Obsession. That was the word which came to mind today, Sunday 13th April, when heading towards Shelsley Walsh, the famous hillclimb buried deep in the Malvern Hills, at absurdly early-o'clock in the morning. Even the larks were asleep. Apparently, Shelsley is the oldest motorsport venue in THE WORLD, its layout unchanged since it was first used on 12th August 1905.
I was joined by another 150 or so other obsessives (mostly men, but not exclusively so) with their hydrocarbon-fed chariots, all eager to spend an extremely rapid time blasting up what is a quite steep, narrow and (it has to be said) rather short hill at potentially vast expense when measured in £s per second and general damage potential.
Why do we do it?
My fellow Aston obsessives, who had no cogent answer to this question, were Tim Stamper in his DB2/4, fast, deliciously tatty – (the car, that is, not Tim); the Ever Smooth Guy Staudt (crisp white 4.7 Vantage sportshift); Peter House (this time in his DB11 – a beautiful gleaming V12 almost as wide as the track – his usual V8 Vantage weapon was bust, unfortunately); Mark Chandler in his DB7 6cyl (as ever, no flies on him, unlike his donkeys – another obsession which also involves spending money and wasting time); a newcomer to our band in the shape of Peter Watts (very nice man, very nice car, very shiny very standard DB2/4 Mk ll, demonstrating what mine should look like); and finally me in my old DB2/4 Mk ll, (no paint, new front brake drums supplied by Tim, and a misfire).
And I was a bit narked, to be honest. I ALWAYS win the Tattiest Aston Martin of the Day award, but there was no chance of that today – Stamper blew me into the weeds. Obviously, it helps if you have previously rolled the car at Silverstone, bashed it out with a sledge-hammer, not bothered to repaint it, and then nailed in the interior after using it as a dog bed for 20 years. But I thought it a bit unfair of him all the same.
Anne Reed from the AMOC had set our target times and came along to support or was that to make sure that there was no cheating, with husband David in tow as her Enforcer. Who it turns out had also lent Tim Stamper a rear axle after Tim blew his old one up.
On to the competition. Guy had been on the hill the day before, not getting anywhere near his usual times, until he realised there was a Chitty-Bang-Bang-type button on the dash (no idea what it does, but let's press it) which then miraculously lent him wings. So he deployed it. But it was not quite enough...
Peter House in his DB11 – and fair play to him for bringing it - spent so much time trying to get the paddles to work (which he usually does not use, because in a DB11, why would you bother, with 1000 lbs feet of torque or whatever?) - that he forgot to go as fast as he usually does.
Mark, as ever on his tyres hewn from granite, made his DB7 (which should be a slow old donkey, right?) absolutely fly up the hill – fortunately not doing his going-sideways trick, which really would end in tears at this place.
Peter Watts had a lovely time in his DB2/4, and, on his first ever hillclimb, brought the car home in one piece, big grin, but now no doubt is wondering obsessively how to go faster and beat us all. Though somehow he managed to break his handbrake. In the paddock. Make of that what you will.
Tim's DB2/4 was ridiculous – when mine was not misfiring, I drove it like the wind, or so I thought: Tim was seven seconds faster. SEVEN SECONDS! Perhaps those brake drums he sold me are designed to stay applied all the time, because I can think of no other way he could be so much quicker. Other than his having more talent, which cannot be right, or being about five stone lighter, which might be.
So who won? First was Mark in the DB7 on 38.59, with Guy and the Vantage with the magic button snapping at his heals on 38.67 – only .08 of second behind. Then was Tim in the DB2/4 who did 39.04, less than half a second behind Guy. Crikey! Peter House's DB11 managed 41.09, with me and Peter Watts bring up the rear on 47.60 and 53.81.
But the real winner of course was Guy's long-suffering and slightly misguided wife, Huguette, who was reading yet another book in a language not her own. Yes, an obsession, one might observe, but a rather cheaper one than those pursued by the rest of us.
More photographs are available to Club Members in the
2025 Shelsley Walsh Hillclimb Photo Album.
Nigel Grice