A smile spread
across Bill Hardy's face as he talked about buying one
of the most coveted of all vintage cars. The year was
1943. There was a wartime ban on non-essential private
motoring in Britain, so the supercharged Bentley had
been languishing in an orchard. It had been listed at
£1720 - an enormous price for a car - when new
in 1930. Mr Hardy bought it for £140.
Bentleys built before Rolls-Royce acquired the company
in 1931 epitomise the Bulldog Drummond school of British
engineering. They attracted Ettore Bugatti's famous
remark, "The world's fastest trucks," and
won the prestigious Le Mans 24-hour race in 1924,1927,1928,
1929 and 1930.
The prospect of getting behind the wheel of Mr. Hardy's
car kept me awake at night. The mind's eye sees these
barrel-chested heavyweights cruising along the almost
deserted roads of pre-war England, crewed by characters
straight from PG Wodehouse. It pictures them being raced
by such swashbuckling 'Bentley Boys' as Woolf 'Babe'
Barnato, the diamond millionaire, and fearless Sir Henry
Birkin, whose friends and fans called him Tim.
But cars have changed almost beyond recognition since
the 'blower' was regarded with the awe now reserved
for the likes of the Jaguar XJ220 and McLaren Fl. I
was concerned about factors that a modern motorist takes
for granted, notably brakes and gears. I recalled what
a friend with a sense of humour said about his vintage
Bentley, "Three things happen when you push the
brake pedal. First, the nose weaves from left to right
a few times. Second, you smell a faint whiff of brake
lining. Third, you may detect a slight reduction
in speed."
Getting behind the wheel was an achievement in itself,
because there is nothing so wimpish as a driver's door.
You either slide in the passenger's side, or risk a
technique similar to that adopted when mounting a horse.
Points are lost for getting the gear lever up your trouser
leg. We're talking about the right leg, because the
lever is on the 'wrong' side of the cockpit.
The wheel looks big enough to have come from a Great
Western Railway steam locomotive, and the leverage it
provides is welcome when almost two tons is moving at
very low speeds. Getting a vintage Bentley in and out
of tight parking slots is a practical lesson in the
upper torso's musculature. Enough dials and switches
to delight Heath Robinson are scattered across the dashboard,
but there is no sign of an ignition key. Sparking life
into the four-cylinder, 4.4-litre engine depends on
flicking two magneto switches, retarding the ignition
and adjusting the mixture control before pressing the
starter button. An exhaust pipe big enough to be mistaken
for part of the Channel Tunnel plays basso profundo
music.
The blower Bentley's image conceals the fact that Walter
Owen Bentley opposed the idea of increasing power by
supercharging the engine that produced 130bhp when tuned
for Le Mans. Tim Birkin's enthusiasm for such a major
modification was endorsed by Woolf Barnato, who was
Bentley Motors' chairman as well as one of the team's
star drivers. The huge Amherst Villiers supercharger
boosted power to 175bhp at 3500rpm.
Birkin's car failed to go the distance at Le Mans in
1930, but hoisted the lap record to 89.69mph during
a Boy's Own Paper duel with Rudolf Caracciola's
supercharged Mercedes. Birkin later lapped Brooklands
at 137.96mph in a single-seater blower that is still
raced.
The swashbuckling baronet's team accounted for five
of the cars. Fifty were bought by wealthy enthusiasts.
Brave men have wept and contemplated suicide while failing
to master a vintage Bentley's gearbox. Getting it right
involves the almost forgotten art of double de-clutching.
Slot the lever into first, engage the clutch - no problem
- and the Bentley moves off like any other car. The
view down the long, louvred, leather-strapped bonnet
is inspirational, even at a walking pace, but it is
important to remember that the accelerator is where
you expect the brake to be. Another prayer wings its
way to heaven as I floor the clutch, move the gear lever
into neutral, release the clutch, then floor it again
and ease into second. Miracle of miracles! I can hear
Birkin applauding in Valhalla.
Confidence grew as the Bentley accelerated and the steering
lightened. Second to third? Perfect! But my attempt
to change from third to top produced noises like the
Anvil Chorus, leaving me with what the cognoscenti
call a box full of neutrals. All you can do, apart from
swear and apologise, is stop the car and start all over
again.
But I was soon confident enough to hum Land Of Hope
And Glory and The British Grenadiers as the Bentley
thundered along roads so quiet we could have been time-warped
back to 1930. The difference between vintage and modern
brakes had to be taken into account, of course, and
there is no way that a 64-year-old veteran's handling
or ride will match up to what is taken for granted in
even a run-of-the-mill 1994 runabout. To expect that
is to label yourself a fool.
Modern cars insulate you from the outside world, but
a vintage Bentley feels and sounds and even smells fast
with its bellowing engine, howling gears and hot oil.
And it can keep pace with today's traffic. The supercharger
provides strong mid-range acceleration and The Autocar
reported a top speed of 97.82mph when its issue of September
19th 1930 featured a report subtitled 'The Appeal of
Immense Power, Linked with Great Docility'. The test
car, GH 6951, was destined to be bought by Bill Hardy.
The vintage Bentley's peerless character is complemented
by a tremendous appetite for hard work. I know an owner
who took his blower to America for an 8000-mile tour
that included races on both sides of the continent.
Above all, these magnificent old motors are tangible
and indomitable links with the days when Britannia ruled
the waves and waived the rules.
Sotheby's sold Bill Hardy's beloved behemoth for £386,500
a few weeks after I drove it. That works out at about
£2 profit per mile covered since 1943. But the
fun factor is impossible to quantify. And fun is what
these cars are all about.
|