Rally fans are an unusual breed, keen to stand in a wet forest or muddy field for hours on end with little more than a Thermos of Bovril for company, waiting for a fleeting five-second glimpse of a passing rally car to shower them with razor-sharp gravel shards. And none were more unhinged than those of the Group B era; in the age of the most dangerous rally machines of all time, did they stand well back and afford them some respect? Pah. Of course not. They played chicken with them...
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