Worn & Wound
Rally for the Ages: A Tudor Experience in the Cotswolds
Saturday, 11 July, 11:56AM. “30 Seconds” the timekeeper announces above the fluttering idle of the MG’s 4-cylinder dual carbureted motor. It’s not even midday and I am sweating. Part of it is the epic heatwave hitting Britain and the rest of Europe. Part of it is nerves. “15 Seconds” reminds the timekeeper. I’ve long shaken off the drowsiness from a poor night’s sleep. The cheers from Cole and the rest of the crows representing Tudor fade as concentration takes over. I glance back down at the route book in my lap. Test one is a simple task- only a dozen or so cones and a few slaloms to navigate in the span of a single minute. Simple. I am already feeling the pressure. Shortly, it’s going to get a lot more complicated. “10 Seconds”. Jacob, the driver, looks over at me and clutches in and slots the car into first gear. No words are needed in these precious few seconds. We know what we need to do. I’ve already synchronized the Tudor Ranger 39mm on my left wrist to the exact time of day- in case I forget to reset the stopwatch. A highlighter in my left hand, a pen in my right. Left page- my landmarks, intersections, and signposts. Right page-my time and distance benchmarks. “Five. Four. Three. Two. One. GO!” Jacob gives it gas and clutches out. As the MG leaps forward, my nerves vanish and what little instinct I’ve picked up in the last 15 hours have kicked in. The scream of the MG’s engine tells me it’s about to kiss redline. Jacob executes...