The year was
1929. The place, a pub in Cricklewood, England. The
big man took a long drag on his cigarette as he sat
back on the barstool and considered the sketch on the
envelope in front of him. His friend ordered another
round of single malt, and looked at the drawing.
"What's that all about?" he asked.
"My new motorcar...the best bloody lorry on the
road!" he grinned.
The big man was Capt. Woolf 'Babe' Barnato, then-chairman
of Bentley Motors Ltd. and son of the wealthy diamond
merchant, Barney Barnato. Just three years earlier,
'Babe' had invested quite a sum of capital into the
company to keep it afloat, being one of its most noteworthy
patrons.
Bentleys had been a dominating force in racing, particularly
endurance events like the 24 Hours of Le Mans, and Barnato
himself was victorious in the 1928 event, co-driving
a 4½-litre-model, and again in 1929, co-driving
the new Speed Six (he went on to win a third time in
'30).
The 'Bentley boys', as the team drivers were known,
were a boisterous, high-spirited bunch, and 'Babe' was
known as somewhat of a playboy as well.
Very enthusiastic about the 6½-litre Speed Six,
he wanted a closed version for his own personal transportation.
Hence the doodle on the back of the envelope. The statement
"the best bloody lorry" was a reference to
racing competitor Ettore Bugatti's comment that the
Bentleys, with their imposing, lofty architecture -
as compared with his own relatively diminutive racing
Bugattis - are "the world's fastest lorries (trucks)."
Taking the scotch-stained envelope to coachbuilder Gurney-Nutting
of Chelsea, Barnato informed them that he would promptly
deliver a new Speed Six chassis (in that era, cars of
this stature were delivered 'naked', to be bodied by
the coachbuilder of the owner's choice), and instructed
them to build him a body based upon his sketch.
Most noteworthy of the design was a rakishly swept roofline
and very shallow window areas. The body was to be in
the Weymann style, with padded fabric covering. The
coachbuilders told Barnato that his sloping roof would
prevent the accommodation of rear seat passengers, unless
they were headless! A compromise was found, and a unique
single sideways seat was fitted behind the front seats
allowing a third person to join in whatever adventures
the Captain might dream up. In this way, the inspired
roofline would not be compromised. The oddly-shaped
space aft provided some extra cargo area, and on either
side were cocktail cabinets for roadside entertaining.
A removable panel in the rear allowed access to the
small boot.
The design included separate fenders with a quick upsweep
at each end, a motif repeated subtly in the door handles.
Sidemounted spare wheels relieved the rear of the car
from the prodigious overhang common to dual rear-mounted
spares. The massive chassis (11 feet, 8½ inches)
was to be covered by a body that was functional but
elegant, in a brutish sort of way. Much like Barnato
himself. Even back then, people knew "your are
what you drive." Built for Barnato's own personal
grand touring needs, this might indeed have been the
very first GT car!
Completed in early 1930, it was resplendent in black
with polished aluminum and chrome. The interior was
trimmed in tan hides with the typical polished walnut
dashboard and window trim.
Barnato took delivery of his stunning new car and decided
a shakedown run to the South of France would be ideal.
While there, he again found himself in a pub, having
lunch with his golfing friend Dale Bourne, discussing
his new motorcar, only now a reality in gleaming metal,
not a two-dimensional scribble on a piece of paper.
As the story goes, he boasted that, in his Speed Six,
he could beat Le Train Bleu (the Blue Train)
- the then-fastest form of overland transport in the
world - across France, take the ferry across the Channel,
and arrive in London long before the train's passengers.
A wager of unknown amount was made (reputed as £100),
and at 6 PM on March 13, 1930, Barnato and Bourne left
Cannes, shortly after the Blue Train pulled out of the
station, on its journey to Calais.
