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.
“Are you the one looking for a co-driver?”
“Come down to the team’s meetup tonight, I think I’ve found someone who could race with you,” said the voice on the phone. I hung up and rushed to Marostica, hoping for the best.
When I arrived, people were munching on snacks with some excellent prosecco. The usual legendary conversations about tires, races, and drifting filled the air, making the evening truly enjoyable. Suddenly, a rather confused-looking guy approached me.
“Are you the one looking for a co-driver?” he asked in a low voice, circling me as if he were afraid to speak directly.
“Yes, that’s me. But who are you?” I responded, not sure if he was offering to join me or just giving advice.
“Let’s say I’m usually a co-driver,” he answered calmly, staring at the tips of my shoes, still walking in circles.
“I could race with you if you want, but you’ll have to cover my expenses. I don’t have any money,” he continued, sipping prosecco without really enjoying it.
“But… have you raced before?” I asked, worried. “Who are you?”
“My name is Loris… Loris Roggia. I’ve raced with a few people, some of them are around here—ask them,” and with that, he wandered off as quickly as he had appeared, perhaps disappointed by my clearly unconvinced reaction.
That evening, fate definitely changed both my life and possibly his, creating a partnership that would last for almost my entire career. However, his calm, distant demeanor didn’t inspire much confidence. Usually, co-drivers were enthusiastic, trying to sell themselves, being overly friendly with the driver, sometimes even exaggerating their experience. But Loris seemed like he was on another planet, detached, with his head in the clouds.
I figured I didn’t have any other options, and after this race, I’d have time to find someone else, maybe a bit more alert.
“But are you sure this guy doesn’t fall asleep?” I asked a couple of drivers who had raced with him.
“Don’t worry, you’ll see how he transforms once he gets in the car. Don’t be fooled by his behavior—he’s just like that.”
“Let’s hope so… I can’t wait to see what my wife will say when she meets him. She’s bound to think I find the weirdest people… oh well!”
I went looking for him again, and after some time, I found him wandering alone, head down, lost in thought, wrapped up in his own world. Later, I would often envy that ability to disconnect—turns out, his head wasn’t in the clouds at all.
“Hey, wake up! I’ll pick you up tomorrow at nine sharp. Where do you live?”
I half expected him to say, “Oh, no, I need to ask my wife, or I have to work tomorrow.” But instead, he just said, “Fine,” with a certainty I rarely heard for the rest of my life.
The next morning, I rang his doorbell, and he immediately showed up with his bag in hand. The house was dark, and I saw a shape curled up on the floor.
“Who’s that?” I asked, a little horrified.
“Oh, that’s my brother. He’s sleeping.”
“Wait, what? He’s sleeping on the floor?”
“Yeah,” he shrugged. “He had a fight at home, so he’s staying here for now,” he said, quietly closing the door.
We arrived in Bobbio in the late afternoon, and by evening, we started reconnaissance using the photographer’s notes—horribly written, but Loris didn’t flinch. He read them as if they were his own.
“I’ll show him how the trophy racers do it,” I thought, as I threw the car down the stage like a maniac. I had only seen the stage once before, but he didn’t miss a beat. Occasionally, he’d lift his head and say, “Let it flow; you’re bogging down on the exit,” shaking his head like a disapproving old man.
When we finished the stage, he asked, “Are you sure you can drive the whole race like that?”
He was right—we had navigated half the corners by sheer luck. But it was clear he was incredibly talented, with the right mix of calm and grit. He saw things no one else did.
“Careful, it’s dirty here,” he warned, and sure enough, it was. He hadn’t driven the stage before, but he just knew.
I was more than a little impressed. But the next morning, Loris looked awful—his face had turned a ghastly gray, and he didn’t poke his head out from under the covers.
“What’s wrong now?”
“Eh, every now and then, I get something like this… I don’t know.”
He already spoke little, and now he looked like he was on his deathbed. Great. “Listen, I’ll head out to see the stages by myself. You stay here and rest; if you need anything, just call someone.”
Damn it! They hadn’t told me he was defective. He had been doing so well, first with the photographer’s notes, and now look at him. What bad luck.
I did the first special stage, Passo Cerro, and halfway through, on a hairpin, there were plenty of spectators watching the recce. I stopped mid-slide, a cloud of dust swirling around the car.
“Who wants to hop in?” I shouted from the window.
About ten people raised their hands.
“You… you… get in. You seem the least clueless,” I said, picking the least intimidated-looking guy.
“Do you know how to read notes?”
“Well… um, no. But my uncle once rode with Vudafieri…” Oh great!
I did a couple of passes with that poor guy in the car, who was too terrified to say a word as he watched me battle with the car. Eventually, I returned to the hotel, where I found Loris still out of commission.
“Do you think you’ll be ready for tomorrow?”
“I never stay like this for more than a day,” he replied in a whisper.
“Should I call a priest or a doctor?”
The following day was the scrutineering, and then, in the evening, the start of the race. It was unbearably hot in the courtyard of the Astra company in Piacenza, the sponsor of the race. Loris, who had been on death’s door the day before, looked healthier than I did. He wore a blue Linea Sport racing suit tied around his waist, revealing the heavy wool sweater people used as an underlayer back then, seemingly unfazed by the inferno-like heat, as if he were in Karlstad, Sweden.
What a strange guy…
Finally, we lined up for the first special stage—Passo Cerro—a wide, fast uphill section followed by a breathtakingly dirty descent, almost like a gravel track. He had never driven it before; I had done it twice, once with the spectator, and once with the photographer Igerio. World-class preparation!
The uphill was painfully slow. The car struggled, and I kept muttering to myself, “The downhill will come eventually,” as the engine choked in the summer heat.
When the descent arrived, I threw the car down like a lunatic, finding myself in some truly desperate situations. At one hairpin, immediately after a landslide, the car was fully sideways. As it hit the asphalt edge, it balanced on two wheels, nearly flipping over. Then we dived into a filthy right-hand corner, and in the exit, I put a wheel in the void—earning myself a photo in AutoSprint—followed by two more wheels on a bridge, where I yanked the handbrake to avoid crashing. More near-misses, but Loris kept calmly reading the notes, occasionally glancing around to see where we were headed. He didn’t seem bothered at all—it almost felt like I was driving too slow.
“Well done, you got the third-fastest time,” the timekeeper said at the end of the ordeal.
“Damn it, Loris, I wanted to win that one! Let’s try to win the next.”
I expected him to say, “You’re crazy to drive like that,” but instead, he said, “You drove a bit messy, but it was good. So much gravel! But if you stay calmer, we’ll win the next one.”
Unfortunately, on the next stage, we weren’t as lucky and ended up in a ditch almost immediately, losing a couple of minutes. A group of spectators helped us back onto the road. Loris didn’t flinch—he even jumped out to push and was back in the car and strapped in, ready to go again, in a flash.
We recovered, only to end up in another ditch. Luckily, we finished the race, though.
In a way, it was for the best! Statistically, it was bound to end like that—we had used up all our luck and then some.
It was one of the few times I was happy to retire from a race, and Loris didn’t complain much either.
“Do you feel like racing with me at Liburna? Or should I look for someone else?”
“Why not? I think you’re fast… but you still have a lot to learn,” he said mysteriously.
When we returned, his brother wasn’t lying on the floor anymore. He had either gone home or was just out somewhere. I waved goodbye as Loris dragged his bag inside with a slight groan of exhaustion.
“See you soon, Loris. Thanks for everything.”
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.
