Rally of the Giants

The 60th-anniversary Rally of the Giants classic American car show

Written by Rascal Philip (Editor)

Hey friends, I’ve been looking forward to this particular show for months, featuring all-American classic cars, trucks and bikes. Rally of the Giants is celebrating its 60th anniversary, so lots of sparkle and celebration are evident. Whoooo Yaaaa!

After looking around, I  managed to find a huge Stetson hat, but when I arrived at Mark’s home, I'd left the damn thing at home. Duh!

Just kidding!

It’s a steady 45 minutes to the venue, and it’s a lovely drive on the outskirts of Marlow, a village you must visit if the opportunity arises. Arriving at Stonor Park, a historic country house and private deer park, a few miles outside Henley-on-Thames. Exhibitors get in an hour early, and we pay our fees to enter. The house has a 12th-century private chapel and the remains of a prehistoric stone circle in its grounds.

Now that might be of interest to you, but I’m here to talk about American classic cars, so if chapels interest you, go look it up for yourself. (Rascal chuckle)

Mark, a fellow Rascal, drove me here, which is a nice change. While sad to leave my Rover at home, it's good to respect that this show is about American steel; not a place for an old British classic coupe.

Don’t want to upset anyone today, do we? (Hee hee) Though I could boast it houses a Buick engine under the bonnet. (hood) To be honest, it’s a day off, and a chance to wander and admire.

It can be a tough gig showing off one's pride and joy at any car show. I recall displaying at the NEC Birmingham, a three-day event. Now, don’t get me wrong, I loved it. But I was absolutely exhausted by the time everyone’s horn sounded to end the show.

The morning began with us meeting at 08:00 at the usual place. Most of the gang were in attendance. Rascal Rob in the Pontiac, Rascal Charlie in the Mustang, Rascal John in the 1967 Camaro, Rascal Colin in the 1958 Edsel convertible. Rascal Kevin, waiting on the A40, falls into line driving his Buick Skylark enroute.

Mark, wife Lindsay and I are in his Dodge Challenger. A wise choice. The air con is on max. It’s another scorcher, and I’m hoping the Rascals might find some shady spot to park up and chill out for the day.

We’ve all done our bit for the catering; nobody’s going hungry. First, we got breakfast sorted thanks to Rob, bacon and egg bread buns, but no Houses of Parliament sauce, damn. I do like my HP. Mark, Lindsay and I are providing lunch. Chicken, spicy or sweet honey-covered, sausage rolls, pies, pastries, crisps and nuts. Charlie’s got the wine for the wives, and lucky old me can have a cold beer.

I could get quite used to this, you know. Yeee haaa!

The best seat in the house, in my opinion, is sitting outside the entrance watching everyone arrive. No need to wander the enormous turnout; just let it all pass you on the long drive up to the house.

On stage to entertain this year, live music from the Beached Boys. Clever! Stalls for automotive parts, street food, ice creams, rock-and-roll shirts and skirts.

Well, first impression, my eyes didn't know where to look. What a riot of colour. Line this lot up against today's cars and it's no contest. Black, grey, silver, that's your lot now, near enough 70% of everything sold. Beige on wheels. But these beauties from the '50s and '60s? Somebody let the paint shop off the leash. Soft mint, buttery yellows, powder blues, and every one of them dripping with chrome you could shave in. And it doesn't stop at the doors. Open one up and the colour carries right through: seats, dash, chrome trim, the lot. All of it parked out on grass so scorched and dry it's gone the colour of old hay. Proper feast for the eyes.

Now this is a big show, and big shows and groups don't always mix. A herd of us shuffling along at the pace of the slowest ditherer? Not today. I might have to give my buddies the slip and do this at my own speed. I love all things American, so I want a proper plan of attack, no hidden gem left unspotted. First though, the canopy. We wrestled a dome tent into shape for a bit of shade, and let me tell you, that thing did not want to go up.

Between the lot of us we got there in the end, cursing and sweating, and thank heavens we did, because we were going to bake without it. Sides off, so any breeze that fancies passing through can do. Then I slip away for a quick wander, snapping a few shots, before circling back for a smoked bacon bap and a good cup of tea. And I sit there wondering which pictures to use, what you lot would actually want to see. Big decision, that. But it can wait. 

The canopy that nearly beat us, doing its job at last. Rascals and wives fed, watered and firmly in the shade, while the classics bake in the sun outside. All that cursing and sweating to get it up, and worth every minute. Best seats in the house.

So now the Rascals are fed and watered, the gents head off to view the show cars. Plenty of them too, some in groups like us, some in auto clubs, a big selection of Corvettes from every era. Some individual cars slotted in here and there, a Chevy Truck 3100, a Bonneville, a Mustang. We make our way to the top end, 1950s and 1960s; oh, I’m in heaven. Bel Airs, Cadillacs, metallic paint sparkles in the sun, reams of leather. Unfortunately for me, quite a few are for sale. I’m looking, I’m pondering, I’m sulking.