The pair in the Bentley reached Boulogne at 10:30 AM
the next morning, after averaging 43.43 mph over the
crude 'roads' of pre-war France, reportedly never exceeding
75 mph. They rolled onto the 11:35 AM ferry and made
the crossing, reaching RAC headquarters (for official
witnessing) in Pall Mall, London, at 3:30 PM.
At 7:15 PM, the Blue Train passengers arrived at London's
Victoria Station, three and three-quarter hours behind
Barnato and his Speed Six. The car was forever after
known as the 'Blue Train' Bentley and a legend was born.
In subsequent years, the celebrated motorcar changed
hands as newer 'toys' came along. Owners included Lord
Brougham and Vaux, Charles Mortimer (of Brooklands fame),
and Mr. Reg Potter, who bought it in 1941, after which
it languished in a drafty wooden garage, deteriorating
with the years and the weather.
Woolf 'Babe' Barnato died in 1948, and probably did
not see much of his beloved Speed Six after selling
it. It's just as well he didn't see it in the condition
in which Hugh Harben bought it in 1968, after lengthy
negotiations with Potter. The proud old motorcar was
a rolling wreck, bashed and worn in every panel, the
interior serving as a rodents' nest, and missing its
righthand door amongst sundry other items.
At first Harben considered converting it to an open
touring Speed Six, which was what he was originally
searching for, but was convinced by his friends to restore
it to original as it was too historical a car to modify.
"Restore it as it is," he recalls them saying,
"and if you don't like it, you can swap it for
an open car."
Thankfully, he heeded their advice and embarked on a
comprehensive, three-year restoration. A few modifications
were carried out, but none so extensive as first
envisioned. The shallow, hinged windscreen was replaced
with a fixed, non-opening and slightly taller version,
and the 2-inch slot-like rear window was also deepened
slightly for better visibility. A Webasto fabric sunroof
was installed for ventilation in warm weather, and the
main body color changed from sober black to British
Racing Green, although black fabric covered the roof
area.
Harben fitted higher compression (6.6:1) pistons, with
a higher (3.3:1) ratio rear axle - identical to those
used by the factory race cars in 1929 and 1930. Unseen,
but certainly needed and appreciated was the inclusion
of a vacuum reservoir for the big drum brakes' servo,
complete with vacuum gauge, to allow an additional element
of safety should the car be moving with the engine off.
The car was used in many vintage car meets and Bentley
Drivers Club events since restoration, and has actually
competed in club racing at Silverstone and Shelsley
Walsh, although more for exhibition purposes than outright
competition. It's even been back on the roads of France
fifty years after racing the Blue Train, and has lapped
the circuit at Le Mans where its sister cars forged
the Bentley legend.
In recent years, the Blue Train Bentley has been in
the custodianship of North American owners. Between
Harben and its later owner, well-known collector Bob
Cole, there's a gap in the car's history. Cole purchased
it through Sotheby's in 1984, and in recent years carried
out a partial restoration, refurbishing the interior,
paintwork, fitting new tires, and rebuilding all systems
except for the engine itself, which proved to be in
good order. He drove it on the Colorado Grand rally
in 1991, recalling a fabulous 30-mile dice he had with
two pre-war Alfas. Apparently the razor-sharp Italian
racers were not man enough to shake the big, lumbering
Bentley on the winding country backroads, their rearview
mirrors full of grille and headlamps at every turn.
Of course, Cole, a former race car driver, can get the
most out of a good car, drifting the Speed Six in the
corners and having a marvelous old time...
The Bentley was used to promote the Hillsboro Concours
one year, and even pulled off a publicity stunt wherein
it 'recreated' its famous 1930 dual, and raced the Southern
Pacific train from San Francisco to nearby Burlingame,
where Cole's office is located. Of course, the latter
'race' had the benefit of police escorts through crowded
San Francisco streets and highways, a luxury Woolf Barnato
never could have hoped for!
