Vittorio Caneva’s Rally Tales: A Journey Through the Golden Era 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 car was taken to the workshop right after the 1976 Rally Campagnolo to be raised and made more competitive. After the first races, done in a somewhat haphazard manner, I was aiming to improve its quality. My ambition was to compete in the Triveneto Championship and participate in some spotlight races like the Campagnolo and San Martino di Castrozza—both international events, with the latter even counting towards the World Rally Championship for drivers.
The guarantees from the preparer were fantastic: “I’ll handle it… I know what I’m doing… I’ll prepare it myself… the others don’t understand anything… trust me…” He already had a winning Fiat 112, which flattered me. My goal was to make my Fiat 127 unbeatable.
I had scraped together some money by opening a sports equipment store, and I also found a few sponsors. On paper, everything seemed perfect. The pioneering days were behind me, and I wanted to start winning—an ambition that wasn’t unrealistic, considering I wasn’t doing badly with the wreck I was racing, despite the disastrous conditions.
Like all respectable preparers, my poor 127 was finished on the day of the inspections for the first race of the season—the Rally of Modena at the end of March. Four months of work and wallet-draining expenses, and there it was.
I frequently visited the workshop, more reminiscent of Dracula’s castle than a proper race car prep shop, and the answer was always the same: “Almost ready… tomorrow, I’ll start it up.” I was eager to hear the new engine, made with the block from a Fiat 112, the pistons from an Abarth 850, and lightweight connecting rods crafted with a vice and a grinder. The balancing? Done only on the invoice.
The adjustable suspension was a joke: a bolt that, no matter the position, gave the same terrible result—locked in compression, completely free in extension. The drivability was worthy of a carnival float from Viareggio.
I had delegated the team to handle service and to supply six Kleber racing tires of the latest model—the right ones, to be clear. I had also bought another yellow Fiat 127 to use as a daily driver and, more importantly, as a mule car. Throughout the winter, I had driven it a lot, learning to control the vehicle. On paper, I was well-prepared, or at least I had made an effort to be.
Finally, I got into the beast, just in time to cross the start ramp at dusk and begin the rally.
“What the hell? I’m practically sitting on the floor and can barely reach the steering wheel. I can’t even see the road!”
“We’ll grab our windbreakers and sit on them,” was the only solution we could think of.
For some reason, my seat had been mounted directly on the floor, while the steering wheel stayed in its original position. I felt like the character Fantozzi in his tiny Bianchina, and I tried to raise the seat. But back then, there was nothing to work with other than pliers and wire, which didn’t help much in that situation.
I might have been the first rally driver to invent a “low center of gravity” for the driver—way before WRCs. All I could see were my hands.
Just outside Serramazzoni, in the dark Emilia night, I pressed the accelerator to see how it would go. To my surprise, the front lifted so much it almost felt like a motocross bike—the shock absorbers had no resistance in extension.
“What the hell did he do to this car?” I yelled to poor Massimo, who was clinging to the handle.
The rear tires were rubbing against the fenders because they were too big for the car—what a disaster.
When I reached the service area after a couple of stages, done somehow, I lost my temper with everyone—first with the preparer, then the tire guy, who defended himself by saying, “Well… I only had those tires. They’re for a Simca, but I thought they’d fit.”
The preparer, much more cunning, winked at me and pulled me aside as if to share some great secret. “The shocks are adjustable. I’ll fix them now. You should’ve told me you wanted them stiffer.”
I thought, If he’s setting them up for asphalt now, what was on before? And isn’t this rally on asphalt?
I restarted the race, but the car was still the same. On the third stage, the beautiful San Martino, the fender kept rubbing the tire until it deflated, forcing me to change it mid-stage, cursing and threatening the two “technicians” with all kinds of retribution.
At the next service, I asked for the new spare tire and wanted to change the rear one that hadn’t punctured, as it was damaged and I knew it wouldn’t last long.
“We don’t have any more tires for you,” said the tire guy, smiling like Jerry Lewis.
“But I ordered six, didn’t I? And you told me you had plenty.”
“Yeah, but I sold them all to someone else last week.”
I had to continue without a spare tire, but halfway through the stage, the damaged tire punctured. I finished the stage on the rim and returned to the nearby service, furious.
“How the hell am I supposed to pay you guys and race in these conditions?”
There, they tried to fit two rear tires from God knows what, but they rubbed even more than the old ones. So, I turned the car around, went to bed, and left them to wait for me.
It was an incredible disappointment. I had spent a fortune, and the result was zero, all because I had blindly trusted a bunch of incompetents without ever checking what they were actually doing…
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.
