The White Puppy

Keith's Cross-Holes

Circa 2006.

Marino asked me to do a shakedown test on this immaculate little thing we all came to call the White Puppy – Keith Rose’s lightweight 3.5-litre, 380-horsepower, pre-’73 Porsche 911 RSR replica.

Marino had built the car from the ground up. Properly. No shortcuts.

I agreed to help coach Keith at his first race meeting once the White Puppy was ready to run.

At that point I hadn’t actually met Keith yet.

Marino simply said,

“He’s a known name in the film industry.”

So, I Googled him.

Turns out Keith was a world-renowned TV advertising producer and director. Top five of all time, worldwide. Which, I’ll admit, surprised me a bit. That’s no small achievement.
In person though, Keith turned out to be something else entirely.

A proper character.
Funny as hell.
Endless enthusiasm.
But mechanically? Absolutely clueless.
A total track rookie – with loads of potential.

The venue was Wesbank Raceway in Joburg. Doesn’t exist anymore.

During Friday practice we stood around a track map pointing at sections where Keith was struggling.
The layout had these very tight esses in the infield – more kart circuit than historic touring car track.

Keith kept running out of road exiting the esses and dropping wheels onto the grass. I explained the fix: once you’ve apexed the second bend, you steer the car on the throttle. Use the power to rotate the rear.

He listened politely.
Said nothing.
Disappeared.
Came back later… carrying a drum of race fuel.

That became the theme for the weekend.
​

Any time someone mentioned a concept Keith hadn’t encountered before – or simply didn’t understand – he’d vanish and return with a drum of fuel.

By Saturday afternoon we had a neat little stack of unopened fuel drums building up in our pit area.

But the most memorable moment came during a brake-bleeding session.
The car developed braking issues during Saturday morning warm-up, so we put it on trestles and ran a quick system check.

Marino took charge.

He put Keith on the front to clean the cross-drilled discs, stuck me in the driver’s seat to pump the pedal, and started bleeding the system.

You know the drill.

“Pump, pump, pump… hold.”
“Pump, pump, pump… hold.”

I’m holding steady pressure on the pedal while Marino works the rear calliper. Meanwhile, at the front, Keith is staring at the disc, trying to work out why it won’t rotate far enough for him to reach the bit hidden behind the calliper.

You could actually see his brain doing the maths.

His solution?

Wedge a jack handle between the wheel studs… and lean on it.

Hard.

Unfortunately for Keith, Marino had been watching the situation closely.

At the exact moment Keith applied maximum effort, Marino cracked the bleeding nipple open.
What followed was one of those track moments that never leaves you.

With the hydraulic pressure released, the disc suddenly spun freely. The jack handle slipped.
And Keith executed a completely unplanned sideways three-sixty somersault before smacking the ground with considerable conviction.

I scored him a 9.6.
Mario gave him a 9.8.

We absolutely lost it.

Keith jumped up, brushed himself off, and walked away without a word.
Sometime later… he returned.

Carrying another drum of race fuel.

What a weekend.

Keith went on to win the Historic class against a strong field of local competitors and invitational drivers from Cape Town – all in some very serious machinery.
I was genuinely happy for him.

By Sunday afternoon we’d built an actual wall of unused fuel drums along the edge of our pit area.
And I’ll admit, I was even happier about the free race fuel Keith donated to us at the end of the weekend.

After that first race meeting, Keith and I became good friends. Track buddies. Many good races followed. We became a formidable pairing in the local Historic Endurance Racing scene.
Keith was tenacious.

The competition found that out the hard way. Just when they thought they had him beaten, he’d come back swinging. Guns blazing.

He was cocky behind the wheel, and the White Puppy suited him perfectly. That little car was an extension of his personality – cheeky, aggressive, and always looking for trouble.

I loved it.

And we laughed a lot. Keith’s quick wit saw to that.

Anyone who couldn’t outrun Keith on track and tried to mess with his head in the pits got a rude awakening. Quickly.

Like the day one of his many nemeses, Martin Richards, walked up to us at Zwartkops holding a rose sticker.

He called Keith out in front of everyone.

“Hey Keith – see this rose? I’m gonna stick it on my front bumper and transfer it to your car during the race…”

Keith didn’t miss a beat. Dispatched him with style.

“My dear man,” he said,

“there is only one thing in this world that scares me…”

Pause.

“And that’s my wife.”

Keith Rose
1955 – 2018

More Keith Rose stories to come...

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​- Pierre Martins