Record road trip: Part two

A fuel fill, recommended by our schedule, was rejected on the grounds we now understood just how much every eight-minute stop meant in terms of lowering our overall average. At 5.45pm local time – 30 minutes behind Sydney – we pulled into a service station, 1155 miles already under our wheels. The zealous rushing of our first two stops had given way to a methodical thoroughness as we took on 24.6 gallons of fuel. The stop took nine minutes and we forgot to clean the windscreen. Tiredness was creeping in on us.

We were told the police were thick on the ground in Western Australia, and were advised against speeding, advice we knew we’d ignore. The ‘roos, the service station attendant said, were getting worse.

Cropley took over. He talked seriously about conserving fuel by driving at 100mph and no higher, ‘at least while visibility lasts’, and we knew that despite knowing we were running about 30 minutes ahead of the time needed to break 30 hours, we were still less than halfway across the continent and had a long and weary night ahead of us. The sun was now directly above the road and Steve had to strain through the bugs and insects whose mortal remains did their best to obscure our vision. Ever so slowly, the sun moved across to the left, or was it the road moving to the right, as the sky behind us turned black? It wasn’t until we were 125 miles up the road from our stop that the orange ball disappeared into the sea at 6.45pm Sydney time.

The windscreen, now covered in spattered bodies, needed cleaning. I reckoned we should rush into a service station and wash the glass without buying any petrol. Cropley was aghast that I would expect something for nothing from the station and suggested it was only right to at least buy $5 worth of fuel. I told him he was honourable but stupid and we hadn’t the time. I broke the ensuring silence with a compromise. I would pay the garage $1 and clean the screen myself. He laughed and asked how it would look on the expenses. I got cross and told him they – the bean-counters – would just have to take my word for it.

We picked our target: deserted forecourt and rushed in, leaving the braking to the last minute, my door open before we came to a stop. But my hope of being able to clean the windscreen before anybody showed was dashed when a young woman appeared.

‘Fill it up?’ she asked as a matter of course, her hand on the pump.

‘No thanks, we just want to clean the windscreen,’ the words rushed as I grasped the sponge out of the bucket and gave her $1.

”What? Don’t you even want a dollar’s worth of fuel?’

‘No, we don’t have time.’

‘This is amazing.’ She looked at us suspiciously and asked, ‘Have you hooked something, and this is your getaway car?’

My eyes ache, my arms protest and my head pounds as Cropley snuggles back into the driver’s seat, knowing he has a long night ahead. How is he feeling?

‘Mate, mate,’ he reassures me. ‘If I was any fitter, I’d be dangerous.’

There are no notes of that night, I am too weary to care and can do no more than fill out our fuel chart and hourly speed check. I hover between drowsing and sleep, occasionally asking Cropley if he is still okay, but hoping against hope he won’t ask me to drive. The man is inspired and averages between 90-95mph for over four hours.

After 1590 miles Steve refuelled at the Western Australian border, taking on 22.3 gallons. The system says it’s my turn and for 30 minutes I sit alert while Cropley slumbers beside me. Now my eyes are closing and I’m slowing down. Concentration has ceased. One half of my brain says, ‘Just close your eyes and everything will be alright,’ while the other half cringes in front of the Cropley determination and demands I continue.

But it is Superman who drives on with me a forlorn passenger wishing he could do his share, then falling back into the seat to the respite of fantasy. We reach Norseman, 2480 miles from Sydney, and on the western side of the Nullarbor, at 3.31am Sydney time. Cropley has driven across the Nullarbor through the endless scrub with not a camel or policeman in sight, only ‘roos hiding in the bush by the side of the road. Our combined accumulative average speed after 22 hours is 87.5mph.

Morning is coming and my body’s metabolism wakes up with the day and I let Cropley sleep through the 25th and 26th hourly checks.

My mind begins to argue with itself and spends hours calculating possible arrival times. The smallest, most minute, happening becomes significant. I count the number of cashews left and dividing that into the next three hours, work out that each nut has to last me seven minutes. I begin by sucking one clean of salt and then twirling it around my tongue before nibbling it ever so gently. I can’t make one last more than five minutes so will run out well before the next fuel stop.

Perth, if we keep up our present rate, will be less than 29 hours from Sydney. The car is perfect, running beautifully, coping supremely with the road in a smooth, effortless fashion that proves two Alfa Romeo litres to be more than a match for 4.9-litres of Ford’s.

Our confidence is high. Too high. Two hours out of Perth, the engine loses power. We assume it’s the petrol tank changeover, but no amount of fiddling from fuel pump to fuel pump makes any difference. The Alfa simply won’t pull more than 4500rpm: then it is down to 4000rpm and passing becomes a chore of anticipation. Our average begins to drop. We curse Alfa Romeos and swear we’ll never do this trip again in a temperamental twin-cam four when there’s a bulletproof bent-eight to rely on. Then the problem is gone as quickly as it came, the Alfa running cleanly to the redline.

Then we are in suburban Perth, coping with a clutter of cars that impede our progress. It is going to take more than 29 hours, but we know we’ll beat our record and go under 30 hours. Despite his exhaustion Cropley is delighted.

We catch one red light and then another, our seventh, the last before Perth’s Swan River bridge. After 29 hours, 14 minutes and five seconds at an average 85.4mph, consuming fuel at the rate of 17mpg, Cropley has traversed the continent and done what he left England to do. We have done it.

Twenty-seven years later, I learned that Jaguar Australia’s lone XJ (X350) TDVi was sitting in Perth and needed to get to the company’s Sydney HQ. Rather than truck the Jag across the country, I offered to drive it. In theory, the efficiency of an ultra-high geared (38.3mph per 1000rpm) diesel with an 85-litre tank, offered a 600-mile range. However, given much heavier traffic, the presence of far more police – planes are now used to spot speeding cars on the Nullarbor – and an absurd 110km/h (68mph) speed limit, I knew a serious attempt on our record was impossible. Courtesy suggested I tell Cropley of my plan. He was immediately enthusiastic and hatched his own plan to fly from London to Perth, arriving on a Sunday afternoon, and be back in London the following Thursday. Between flights he would do no more than occupy a Jaguar for the 2500 mile journey to Sydney.

With a photographer on board to record the run and act as a third driver, we left Perth at exactly 4am on a Monday. The Jag was effortless and comfortable, but not quite as efficient as I’d hoped. My highlight: 500 miles east of Perth and confronting the Nullarbor, the navigation’s next instruction flashed up: ‘straight on at a roundabout’ a mere 1103kms (685 miles) down the road.

Poor roads, intense traffic and an obvious police presence slowed our last 250 miles into Sydney – this and a gentle lap of Bathurst’s Mount Panorama circuit. We finally edged over the Sydney Harbour Bridge after 37 hours and 29 minutes, an average speed of 67mph. Our fuel economy was 32.1mpg, twice that of the Alfa and three times that of the Falcon. Red lights: 19.