Klaus Klaffenböck: “It’s an honour – is there still a spot free on the grid?”

Following a thoroughly impressive career as a skibob driver, Klaus Klaffenböck bought Herbert Prügl’s sidecar at the end of 1987 and took on Prügl’s then passenger, Christian Parzer, at the same time. The ambition of the two young Austrians was nothing less than to ‘kick the backsides’ of the established three-wheeler aces, but it took some time before this intention – which many observers of the scene considered overambitious – was actually realised.

Before they finally achieved their ambitious goal of winning the world championship title, they had to overcome many an obstacle. For example, simply being allowed to compete in a World Championship race as unknown ‘nobodies’. Klaffenböck, who lives on the Isle of Man, describes how this came about in his biography *Sterben tun die Anderen* (It’s the Others Who Die), which will be launched in mid-October but can already be pre-ordered on his website.

However, anyone in a hurry who doesn’t want to wait that long to get their hands on the book will have the chance, on the first weekend in October at the Sidecar Festival in Oschersleben, to pick up a copy in person from the world champion – he’ll even be doing a few demonstration laps with the legendary Swiss pillion rider Adolf Hänni, with whom he was runner-up in the World Championship three times between 1998 and 2000 inclusive – and have it signed by him.

But let’s take a look back at the first failed attempt by Klaffenböck and Parzer – who passed away in early July 2014 – to secure a starting place in a World Championship round. Here, exclusively, is the first part of the extract from the book *Sterben tun die Anderen*. Tomorrow, in the second part, you’ll find out how the crafty duo from Upper Austria managed to make it onto the starting grid after all:

A former schoolmate of mine, Günther Schöberl – known as ‘Schöbsi’ – a trained toolmaker, was now on board as a mechanic. The three of us chugged our way criss-crossing Europe in the staid Setra coach, which in its former life had been booked by pensioners’ clubs for day trips and for which we’d even managed to get hold of a second-hand awning. For repair work such as soldering and welding, or minor modifications, we had the technically brilliant Hermann at our disposal back home – a real character who had himself been an active co-driver in the 1970s.

We were the youngest in every starting grid, a colourful trio. I was just 20 years old and, with my blond mane, looked more like a Swedish pop singer. Parzer’s generously proportioned moustache sat perched on his upper lip like a front spoiler. And ‘Schöbsi’, with his large, know-it-all glasses, didn’t look like a mechanic at all, but rather like our young, dynamic manager, visually a cross between Dieter Stappert, the former Formula 1 team principal at Brabham-BMW and later head of the 250cc Motorcycle World Championship, and Daniele Audetto, who was in charge of the racing departments at Ferrari and Lancia.

They were young, smart and full of drive

However different we may have looked, we were united by one striking detail: the smart white T-shirt with the blue lettering ‘SIDECAR RACING TEAM AUSTRIA – KLAFFENBÖCK’. The letters were big enough that even a half-blind person could see who they were dealing with.

Before I forget: just like any other Austrian male citizen, even a future world champion received his call-up to the Austrian Armed Forces – the best thing that could have happened to me. After four weeks of basic training, I was allowed to transfer to the Army Sports and Close Combat School thanks to my successes in skibob. Our unit included successful sailors, track and field athletes, footballers, handball players and equestrians. Together we trained in the weight room and on the running track at the LASK Stadium, known as the ‘Gugl’.

I wasn’t just going through the motions. Rather, it was there that the foundations were laid for my discipline, my mental strength and the physical fitness that was essential in that rock-hard sidecar with its insane lateral acceleration. However, there was no way I could train myself to get rid of that feeling in the blisteringly fast corners, as if my brain fluid were coming out of my ears. In any case, I signed up until 30 November 1992 and received a monthly salary. For about half the year I was a sports soldier; the other half, a racing driver.

The first races of the 1989 season were rounds of the German Championship: the Nürburgring, Speyer Airfield and St Wendel. The latter was a street circuit in the Saarland that I was particularly taken with. It was there that I discovered my love for this sort of track: brutally fast, unsecured and, from today’s perspective, completely mad. I was drawn to the danger – racing under extreme conditions, sometimes pushing beyond the limit. It’s impossible to explain this to so-called ‘common sense’. Quite apart from the thrill it gave me, it sharpened my senses and reflexes immensely.

We’d set our sights on top-ten finishes and generally managed to achieve them.

First enquiry: politely but firmly turned down

We were also in the mix in the European Championship. At Assen, a technical fault forced us to retire early. That happened on a Tuesday. The World Championship round was already scheduled for the following Saturday, also at Assen.

Wolfgang Kalauch, a world-class German co-driver, approached us with the best of intentions: “Why not ask if you can take part?”

He was able to suggest this because there were no differences in the technical regulations. Both championships featured 500cc two-stroke bikes producing around 180 PS. As we’d already achieved decent results in the European Championship, there was, in principle, nothing to prevent us from competing in the premier class.

But why were there two racing series for exactly the same sidecars? It made perfect sense, because thanks to the identical set of regulations, talented riders from the European Championship could move straight up to the World Championship without costly modifications. The separation did not reflect any technical differences, but merely a sporting hierarchy. Thus, the European Championship served as a rite of passage for the World Championship, where riders crossed swords using the same equipment but at a significantly higher level of riding skill.

So I went to the race organisers, by no means in a submissive manner. I have the honour, Klaffenböck, European Championship competitor, Sidecar Racing Team Austria, how about this coming Saturday’s World Championship round – isn’t there a spare spot on the grid? It’s so lovely in Holland, one could easily stay a few days longer. (We Upper Austrians are, after all, widely known for our charming banter; the Viennese could certainly take a leaf out of our book.)

They listened to me with the utmost courtesy, only to then inform me, with the same utmost courtesy, more or less as follows: ‘Mr Klaffenböck, we’re truly very sorry, but given the short notice and blah blah blah, we don’t see any way of granting you permission to start.’ But you’re a young warrior, the future lies ahead of you – stick at it, keep on racing!

As I closed the door behind me on my way out, I could almost hear their words in my head: ‘What does that brat think he’s doing?’