It was on exhibit and offered for sale in Monterey as
part of the Blackhawk Collection's sale in 1992, for
a sum of 4.5 million dollars. Exactly how much it changed
hands for is unknown.
It was purchased by Vintage Racing Motors of Redmond,
Washington, just outside of Seattle, to reside in an
impressive collection of historically significant racing
cars. The Bentley - towering over its low-slung stablemates
- is one of few non-racing examples there, which include
Graham Hill's Vl6 BRM, Le Mans racers like the Ford
GT40, Gulf Mirage, Porsches, Ferraris, etc. Many interesting
Lotuses, Elvas, Coopers, Can Am racers, and other important
competition cars make this soon-to-be-museum a race
car fan's mecca.
Driving An Automotive Legend
The first thing I noticed was the key. It wasn't a key
like a normal car, but a skeleton key instead, like
something you'd use to unlock an old chest in your grandmother's
attic. Walking up to the imposing old beast, one gets
a sense of great power; not just the automobile's, but
that of the person who had it built to express his place
in the automotive hierarchy.
The door swings open wide, exposing an inviting pair
of true bucket seats in pleated tan leather. The door
panels repeat the pattern, with straight-grain walnut
trim pieces along the doors to carry the dashboard's
warmth through the cab to the rear section. The floor
is very flat, and it's a relatively simple interior,
less adorned than you might expect.
Stepping up into the car is no easy task for the short-legged
(I'm sure Barnato was quite obliging to help boost his
ladyfriends up an into their seat). It's more like climbing
in. Once aboard, on the right-hand side of course (providing
you're fortunate enough to be driving!), the view is
simply delicious. Stretching out before you is one of
the longest, proudest bonnets in the business, the fender
tops and chrome headlamps visible to the sides.
The dashboard is symmetrical, with its Jaeger 150-mph
speedometer on the left (presumably to entertain or
frighten your passenger), with the almost superfluous
matching tachometer in front of you. Between are a lovely
Roman numeral clock, and fuel gauge, ammeter, water
temperature and oil pressure, as well as a vacuum gauge
for the brake servo reservoir. The big three-spoke steering
wheel (changed at some point from a four-spoke wheel),
in understated black bakelite and polished alloy, is
set off by a central hub featuring levers for mixture,
throttle setting, and spark advance. The long gearshift
lever is to the right of your right leg, next to the
flyoff brake lever.
Starting is a simple matter of richening the mixture
slightly and retarding the ignition (unnecessary when
warm), turning the key and pressing the starter button.
The car had been sitting for quite some time before
we came to visit VRM, and a float had stuck, allowing
fuel to leak from the front carburetor. I could smell
the rank odor of old gas too, which concerned me as
to its effect on performance that day. Old gas has much
lower octane than fresh, but my worries were unfounded
as the relatively low compression engine could probably
run on ale and not know the difference.
Once fired up, it settled into a sound-salad of deep-breathing
intake hiss, a bass, hollow rumbling of the drain-pipe
exhaust, and a surprisingly muted clatter from Once
fired up, it settled into a sound-salad of deep-breathing
intake hiss, a bass, hollow rumbling of the drain-pipe
exhaust, and a surprisingly muted clatter from the aluminum
motor. Contributing to its relative silence (for a big
pre-war car) is the ingenious overhead camshaft drive.
As you all know, W.O. Bentley learned his craft working
in the railroad industry, and the system of eccentric
crank rods that drive a locomotive's wheels was employed
in his OHC engine designs. Driven by a gear on the crankshaft,
a short, secondary crank with a 2:1 reduction directly
above rotates a triple eccentric connecting rod drive
(to maintain smooth, continuous rotational action),
that is connected in turn to the overhead camshaft.
The result is a direct connection between crankshaft
and camshaft, without the noise or slack of chain drive,
which was common practice at the time. Ingeniously,
the con rods that drive the camshaft are built from
an alloy that expand with heat at the same rate as the
block, maintaining precise tolerance and component longevity.
