Dirt Nationals Round 1 at Binegar Quarry: fuses blown, bolts gone, spirits unshaken
There’s nothing else like it in the UK. Not really.
Off-road racing here isn’t wide-open desert and hundred-mile sightlines. It isn’t trophy trucks bouncing across the salt flats with chase helicopters overhead. As they say, all of England is a garden, so we’ve only really got quarries to race in. It’s quarry dust in your lungs. Its drones and photographers on foot. Its spectators with cuppas. Sometimes it rains for four days straight. It’s welding a sheared control arm bolt back onto the chassis by head torch and hoping it holds… wait, you do that in the states too.
And last weekend at Binegar Quarry, in the blistering heat of a late April scorcher, I wouldn’t have swapped it for anything.
Baptism by Quarry
It was my first time behind the wheel at a full Dirt Nationals round. The car – Bert – was a new-to-us, as untested by previous keeper build. Tough, twitchy, louder than it should be, and beautiful in the way only something hand-built with bolts and busted knuckles can be.
I’d raced at Binegar before – as co-driver. But this was different. Friday’s look-see laps gave a hint of what was coming. The track, dug deep into the Somerset stone, funnels heat and dust like a kiln. Spectators perch high above the action, looking down into a bowl that punishes the slow and hides surprises in every rut.
When the Car Fights You
Saturday qualifying lasted all of fifteen minutes before one of the fuel pumps failed and blew a fuse. We didn’t get a time in. That meant back of the grid for Heat 1 – dead last in the dust cloud.
Midway through, we found car 666 stuck mid-course, on the line we wanted to take. We winched them out without hesitation – something you just do in this sport. And even with visibility near zero and electricals on the edge, we managed a decent fourth in class.
Between heats, we bypassed the failed pump. Zako, our pit crew chief, ace FPV pilot and all-around miracle worker, rebuilt the circuit, fitted a new inline fuse, and got us moving. We hit Heat 2 with high hopes – and lost a front control arm bolt at speed. Connor Clark, co-driver and unnervingly calm voice of reason, hopped out and confirmed it: the arm had bluetooth disconnected.
Cue ratchet straps to pull the axle back into place and a ratchet handle shoved into the void where the bolt used to be. We limped back to the pits to regroup. We borrowed a bolt from car 116, loctite from Beecroft’s team, welding help from Jack Bould, and got Bert buttoned back up. Dinner was chicken curry. It tasted like incoming victory.
A Sunday to Earn It
With the course reversed overnight, we got stuck into Heat 3. The tack-welded bolt on the radius arm gave way again just as we made it onto a rock garden. This time, Raymond and Reece (car 503) stepped in with a bolt long enough to go clean through arm and chassis. Terry Furlong’s crew let us borrow their welder. Zako made it stick.
In Heat 4, something clicked. Bert felt right. The wiring held. The steering tracked straight. The car sang over the rocks and through the quarry. We brought it home third in class – and for a moment, it all felt like it was meant to work.
Then came Heat 5. An hour-plus-one-lap endurance slog. We were half an hour in when the car began misfiring and stalling. We limped around for a full lap until we stalled – of all places – next to the same car we’d winched out on Saturday.
Harry and Callum (car 666) didn’t even hesitate. Diagnosed a vacuum issue, got us rolling again. But the issue returned. We stalled again. Then again. Zako was on the radio, walking us through fixes, patching us together like a battlefield medic. We stalled three times on the final hill – but we crossed the line.
Why It Matters
We finished fifth in class. Not a podium. But I wouldn’t have traded it for one.
Off-road racing in Britain doesn’t have the scale of America. We don’t have hundreds of miles of course or a dozen high-profile championships. We have a handful of rough sites and weekends that run on borrowed kit, goodwill, and caffeine. But that scarcity makes us resourceful. It breeds community. It forces us to learn.
Everyone in this sport in the UK has stared west and wondered what it would be like to race Baja, or KoH. To pre-run in the desert. To make the dash from barstool to podium with a full pit crew behind you. Some of us have been to watch, and a handful of us are competing this year – putting everything into flying back and forth between, borrowing cars from stateside friends.
But for now? Most of us have got quarries like Binegar. We’ve got ratchet straps. We’ve got borrowed bolts, dusty welds, and people who never hesitate to lift your car – or your spirits – when you’re stuck halfway up the hill.
And honestly? That’s the global off-road racing spirit.
