Reykjavík Grapevine - 06.06.2014, Síða 30

SPORT 30 The Reykjavík GrapevineIssue 07 — 2014
The competition has just begun, but
the machismo is already in overdrive.
The soft shoulders of the black sand
ravine, so typical of the landscape here
in southern Iceland, are being churned
up by vehicles that resemble the un-
holy spawn of go-karts and jeeps. A
car called Gæran—which means “sheep
pelt,” but is also an archaic term for a
woman of ill repute, something akin to
“hussy”—shoots up from the ravine’s
depths. Conquering the last incline at
the top of the hill forces the vehicle to go
airborne. This it does effortlessly, leav-
ing nothing but flying gravel and dust as
proof of its struggle. At the top, Gæran’s
driver Helgi Gunnarsson banks to the
right, weaves through and occasionally
runs over some post markers, descends
a dozen metres over the lip of the gully
and comes back for more. The crowd
cheers as if it were a victory lap, but it’s
actually the second ascent needed to
clear this particular torfæra course.
Known in English as “formula off
road,” torfæra is a motor sport like no
other. Souped-up jeeps try to conquer
courses on challenging terrains spot-
ted with various natural and man-made
obstacles. Completing a course in this
particular competition, Sindra Torfæran
Hellu, earns a driver 350 points, minus
whatever is subtracted for violating the
rules, such as when drivers run over
post markers or drive in reverse. The
hill climbing terrain is a classic torfæra
course. However, the engines and tires
on torfæra cars are so specialised that
they can often drive through mud pits
and on water as well, which represent
two of the five total terrains that drivers
will be attempting today in Hella. How
much success they will have on the dif-
ferent courses is influenced by which of
three classes their cars fall into: cars in
the unlimited class, which tend to ride
paddle tires and don’t have to resemble
factory-made vehicles, have more suc-
cess on water and in mud than cars in
the street-legal and modified classes,
which ride street-legal or non-paddled
tires. At the end of the last event, the
driver with the most points in his class is
declared the winner.
Uphill And Downhill
Guðni Grímsson, driver of the undersized
car Kubbur (“Cube”), takes his own stab
at the hill that Gæran has just cleared.
He approaches the top and gets stuck,
tires dug down in the loose soil, so he
reverses instead. He tries for the summit
again and guns it at the wrong point of
the ascent. With a paroxysm of accelera-
tion, Kubbur breaks the dirt’s hold and
goes vertical. The tires hang freely in the
air, the engine block points momentarily
toward the heavens. Then the car lands
on its ass and flips over onto its back,
sliding to a stop in the soil, driver nestled
safely in the roll cage. Whiffs of gasoline
float all around us on the breeze. There
will be no victory lap for Kubbur, but the
crowd cheers anyway. This mayhem, af-
ter all, is part of the point of torfæra.
Event co-organisers Sigurður Hau-
kur Einarsson and Kári Rafn Þorbergs-
son both work for the search and rescue
team in Hella. They tell me that Sindra
Torfæran Hellu has been going on in
some capacity since 1973—always as a
volunteer-run fundraiser for the search
and rescue squad. This, however, is the
first major torfæra event in Hella in four
years. Between 2010 and 2013, though,
the event was cancelled. “The sport was
going downhill for a bit,” Sigurður says.
“We didn’t have that many competitors,
so we didn’t make that much money off
it.” It seems like the four-year hiatus
did the trick to whet people’s appetites
though. “Last time we held the event, we
had five, six hundred people,” Kári tells
me. “We sold 3,000 tickets for today.”
That makes it one of the largest torfæra
rallies in Iceland, according to Kári.
Indeed, as the crowd occupying the
opposite bank of the ravine migrates 40
metres to the south to get a better view
of the next course, it’s clear that a con-
siderable chunk of the country’s popula-
tion is here.
Too Fast
The drivers are on to a timed compo-
nent, a roughly ichthus-shaped loop that
runs down one side of the ravine and up
and across the other before doubling
back. The fastest driver will earn an ad-
ditional 350 points, and it’s tempting to
pick up speed on the initial descent, but
dangers await any driver who goes too
fast. Gæran, in keeping with its name’s
double entendre, goes too fast. At the
bottom of the hill it does a nosedive,
losing precious seconds. Driver Helgi
struggles to control his car as the two
sloppily slide from left to right, running
over post markers.
Other drivers are more careful, stay-
ing between the markers as they swing
around the apogee. They mostly put
up times around 35 seconds. One hell-
hound manages it in 30 flat. As Eðvald
Orri Guðmundsson, driver of Pjakkurinn
(“The Rascal”), revs the engine and be-
gins down the hill, the announcer has a
little fun. “Eddi, the ‘Cool Guy,’” he says.
“I hear he’s fast in a lot of things.” It’s
crude, but it gets the crowd laughing.
Unfortunately, Eddi is not very fast on
this course, and will eventually come in
at the bottom of his class standings.
Flipping through the event’s info
booklet, I see a possible reason why.
Pjakkurinn is a modified Jeep Willys
from 1966, one of the oldest models par-
ticipating in the rally. And with only 400
horsepower, it’s on the lower end of the
powertrain spectrum. What chance does
it stand against a car like Zombie, driven
by Aron Ingi Svansson, which was built
in 2014 and has an 800 horsepower en-
gine, plus an additional 250 horsepower
when the nitro kicks in? Or Katla, driven
by Guðbjörn “Bubbi” Grímsson, which
will later use its 1600 horsepower engine
to drive 80 km/h down the entire length
of a metre-deep creek like a monstrous
Jesus lizard? It’s not that simple though,
as Sigurður tells me. “The overall win-
ner is normally determined by a mixture
of good car and good driver. Mostly it’s
up to the driver.” Zombie will prove this
point by finishing the day in the lower
half of its class standings, despite its
preternatural specs.
A True Victory Lap
Snáðinn (“Lad”), on the other hand, is
at the top of its class standings at the
end of the day. Driver Jón Vilberg Gun-
narsson tells me he taught himself how
to drive by watching his dad, who com-
peted in the sport for 10 years and was
once a champion in his own right. Jón
is a precocious 31 year old—torfæra be-
ing something of an older man’s game—
and has only been on the circuit for
Words
Jonathan Pattishall
On May 17, a massive torfæra rally briefly turned Hella
into one of the most action-packed corners of Iceland,
attracting 18 drivers and some 3,000 spectators. Organis-
ers used the event to raise money for the local search and
rescue team; the drivers used it to raise a whole lot of hell.
Photos
Nanna Dís
Over
The Edge