It's also extremely silent. The vertical tower in which
the camshaft drive operates adds noticeable length to
the rear of the engine, giving the impression of even
more motor than is the case. By the way, that overhead
camshaft bumps four valves per cylinder.
As expected from cars of its era, there is no synchromesh
on any of the gears, and the four forward ratios must
be double-declutched going up through the gearbox as
well as when downshifting. This process is made all
the more challenging by the very heavy flywheel and
low compression engine, which tends to keep on spinning
at the same rate when declutched, reluctant to lose
revs.
It takes a great affinity for those old (and expensive)
teeth in the gearbox, 'feeling' your way between gear
dogs and trying to keep crunching - and the resulting
embarrassment - to a minimum. Second gear was the real
tough one, trying to get into the cog before your momentum
dropped so low that you'd just as well be in first again
anyway. Remember, the rear axle ratio was raised to
Le Mans specs by Harben, and 'long-legged' is an apt
description for the torquey brute.
Once into second, the big six yanks the 2½-ton
car along with aplomb, and my J shifts into third were
usually quick and silent. Fourth was rarely needed,
except on the highway, where it felt like an overdrive.
A bit more boot in fourth, however, was just too tempting
to resist, as the tall, narrow Bentley happily thundered
past modern traffic, turning heads all the way. The
feeling was like driving a well-upholstered truck. No,
more like a bloody locomotive, and here I was,
Engineer Dave! With that view high above the road, the
long bonnet before me, I could well imagine a pair of
steel rails stretching to the horizon, as I poured on
the coal
Gear whine almost drowns out the deep exhaust note at
highway speeds, but it's a mechanical melody, not offensive
in any way.
Steering is surprisingly responsive and tight, although
very heavy at low speeds - particularly when parking.
Ride quality is firm yet well-damped, and quite isolated
from road irregularities, which I presume is a result
of sitting almost directly between the distant axles.
Brakes from this era almost always need at least a day's
advance notice, but not so with this Speed Six. Whether
it's the nature of the Bentley's cast iron drums, the
geometry of the brake shoes and levers, or the servo,
I was very impressed with the braking, and felt confident
to give the car a good hard run, even when traffic was
present. A firm foot was needed to bring the leviathan
to a complete halt, but for peeling off speed when quick
downshifts were out of the question, a couple of strong
dabs did the job.
Visibility is minimal, but Barnato obviously cared more
about where he was going than where he'd been. The tiny
rear view mirror gave no more than a glance at something
in the slot rear window, and the side windows, again,
convey style - particularly with their unique glass
'awnings' - more than view.
The Blue Train pulled long grades with ease, and was
remarkably relaxing to drive - if one could forget that
its value exceeds that of a fleet of ten new Bentley
Turbo Rs and a house with enough garage space in which
to park them!
The name Speed Six suggests a fierceness or overt
element of high performance, but the performance of
this big car is deceptive, in that it loafs along and
gets the job done without any fuss or strain. It's almost
docile, and requires very little work on the driver's
part to maintain a high average speed over a long distance
(once into top gear, that is). Lesser cars - even in
its day -could extract the same performance, but at
the expense of the driver's effort and therefore seemingly
more high-performance oriented. The Speed Six driver,
however, could maintain the pace far longer. Tractability
is such that you could keep it in top gear right down
to a walking pace - perhaps 400 or 500 RPM - and burble
along smoothly, then plant your foot in it and pull
strongly up to somewhere over 100 mph.
I could see how the affluent sporting motorist of the
thirties would choose the Speed Six as the car of choice.
Few others could match its performance, ruggedness,
comfort, or driveability. Or the statement it made about
its owner.
'Babe' Barnato's private car was perhaps the ultimate
expression of the model, and of the long-distance Gran
Turismo - a genre that wouldn't come into its own
for decades after this bespoke Speed Six sped across
France in those carefree pre-war days.
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