running (and 
braking). We swapped out a spark plug  (the ceramic had cracked when 
we went over) and the engine was running sweet as a nut, too. 

ST INIMIE
The rest of the rally had left by about 8:30, and it turned out to be a day 
of much road mileage. The morning consisted largely of open aspect 
green laning with steep ascents and descents. The views were 
breathtaking, as they approached the gorges. One descent stood out in 
the mind. A very narrow gravel track that meandered all over the side of 
the mountain. At any one time you could count dozens of vehicles 
scattered across the panorama, seemingly close, but in reality up to a 
kilometre apart by track. The drop was about 1000m in 2 - 3 kilometres. 
All the time, the River Tarn was visible, glinting in the distance. Lunch 
was at a small village at a bridge which crosses the Tarn, St Inimie. The 
village car park is actually a concrete pan bordering the river, more like 
a loading dock, and many vehicles just parked up in the river!  

BLOCKADE!
After lunch, the vehicles climbed straight back out of the gorge, up a 
very narrow, steep, winding track in forested land. The ground was 
peppered with basalt rock outcrops. Crossing a main road, they 
continued their climb. Suddenly avehicle from Group 1 came back to 
warn Group 2 about a problem up ahead. About 5 kilometres ahead, up 
on the high plateau, a group of farmers armed with shotguns and rifles 
were barring the way. By the time the FSGRM officials turned up to 
smooth out ruffled feathers, some of Group 1, most of Group 2 and a 
few of the Group 3 vanguard were up there! In the meantime, Angus had 
plotted the roadbook onto his map and worked out an alternative route.
The afternoon took them up to the Mont Mirat Pass, between Mont 
Loz=E8re and the Causse of Sauveterre, a high, desolate plateau with the 
occasional solitary tree or shrub, reminiscent of Dartmoor, or the North 
Yorkshire moors. 

There followed a gradual descent down to the Tarn again, culminating 
in a steep, twisting drop to the raft that awaited the vehicles. Two 
vehicles per crossing, each crossing was allowed three minutes. The 
competitors had to haul the ropes. The waters were crystal clear, despite 
the fact that a few feet out from the banks, the river bed dropped to 
prodigious depths. The trail bikes were thrown on the raft en masse, 
naturally. The leading motorcyclist roared off the raft doing a "wheelie", 
front wheel high in the air. His less adept companion, trying to emulate 
him, took the wrong line and ended up "dans la flotte", as they say!

A CURIOUS MEETING
The end of the day involved a drive down through Florac, followed by 
about twenty kilometers of disused railtrack, taking us over some 
spectacular viaducts, before dropping down and back up, using tracks 
and roads, to St Germain de Calberte. It was dark by now, and we were 
surprised to be waved down in the Landy by a man in the middle of 
nowhere.
Sticking his head in at Geoff, he started shouting. "Voo Voo 
Cheyenne?" What? I asked him to repeat the question. He tried it 
differently . "Voo Voo Sheen?". I was none the wiser, but suspected he 
was casting aspersions at Geoff. He was drunk as a skunk, and his 
breath stunk of cheap red wine and garlic. Then the truth dawned. The 
combination of alcohol, his regional accent and the fact that he was 
using the word for "bitch" rather than "dog" had confused me. But why 
he should be looking for his dog on a mountain pass 10 miles from the 
nearest habitation remained a mystery.

That night, at St Germain de Calberte, we had g=EEte accommodation, and 
the whole rally complement ate together for the first time, as we weren't 
scattered around in various hotels. The meal was the long-promised 
feast of wild boar, sanglier, and with unlimited wine on tap, we dined 
(and slept) well!

DAY 6 - ST GERMAIN DE CALBERTE
The last day of the rally was to be in the region around St Germain, as 
the teams would be staying there a second night. The course was shorter 
than the previous days, about 70 kilometres. 

Most people set off between 7:30 aand 9:00. Many needed to make a 
detour (about 17 kilometres) to fill up on fuel. John Picknell was having 
problems with the cooling system on his Hi Lux, and had to flush the 
radiator out. Jean Paul B=E4rwaldt and Leo Graus, the two Dutchmen 
from Maastricht, had problems with a rear axle oil leak on their 90, but 
managed to effect a temporary repair with tape.

The course started as a retracing of the previous night's finish, 
beginning with the vehicles reversing up the slope in order to position 
themselves for the steep hillclimb. Rocks and boulders added interest to 
this little excercise. Turning right into a wooded section, they 
encountered... a queue! This heralded the start of a single, very steep, 
steady climb, about 300 metres in vertical height. Winches and ropes 
were very much in evidence, as the recovery practise began in earnest. 
Those with CBs took it upon themselves to carry out some form of 
traffic duty, enabling single vehicles to gain the momentum to  get up.

The corresponding descent was gentler, through woodland, dropping 
down to a road section, before turning right onto a well-maintained 
forestry track. This split into two: a steep (1:1) muddy climb, or a 
gentler, meandering zig zag path. Most people elected to attempt the 
former.  This climb opened out onto a moorland plateau, which the 
teams traversed, before dropping down slightly and facing a 60 metre 
boulder face climb. No earth, no mud, just bare rock. A crowd formed to 
watch the display of brute force and ignorance! It came as no surprise 
that many vehicles needed pulling up on this section.

After an alfresco lunch, the teams descended to complete some river 
sections, including an awkward negotiation under the arch of a stone 
bridge, before climbing out and recrossing the same bridge by road. 
Again, crowds had gathered to witness this impressive spectacle.

