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The great outdoors

A SALUTE TO THE VERY OLD FROM THE OLD:

Before the Bearded One intervenes, I would like to report what it was like welcoming the Veteran Cars to Brighton on Sunday November 4, 2001.

It thrilled my old bones to watch them thump and grind up Stanford Avenue, just after their control point in Preston Park.

Looking at these heroes nearing the end of their 60-mile adventure brought home to me how jaded you and I are, content to stick to our reliable, warm, tin transport.

These folk, as President Bush would say, deserve our applause and no doubt the hot toddies awaiting them at the finish line.

My vantage point allowed me to experience sights, sounds, smells and techniques at such close quarters that I just had to wave, clap and eyeball the drivers and passengers, now so near their goal.

Damn it, the youngest vehicles were 96 years old; only a dead man wouldn't marvel and cheer. To a man - person may be politically correct but it sounds poncey - they acknowledged my genuine admiration for their steeds and efforts and waved back, although I wasn't a crowd and they'd probably been waving for 60 miles. My heart went out to them, especially the driver who must have removed his hand from a vital control to wave and as a consequence nearly expired just around the corner with backfires that didn't sound out of place on Guy Fawkes' Day, it being November 5.

Some had to leap out and push their one-lunged chargers up the incline. I would have helped gladly but they seemed in charge and I worried that it might be against the rules and cost them the Certificate of Completion.

I noticed a "Dook" driving in a fur hat - artificial, I hope - who was in no danger of having to push, although his mount was not as powerful as some Napiers or Mercedes or whatever, whose eager passage made me step back in fear of broken bones and that they might be disqualified for exceeding the 20mph average called for.

Mind you, if I ever found a car like that in my Christmas stocking, I too would be tempted to hold the horses, blow everyone away over the last lap and then stick out my tongue at officialdom when my average worked out at exactly 19.999mph.

I envied the steam car drivers going by in warm clouds of steam and, surprisingly, exhausts sounding very similar to the few four-cylinder cars.

I smiled when I looked under the very early models to see what looked like small, albeit busy bike pedals under the middle of the cars but which were the open connecting rods of the engines.

I smiled again when I saw that the most numerous marque, De Dion Bouton, had the back suspension that was de rigeur for 1960 racing cars and Rover cars.

I frowned when I saw at least one machine get the dreaded wheel wobble, or shimmy, as it came out of the corner. Luckily it wasn't doing more than 10mph at the time. I hope that none had experienced the even more feared sideslip. Whereas even the steam cars were running on petrol, I was surprised that the electric ones didn't go by blowing a raspberry at petrol stations and the Government.

The Yank owner of one told me that one charge had just sufficed for the 70 miles he'd done. What also surprised me was how comparatively small his battery containers were. Somehow I can't see my pollution-free milk carrier making it to London. It seems relieved to make it to my doorstep.

As a former MOT tester and examiner I failed to find the slightest rust on the 1902 Bartholomew, probably because even the chassis was made of wood. I couldn't find any brakes either, but that's another story.

When I finally did get blown down to the seafront enclosure, so that I could peer and talk turkey, I found that entry was impossible because of barriers made of parrot cage material.

Sod's Law was also in the way in the form of sponsors' banners clamped to the caging just where an interesting vehicle was parked, on the sea side of the drive. "A pox on security and all who revel in it," say I, although I did manage to get in eventually, possibly because I was so fuming they thought I was a Stanley Steamer! One cannot appreciate an event such as this without talking to the entrants.

How else is one to know that the million pound car actually belongs to the young man driving it? No, he is not rich, quite the opposite, but the car has been in the family for four generations and will NEVER be sold.

In this materialistic world, that made me feel good. Long may his kind continue to give the jaded pleasure.

On behalf of the jaded I doff my cap - real fur, naturally - to everyone involved, including the officials, sponsors, police (give the Devil his due) and dear old Brighton and Hove Council (another Devil?).

by Tom English