Vittorio Caneva’s Rally Tales: A Journey Through the Heart of Rallying
Welcome to Vittorio Caneva’s Rally Diary, where we dive into the incredible world of rallying through the eyes of Vittorio Caneva. In this section, Vittorio shares personal anecdotes from the golden era of rally, offering behind-the-scenes insights into the thrilling races, legendary drivers, and unforgettable moments that shaped his career. These stories bring the high-speed drama and camaraderie of rallying to life, providing a unique look at one of motorsport’s most exciting decades.
The square was packed with people, more than had been seen in years. I had never seen such a crowd at the start of a rally. It was the first edition of the Rally 1,000 Miglia, and for Brescia, it was like stepping back 20 years, to when that very square hosted the start of the last edition of the world’s most famous road race.
The organizers had played a clever hand by reviving the old name and brand of the legendary race. This immediately rekindled the passion of thousands of spectators, who flocked to the event with great enthusiasm.
After winning my class at the Rally of Cesena, I decided, under the heavy influence of my preparer—affectionately called “el mago” for his creative improvisation skills—to install a limited-slip differential on my Fiat 127 Super 1050. The differential, made by Alquati, cost a staggering one and a half million lire. Even now, 25 years later, I still don’t understand how it could cost nearly the same today.
A week before the race, the car was ready, a rare feat in those days when cars were typically finished a minute before the start or even during the race. I chose Andrea as my co-driver, a guy I’d met the year before who shared my passion for rallying. He had co-driven for Enrico in his only race, and after me, he became famous for racing with Franco Cunico for a couple of seasons, first with the A112 and then with the Lancia Stratos from the Lancia dealerships. He was truly excellent.
That night, we met at the Mago’s workshop. After the usual finishing touches, I started testing the beast, now equipped with the new limited-slip differential. The Mago told me, “To drive it, you need to steer and accelerate all the way. You’ll see how I’ve adjusted it.”
“Let’s go, Andrea. We’re taking it for a spin,” and off we went, heading toward the center of Schio, essentially doing a shakedown in the middle of a town with 40,000 residents.
I approached the monument that served as a roundabout like a cannonball, threw the car sideways, and floored it as per instructions. I made a complete lap around the monument without being able to straighten the wheel, much to the surprise of a few onlookers, and poor Andrea, who stretched his legs against the floor, clearly confused about what was happening.
“What on earth did they do to this car?” I said, struggling to straighten the steering. “Is this supposed to make it faster? That guy’s crazy…”
I returned slowly and terrified to the workshop.
“It’s tuned for gravel,” said the Mago, winking as usual. “Go behind there, there’s a dirt road—it’ll handle well there.”
At that point, I had an internal conflict: we were racing on asphalt, and he always made the car ready for dirt… but, trusting in his abilities, I shot off down the dirt road like a madman—half-measures never existed for me.
The first fast section wasn’t too bad, and I started to feel a rush, accompanied by the roar of the Fiat four-cylinder, which echoed through the bare chassis like the engine of a fighter-bomber.
The gravel increased, and on the horizon, I saw a nasty left turn approaching. I tried to throw the car into the corner, but it didn’t respond at all and went straight into a wall. BANG.
We limped back to the workshop with the classic fender rubbing against the tire, one headlight out, the hood askew, a mountain of damage, and my heart racing at 10,000 RPM.
“Here we go again,” was the Mago’s comment, while I, almost in despair, tried to figure out how to fix the car for the 1,000 Miglia, which was just a week away.
They did a great job fixing it, as it was no minor crash, and exactly a week later, Andrea and I were looking down from the ramp at the thousands of people watching the start of the rally.
The tire guy had found four red-dot Pirelli CN36s, which were a luxury at the time (they lasted the whole season, and I even reused them with the Kadett at the end of the year). We only had four, though, so no flats allowed. Our backup tire was a recapped Pirelli P3 lying in wait, which would have made the already dire situation even worse.
A relentless rain had battered the roads, and the entire rally took place at night on stages I wasn’t familiar with, making the terrain even more treacherous. Andrea was amazing, and for the first time, I realized the difference between a real co-driver and an enthusiast like Massimo, or worse, the bold Gianni, for whom every corner was full throttle.
Racing at night was a special experience. There was a unique atmosphere, especially in the late hours when we sped through sleeping towns, blowing through intersections and past flashing traffic lights that remained indifferent to our noisy, high-speed passage. A few bars were still open, their interior lights revealing bleary-eyed faces surrounded by half-empty bottles, staring blankly at the last numbers of this strange event as we sped by behind their fogged-up windows.
On the special stages, thousands of camera flashes and camping spectators huddled around smoky campfires, even cheering on wrecks like ours, making us feel like stars. The 1,000 Miglia left a lasting impression on me because of this.
Our times were nothing short of extraordinary, consistently placing us between 20th and 25th overall. We had a commanding lead over the second in our class, who was used to thrashing us and was amazed by our incredible performance. He sportingly congratulated us every time we exchanged times at the time control.
Clearly, the limited-slip differential had its benefits, especially in the wet, and the CN36s were perfect for that type of road. Now, almost 27 years later, my memories have faded, but I’ll never forget the end of that rally, which remains vivid as if it happened yesterday.
The race was nearing its end, and as I drove along the massive dam of Lake Idro, illuminated in yellow, I anxiously awaited the final red sign marking the end of the stage, which would seal a beautiful victory—our second in a row.
I enjoyed the sound of the gear shifts in quick succession, making the poor 127 sound like a true race car. By now, I had also gotten the hang of the infernal differential.
“Well done, we’ve won,” Andrea said as he handed the time card at the control stop, looking at me with excitement through the slit in his full-face helmet. “Now straight to Brescia to celebrate.”
The final road section was incredibly long, and as dawn broke, we stopped at a bar for a well-deserved cappuccino, thrilled to have achieved a dream.
We got back in the car. First gear… second… third… a dull thud, and the engine died suddenly. My blood ran cold as I stared dumbfounded at my co-driver, who was just as shocked, staring back at me.
I desperately turned the key, but the starter spun freely, as if only the motor was engaged. I immediately knew it was serious, especially since a sinister smell of coolant was creeping into the cabin.
I tried again and again, but nothing changed. A connecting rod had snapped—the same ones that had been lightened with a grinding wheel (!)—and in its course, it had destroyed not only the camshaft but also the engine block.
In all my life, I’ve never seen an engine fail during a road section, cruising along like that, let alone after the race was already over. It was a cruel twist of fate.
We pulled over by a stream, and by now it was daylight. I was overwhelmed with despair—20 kilometers from the finish after a perfect night of racing, with the class win secured. I couldn’t believe it… what terrible luck. It was like waking up from a nightmare only to find yourself in another one.
We waited for the car behind us to let the service crew know to come and pick us up, handing over the victory that had deceived us until then. I sat on the edge of the bridge, crying, consumed by a despair I had never felt before.
As usual, I threatened to quit rallying, but two days later, I was already thinking about the next race. However, I never understood how that engine failed…
Discover More Stories from Rally’s Golden Era
If you enjoyed this glimpse into Vittorio Caneva’s incredible rally experiences, you won’t want to miss his book! Dive deeper into the thrilling world of 1980s rallying, filled with behind-the-scenes stories, legendary drivers, and the intense emotions that shaped an entire era of motorsport.
Get your copy of the Italian version of Vittorio Caneva’s book here: purchase on Amazon.
