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No wonder VW’s advertising in those days said that though the car looked almost the same, it had hundreds of changes — VW kept adding other basic and essential requirements to the Beetle, like a fuel gauge, for instance. But ours was a bit too old and the Beetle, surely enough, sputtered to a stop. We were out of fuel. And with that went even the little hope of going anywhere close to a podium and picking up a trophy. Or (why not?) two. While we were waiting for the backup to arrive, we just kept shooting pictures and gazing at the cars that went by (There goes a VW-Porsche 914/6! Here comes a Mercedes 250 SE Coupe!). The backup cars were a Touareg and coincidentally, a new Beetle cabrio — and as far as photo ops go, it was a bit much. Click. Click. Click. With the Beetle filled up, we were back on the road, only to see other rally cars coming. Or were they going? I was navigating, so I wouldn’t know. Essentially, someone somewhere was lost and it could very well have been us. Eventually, we were perhaps the last to make it to the lunch spot, which was another God-awesome picture-perfect castle. Then it was my turn behind the wheel.
A left-hand drive Beetle in a left-hand drive country is as alien to me as a right-hand drive Beetle in a right-hand drive country. Got you there. What I meant to say is that my own 1960 Bug in India is an LHD, so driving this one was so much fun, especially in a LHD country. What crisp gearshifts, what a gutsy engine beat, what dynamics and... what’s that? It was one of those gymkhanas. The rally organisers had kept some surprise gymkhanas along the route, which meant some great tests of your ability. Like your judgement in reversing or keeping your car equidistant between two pylons or completing a circuit around a roundabout within a fixed timing. I think I was lousy at all of them, but there was of course something I was brilliant at. Whenever I spotted anybody with a camera or some locals waving heartily, I gave them my best driving pose. I thought I heard them say: “Zee, zee! Die Indianische Klassik-veteranen Fahrer!!!”
And so I drove on, ably navigated by Adil and ably co-navigated by Kurt. The weather was awesome. The sun was sending slanted rays across the trees and painting them a golden hue. The strip of smooth tarmac twisted to the left and right, and up and down. The käfer’s belly had enough combustible liquid inside and the boxer’s beat was steady, as we entered the last few kilometres of our 150 km run. It was a memorable drive, a dream come true for me — driving a classic in what can be called classic countryside. And somehow we made it back to where we started in the morning. Back to the Schloss, where we went up the podium again. And when the MC asked, “Iz dere anyzing you vanted in your car?” I replied, “Satellite navigation.” He didn’t get ze joke.
According to Kurt, there were around 65-odd cars that were flagged off at the event, 55 managed to complete the course, and we were 50. Not bad. And in some gymkhanas, we were actually in the 20th position. Quite good, we actually managed to let the others win.
The author was in Germany on invitation from Volkswagen to participate in the SBC.
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