HOT PUNCH AND CHESTNUTS!
At this point Steve and Matt, and Kit and Angus met up with David's 
Range Rover for Chris to organise a photoshoot of the vehicles. A few 
more steep descents, and some real axle-twisting sections, and david 
called an aperitif break. He needn't have bothered, for just down the 
road the marshals were diverting vehicles into a lay-by for a well-earned 
break, and hot punch and roast chestnuts!

The next section proved to be the last. It was getting dark, and vehicles 
were queuing once more. The section involved several river crossings, 
and a log bridge to negotiate. A Tdi 90 had broken down here, and the 
delayed progress for almost an hour. By the time the teams gained the 
last steep ascent and tricky hairpin, it was fully dark.

AND THE SLACKERS?...
Geoff and I had retraced some of the previous days sections in Allah, 
and had run the railroad course (no problems there, as railtracks must be 
on a level, unless they're funicular), dropped down to the Tarn and 
helped the organisers dismantle the raft (well, photograph them, 
anyway!), and followed the course of the Tarn through the gorges. 

That evening comprised of the prizegiving, a screening of the (unedited, 
as yet) offficial video, and a superlative buffet, showpiece of which was 
an enornous cake, modelled on the topology of the Cevennes region, 
with a winding river running through it, and slap bang in the middle of 
it, a stranded offroader!

No-one seemed quite sure what the prizes were actually awarded for, 
but a motorcyclist won the overall trophy. John Picknell won a trophy 
too, but as he was still struggling back with cooling problems and flat 
batteries, Kit accepted it on his behalf. I wonder what the award was 
for? Most unlikely vehicle to succeed (sorry John, just joking!)? 

Drinking and revelling carried on until the early hours, phone numbers 
and addresses were exchanged, and people promised to meet up again 
next year. Bleary-eyed and tired, this years' Mille Rivi=E8res contestants 
retired to bed, before their long drives home to their respective countries 
of origin.

The journey home is best forgotten - three days of 13-hours-a-day 
driving in unpleasant conditions, bickering, squabbling and fighting. 
But that's another story....

NEXT YEAR BECKONS...
As to me, would I do it again? The answer is, of course, without a 
doubt. But probably not in a Series One! [Note: I've since revised my 
opinion - we going out to win next year, *and* in Allah again] I've 
learned a lot about my vehicle, and its capabilities, but more 
importantly, I've learned a lot about friendship, and camaraderie, and 
teamwork. I couldn't have done it without the help of Geoff, and all the 
other teams we helped, or were helped by. I have particular admiration 
for the men of the FSGRM, who came from clubs all over France, as 
volunteers, most of whom were as new to this area as we were. They 
were always friendly, and ready with a smile, even when it was clear 
that all was not well, that daylight was being lost or that the rally was 
being delayed.

To anyone considering entering this event next year, I would say "Go for 
it!". The views and scenery are spectacular, the people are friendly, the  
food and wine excellent. The offroading is out of this world! But know 
your vehicle, and be prepared to take a few knocks. If your bodywork is 
your pride and joy, then maybe this event is not for you. Shame on you 
if this little caveat puts you off, though! I'll certainly be back for the 
Mille Rivi=E8res in 1995, and probably some other FSGRM-organised 
events throughout the season. 

PS. The eggs all got back in one piece.

Pierre A. Ketteridge

-- 
Pierre

------------------------------

Date: Sat, 24 Dec 94 20:58:34 PST
From: sohearn@InterServ.Com (Stephen OHearn)
Subject: GPS

I have found GPS useful for determining whether I am on the trial I think
I am when all the signs are gone and there are more trails than there are
on the map. I'll admit it, it's an interesting toy as well <g>. I did
some research on the available units and depending on your needs each
model has its strengths. I'm also fairly familiar with GPS and its limitations
so if anyone is interested in my 5-cents worth I'd be more than happy to
bang away at the keyboard (I'd do so now except there's some egg nog to
drink and some more presents to unwrap).

Merry Christmas to All!

- Stephen

p.s. If Santa Claus didn't have Rudolph I'm sure he would have a Land Rover.

+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| Stephen O'Hearn            1994           LAND-            Tread Lightly |
| El Segundo, CA, USA      DEFENDER           -ROVER         on Public and |
| sohearn@interserv.com       90        The Best 4x4xFar     Private Lands |
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+

------------------------------

From: Kelly Minnick <kminnick@owens.ridgecrest.ca.us>
Subject: Prices
Date: Sat, 24 Dec 1994 21:32:04 -0800 (PST)

RE: Prices
Don't know what prices are around the US, but out here in the SW I've seen
quite a few IIa's go for about $1500 - $2500.  The frame and running gear
is by far the most important.  The body pannels can be replaced easily in
less than an hour with not too much cost.  The steel parts (frame, fire
wall, and radiator support) are more important.  Check the swivel balls for
excess pitting.  Oil-soaked brake backing plates mean the hub seals have leaked
and probably soaked the brake shoes.  Spring sag is another one.  There should
be about 3 3/4" between the bumper and the axle stop on the rear and 3" on
the front for a good pair.  I had a '64 that had about 1 1/2 " on the front
and would lean excessively (dangerously!).  I put 2X4's under there on one
trip to stop the lean...  The above prices are for pretty much rust free
Ca, Ne, Az vehicles.  My '64 I sold after replacing all axles seals, swivel,
brake hoses, etc. completely rust-free and running (but burning some oil)
for $1950.  This vehicles' Aluminum looked rough!  But, I guess I didn't have
to worry about the bushes scrapping!  Another friend bought a '60 that was
completely straight & rust-free, running (barely), but needed some TLC to
be a solid runner - $2200.  I paid $450 for my '64 when I towed it home...
but I probably put more than the differrence into it!
Kelly Minick
Ridgecrest, CA  '73 88" Safari

------------------------------

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