A 1960 Cadillac in deep navy, low and long and dripping with chrome, whitewalls gleaming on the scorched grass. Behind it, a pink Cadillac waits its turn. This is exactly the pastel-and-chrome glamour that puts today's black-and-grey car parks to shame. Detroit at its most confident, parked in an English deer park like it owns the place.

After perusing the gallery, we head back to the ladies to discuss what we’ve seen, and we’re all in agreement on a couple of beauties. Colin’s 1958 Edsel Pacer is getting a lot of attention, and for very good reason. You won’t see a car like this at many shows. It’s a car you just want to waft around in; people stop, people point, people question. Colin will nod, give a little wave much like our late Queen Elizabeth, and waft by.

 Colin's 1958 Edsel Pacer, buttery yellow and every inch a head-turner. That famous grille, a boot-load of chrome, and a wave fit for royalty. You won't see one of these at many shows.

The morning has flown by, and we’re all into lunch, sharing it with a hundred and one ants, which Charlie’s not happy about, as most are on his apple pie. Filling our bellies and gently pushing away the public, who look keen to try a little Mediterranean quiche and a Scotch egg. We are all up to round two of our American adventure.

But wait. A gentleman appears, finds the owner of a certain Pontiac Parisienne. The Ruislip Rascals have a winner, and Rob is absolutely delighted, as are we all. Best in Class for a 1960s American automobile.

The Ruislip Rascals, Best in Class for a 1960s American automobile.

Now, you’ll know Rob, as my last blog was all about him and his Pontiac. (If you’d like to see pictures, check out my previous blog, “You Dirty Rascal”.)

With great news comes bad news.

I return from disposing of our rubbish only to spot a field fire on a farm across the way. I dash up and inform the Rascals. The wind, thankfully, is blowing away from us, but we watch in disbelief as the fire spreads up the field and around a small thicket of trees.

The smoke climbs fast, black and rolling, and you can feel the whole field go quiet with it. Nobody says it out loud, but everyone's thinking the same thing. Fires have been on the news every single day lately, field after field, and in a heatwave like this one it only takes a spark and a bit of wind. We stand and watch as a handful of blokes rush at it with whatever they've got, and you can see it's not enough. Worse still, stuck out where we are, the phones are all but useless: one bar, then none. No way of knowing how close the fire service even is.

The ladies had gone off to visit the Stonor country house and couldn’t be contacted. Thankfully, farmers and the fire service got hold of it, and the event organisers informed us that it was now under control.

The moment the day turned. Flames tearing across the neighbouring field, smoke swallowing the sky, and a field full of priceless classics watching the wind and hoping it held. It did, just. Thankfully, the breeze stayed kind, and the fire service got hold of it before it reached the fence line.

But in the meantime, many cars had decided to leave, such was the concern. What we saw was shocking. It ate up the field in no time, and we all felt very lucky that the light breeze gave us a little protection.

Now, we could relax a little and enjoy the presentation gifted to our Rascal leader. Rob and his wife drove up in front of the house to receive his trophy. All Rascals present and celebrating the achievement.

 The Rascals celebrating a winner. Rob's Pontiac Parisienne took first place, and here's the crew celebrating in the sunshine. That trophy's well earned, and the shirts aren't bad either.

We had an amazing day. I could share all my pictures. We all had favourites; we all had dreams. Dreams are what keep you living. I’ll live out mine sure enough. I enjoyed a hot but wonderful drive home in John’s ’67 Camaro. We will soon be out again, and if you remember a classic scene in The Karate Kid, you’ll know. Polish on polish off, polish on polish off.

A few pics to see you off.

Catcha next time, friends.

Philip (The Rascal)

A Rascal caught mid-swoon over a powder-blue early '50s Cadillac Eldorado. People stop, people point, people question. This one's getting the full inspection, and you can see the sums being done.

A 1956 Chevrolet Bel Air in deep metallic purple over white, riding on polished alloys. The classic '56 chrome spear, brought up to date with a colour you'd never have found in the showroom. Exactly the kind of paintwork that makes today\u2019s car parks weep.

Inside the purple Bel Air, and the colour doesn't stop at the paint. Purple-and-white bench seat, a chrome dash full of dials, and fuzzy dice for good measure. They just don't build them like this any more.

A late-1940s Chevy pickup, slammed low and dressed to the nines. Vintage oil tins, a steamer trunk, and Sheriff Woody riding shotgun in the bed. Somebody's having fun, and so are we. Yee haa indeed.

A 1931 Cadillac, and quite the grande dame of the show. Wire wheels, wide whitewalls, side-mounted spare and an upright elegance from a world before tail fins. Nearly a century old and still turning every head on the field.