Vets in practice: London to Brighton in a 1904 Lanchester

Presumably, Manchester’s career has involved making bold decisions without too much thumb twiddling. This ability to make quick judgments is prevalent in his driving. As we head south through Brixton, Streatham and out towards Surrey, we tangle with early morning traffic, most of which fail to appreciate that we have minimal braking and that the steering is via a tiller, which makes modern EPAS steering feel rather good. I’ll quiz Manchester about the controls when he is less busy.

Oh dear, there’s my pal Tim on the pavement with various bits of De Dion-Bouton exposed. I think he’s about to kick the machine. He’s not the only one experiencing difficulties. Since we left Hyde Park, we have seen numerous machines on the side of the road. Our Lanchester is hammering along, its driver showing heroic commitment.

I hadn’t realised how big the crowds would be. Out in the open (and not going too fast), you can acknowledge the cheers with a polite good morning and sometimes they’ll ask how old your machine is. Once we’re on quieter roads in Surrey and Sussex, we see classic cars parked everywhere: a bunch of Lotus Seven owners in a village hall car park, a pride of Moggies outside a pub and random classics parked up on verges. It’s just wonderful.

One can converse not only with onlookers but also fellow ‘runners’. We’re at traffic lights (the archenemy of the veteran motorist due to fragile clutches and engines liable to overheat) next to a three-wheeler. It’s a 1903 Humber Olympia tandem being driven by Martin Tacon. “My father bought it in 1950,” he shouts, “and it’s done the run since 1952.” Tacon’s young son is in the chair in front and no doubt will one day be the Humber’s third-generation driver.

Interestingly, the participants in the old bike run tend to be fairly ancient but this event seems to attract a wide range of ages; not just as passengers but as drivers. Both sexes, too. We spot two young men in purple striped blazers wearing top hats. These turn out to be students from Imperial College, London. Their 1902 James & Browne has been owned by the college since 1934 and each year a team of students prepare it and act as support crew, with one lucky bugger getting to drive. This year it’s Barty Pitt’s turn: “I did last year but I only got as far as Brixton before the crankcase exploded, so I’ve been allowed to have another go.”

Just outside Brighton, we run through a hailstorm and as Manchester is driving in his usual press-on style, we get a bit of a bead blasting. The traffic in Brighton is terrible and not for the first time we stall. The Lanchester has to be push-started and three of us isn’t enough. It’s never hard to find volunteers. This time a lady abandons her two kids in their pram and gives us a shove. Thank you, madam.

We roll down Madeira Drive and over the finish line to join a line-up of fabulous cars and equally fabulous people. Pittaway’s steamer is still belching and dribbling water. A gauge next to the boiler has its needle past a red line: I presume it is a pressure gauge and that I am about to be blown over to France, but fortunately Pittaway is on the case and lets out some pressure.