It’s 4.00am and I’m standing on a lonely gravel road near Mt Arden outside of Quorn, 300 kilometres North of Adelaide in the Flinders Ranges. It’s December 15, 1968, the eve of my 13th Birthday and my dad has driven us here in our Mk II Cortina to see the world’s best race and rally drivers at speed on what is one of the final days of the London to Sydney Marathon, the biggest event of its kind the world has ever seen.
The crews have come from all over the world, rally drivers like Roger Clark, Rauno Aaltonen and Paddy Hopkirk, Le Mans Winner Lucien Bianchi, as well as Australia’s best and the 1200-strong population of Quorn has more than doubled for the event.
I hadn’t grasped at the time the madness I was watching. 5660 kilometres in three days. Do you want me to say that again? Frankly, it’s
