Toly and the Targa

A Pilgrim in Sicily
By Toly Arutunoff

In the annals of Italian road racing, very few Americans have ventured forth down The Roman roads of the Mille Miglia or the bandit infested byways of Sicily. Ak Miller tried his hand on the last Mille Miglia with a homebrew called El Cabalo, while Phil Hill, Richie Ginther, Dan Gurney, Carrol Shelby and Bob Bondurant were participants in the Targa Florios of the mid and late fifties. There were others, to be sure, but few and far between. And certainly none like the irrepressible, irascible, hilarious and thoroughly enoyable Anatoly "Toly" Arutunoff. Below, prudently edited, is his story of the 1963 Targa Florio.

In the fall of 1962 I was part of the J. Frank Harrison's crew at the Nassau Speedweeks--a free party every night at one hotel after the other and little races scattered thru the weekdays with the biggies on the two weekends. But I was very wet behind the ears, I was shy and deferent and just never asked about many things, entry to Nassau as the present example. Then I found out how easy it was to enter events and how much fun it was to be part of the International racing scene.

On the way home from Nassau, I remember we were passing through Macon, Georgia, my first love told me she was engaged. To someone else. Ergo, I just decided to go race in Europe, which sounded like more fun than just getting drunk (only time I was drunk was Christmas night with my mother at age 30 while she told us stories about being a girl in Czarist Russia).

Toly Arutunoff and his new Lancia Flaminia Zagato on his way to a remarkable third in class at his first Targa Florio. Courtesy Toly Arutunoff.

I had read a swell report on a Lancia Flaminia Zagato and another article on the Targa Florio, so I decided to get one and run the other. I ordered a new Lancia Flaminia Sport Zagato 3c, 2.5 liter, triple Webers from Max Hoffman and specified a color, a decision which meant the car would arrive too late for Sebring.

My friend Bill Pryor, who ran the first ever SCCA drivers' school offered to co-drive. We prepared the Lancia by reading the owner's manual and running an SCCA regional race at Courtland, Alabama. We also figured out how to take the bumpers off. Getting the FIA license was easy, we sent $5.00 to that august body. I spoke a learned a few words of Italian and carried an English/Italian dictionary.

Off in the Sicilian countryside, trying not to run out of gas.

I booked passage on the Leonardo da Vinci, (the sister ship to the doomed Andrea Doria), along with the new Zagato. Pryor, his first wife, and Tom Davis flew over to someplace via Icelandic Airlines. We also semi-leased a 1400 Fiat station wagon as a service car. When we showed up at the Targa we met Pietro Pottino, Marquis di Rosa, the Sicilian FIA rep, but they'd never received our entry! Nevetheless, this was not Le Mans, and the organizer said "We are here to race, not to keep people from racing," and we were in.

Sicily was pleasant, rural, and cheap. The hotel staff was the family of the owner. Mom and Dad had gone on vacation so the Brits staying there talked the kid running the bar into believing that a 50 cent glass of scotch meant a tall glass filled to the rim. The English are such incredibly amoral con men--there's a reason God put them on an island. But the scotch no doubt helped us tame our fears of the event. The Targa of 1962 was ten laps, 44.7 miles per lap of decreasing-radius 45mph turns (at least on 165x400 Michelin x tires) and was, to our pleasure, actually learnable.

Bill took the first stint and did well. He'd blast down the 3-mile straight at about 130mph, and then in the 40-odd miles of twisty bits, he'd be overtaken by a local driver in an Aurelia Spider. Bill would let the local guy pass immediately, and then tucked in and followed the Aurelia through the 40 miles worthof twisties, then passed him going onto the straight. But at our pitstop, Bill took off the helmet and jumped up on the pit counter and gashed his head open on a cinderblock. This made the pages of Road & Track and also ended Bill's effectiveness as a driver, at least for this race. So I finished the last two stints.

At the Nurburgring a few weeks later, Toly signals Bill Pryor to come in. "Thanks to our team manager not checking our fuel filter, we lost a sure second place to a rapidly disintegrating Morgan with our six minute pit stop."

Bill's head was bad but there was another factor we hadn't counted on. We couldn't refuel our own cars, the supercortemaggiore gas people did that. We'd figured we could easily run three laps before refueling. I also knew that at service stations the tank "burped" before the last gallon or so went in. But when the Sicilian gas guy filled it up, it burps, and he immediately took the nozzle out. I holler "non e' pieno" (NOT FULL!) and he shakes his head, hollered back, "pieno" (Full!) and puts the cap on.

Not good, but I thought I should still be able to do three laps. But barely halfway into lap three, the low fuel light started blinking and then came on steady. I ran a higher gear and coasted down hills with the engine off, honking at the crowds who immediately got out into the road whenever a car had passed (with their backs to traffic). As I made the medium speed left turn onto the straight the car ran out of gas. Bigtime. Yurrupean racing driver, eh?

I looked directly across the road and a man was standing there alone, next to a blue R8 Renault. I said "benzina?" He said "si," pulled out a bottle and a tube, and I put about a liter in the Flaminia. He refused to take money. I think he was an angel. No joke. The pit entrance is steeply uphill after a hundred-yard 'regular' uphill curve after a hard left. Just as I made the hard left I started to run out of gas. I zigzagged and downshifted and, to the cheers of the crowd, crept into our pit at a crawl, the car in first gear and my foot off the accelerator and right forefinger working the choke lever. And got more gas.

Pryor figured out from our regular lap time that had we filled up properly we'd have won our class--possibly beating the two lightweight Dagrada-prepared Flaminias with a redline 1000rpm higher than our stocker. As it was, we finished behind both lightweights, and won the Autoclub of Palermo Trophy, which we received amid shouts of ok-la-o-ma ok-la-o-ma! (the Sicilians are weak on their "h"s).

After the event, we went out in the lovely late evening and congratulated one another thus missing our receiving the long-distance entrant award, a beautiful gold medallion, which was eventually mailed to me. This was later stolen off its place on the thermostat housing of my apartment in Nashville by a kid who also stole my last box of 2" salutes firecrackers.

Anyway, while in Sicily we hung around with Stirling Moss (he was revisiting race courses he raced at with a bbc film crew after his crash-induced retirement) and he took Bill and me for a ride in the Flaminia--Moss had never driven one before-- but you'll just have to wait for my book for details on that! I recall the Twini-Mini which John Cooper had set up for the race--a Mini with a race engine in each end which wore out a set of tires every three laps, and when it approached a corner, the people jumped back from the escape road; they didn't normally jump back even for Ferrari prototypes. The Mini was about as fast as a GTO, which also reminds me that Tommy Hitchcock and Zourab Tchokotoua were there in their first race in their new Ferrari GTO. They finished 8th overall and would've been higher but Zourab got carsick and had to stop and barf occasionally...

Toly still owns and runs the same Flaminia Zagato--here at an event in Evian.

The Targa was the way racing oughta be: real roads, stock cars happily allowed, seat belt and helmet. There was a guy who drove his DB2 Aston convertible down every year and raced in his Cromwell helmet and shortsleeved polo shirt. He was doing okay until his fan came loose and punctured his radiator.

Later, at Le Mans, Bill Gavin came up to me and said he'd talked to Lancia and they'd check the car after every race for about $25. He could get me $200 minimum per event, plus some expenses, if I wanted to stay in Europe and run all sorts of races and hill climbs. But it felt like too much fun for my puritanical soul and I said I really had to get back to Oklahoma.

I don't wake up screaming anywhere near as often anymore...