Nick
Brittan
From:
Car Magazine June, 1968
Full
bore into the rising mist – quick downshift into third – kick the brake – a
touch of opposite lock – the walls of the bridge crowd in – the noise bounces
back off the balustrades – into top again and it’s full bore down to a sharp
left-hander. The surface changes – she twitches slightly – the warm air rushes
up around my feet – my face freezes in the crisp, dewy morning. But it doesn’t
matter. It is the challenge that matters. The tach flickers around 6000 as we
hit the brakes and line up for the left-hander. Down two gears into second –
she slides a little toward the edge of the road – the inside rear wheel picks
up – there’s a strange recklessness in the air. It’s dawn. There’s a long left,
and then a right that can be taken bravely in top gear. Even at these speeds
there is an early morning smell. Damp grass – soil – fresh horse manure. The
ribbon of black stretches straight now as far as the eye can see, which isn’t very
far. Lying almost supine in a single seater, chin chucked down on chest, arms
out straight, thumbs hooked over the tiny leather wheel, you don’t see too far
ahead.
Great
lanky white-gray silhouettes flash past on the right. It’s still full bore: the
road rises slightly as the chunky square monument comes up and straddles the
track. Hard on the brakes – down a gear – open her up again – hard left and
straight down through the tree-lined section… Christ, it’s cold. The wind has
cheated its way under my goggles – one eye begins to water. At six o’clock in
the morning I should have stayed in bed. But remember the challenge. Remember
the smooth engine snuggled in the back there pouring power on the road.
Remember the fragile suspension dancing and working as it carries the car
across the tarmac. Remember this – remember that. … Some goon always asking you
to try and remember. If it develops roll over-steer – what happens on full
suspension compression – can you remember if oil pressure drops in fast
corners? Forget it – that’s what I’d like to do. Where’s the enchantment in the
early morning testing of a race car? Will someone tell me?
Both
thumbs are numb. Numb thumbs I think to myself as I rise up in the seat a
little hitting the brakes a fraction late and throwing the car into the
left-hander. The track peels away slightly to the right and then comes into the
chicane just before the bridge. For Christ’s sake don’t lose it going on to the
bridge. It’ll take them a week to get the bits out of the water. That was it,
really. One lap. That just about brings us back to where we started. Close to
three miles to the lap. Six good sharp bends, all left-handers, two long
chicane-type sections, two really fast runs where a good car would make around
160 and a diabolical tricky bit over the bridge.
What’s
that? You don’t recognise the circuit, you say? Well I’m not surprised because…
ringgringggring – tyres screech – a black Triumph 2000, blue light flashing,
cuts in across my bows. It’s barely stopped when two burly, black-clad figures
tumble out. The FUZZ. This is all I need. A brush with the law.
G’morning:
Sterling Moss, I presume? Says the Voice up there peering down into the privacy
of my cockpit as I peel off my goggles and lift my crash helmet. Oh ho, I think
to my self, one of the snarky ones. Just my luck to meet up with him.
‘And
just what do we thing we’re doing, sir, rushing around Hyde Park in a racing
car at dawn? It says.
Gulp.
Talk your way out of this one, Brittan, you impetuous fool.
‘Well
officer, it’s like this…’ A torrent of ill arranged words… not Sterling Moss at
all… Nick Brittan… CAR magazine… sort of a test article… not really Hyde Park…
London Grand Prix Circuit, really… not really going that quick, was I?.. not a
racing car really… more of an invalid carriage… only one seat… Construction and
Use Act of 19 Somethingorother… all quite legal… registered… what, me? Good
heavens no!.. perfectly sober, officer… ooooh, I knew I should have stayed in
bed.
Not
the same Nick Brittan that used to race lumps at Brands? Says the chief fuzz.
Gulp – friend, maybe?
‘CAR
magazine?’ he says, by now putting the black book back in his pocket. ‘Tell
Steady Barker I liked his bit on Bugattis and consider yourself lucky I’m a fan
otherwise I’d find something to book you for. Bloody racing cars in the park:
what next?’ Then the fuzz’s mate steps up and starts getting all interested.
‘What’s all these flowers?’ he says, bending over with a grubby fingernail and
beginning to chip away ‘Sort of flower power, I suppose’ (this smiling to
himself).
‘Please
refrain from picking flowers in the park; I think you’ll find there’s a by-law
preventing it.’ There’s a stony silence and I begin to think that one went over
like a concrete Zeppelin when Big Fuzz laughs and suddenly we’re all friends.
‘Whasallthiscobblers
about it being an invalid carriage and some sort of Grand Prix track then?’
asks Small Fuzz. At this point I decide I might as well level with them and
come clean and to hell with the Fifth Amendment. So I tell ‘em…
I
tell ‘em how Lotus are building these Formula Ford cars and they aren’t selling
as fast as they should and how they dolly this one up with wings and things and
flowers and announce it on the eve of the Motor Show in a big bid to raise some
publicity. It gets thrown off the forecourt at Earis Court and the SMMT refuse
to give it floor space in the show which is just about what Lotus PR man Graham
Arnold wants since this makes a better story than having it in there anyway.
I
tell ‘em how it was Graham Arnold’s idea in the first place. Then I tell ‘em
how Blyne and I put the idea up to Arnold about six months before and he said
it couldn’t be done. But that’s show bizz, I guess. Then I tell ‘em how Arnold
gets it registered as an invalid carriage on account of it’s easier and
cheaper. Like it’s only got one seat. And how with that big 12 volt battery
jolting around under your fly buttons you may not be invalid when you get into
it but there’s a fair chance of being that way when you get out. Then we start
looking round: it’s got a handbrake, mudguards, lights, winking indicators, the
lot – tax and insurance to go with it to make it legal and possibly the fastest
invalid carriage in captivity. (No I don’t wish to know about Jo Bonnier’s
Cooper-Masarati.)
In racing
trim without all the smells and bells and schmaltz it sells for £999. One that
will actually win a race will cost more like £1300 by the time some witty
engine tuner with a rule book in one hand has had a go. The real hot-shoe
merchants get round Brands in about 57sec now. I did a 58 earlier in the season
and with the road tyres is was like walking barefoot along a cutlass blade. But
for that sort of money it’s still a cheap way to go motor racing. In terms of
comparison it feels about half way between a badly set up Formula Three car and
a Vee.
‘Very
interesting’ says Big Fuzz, who by now is puffing a fag with it carefully
cupped in his hand so that Bigger Fuzz passing by may not see it. ‘But what
about the circuit bit?’ Ay yes, the circuit. Well it’s like this, I tell ‘em.
Back in 1947 there was a big plan afoot to stage the biggest ever postwar motor
race right here in London. The min of Works had given it the okay. The
organizers were happy, plans had been laid for the sitting of grandstands and many
of the big names in Europe had promised to come across. Then just when
everything was all ready to go the police refused to put their rubber stamp on
it on the grounds that they wouldn’t be able to cope with the traffic problem.
(Yes, this is a completely true story.) Everybody – and can you imagine
everybody – including St. George’s Hospital on the corner of the park had said
go-ahead. Presumably this also meant the Royal Personages whose park it is,
after all. And the whole shooting match got kyboshed just because the bloody…
well not for you, personally, officer, but the Big Brass refused to look after
the traffic.
‘Well,
Lordy love us’ they said, or words to that effect. ‘An’ I ‘spose what you’re
trying to do is ‘ave a whiz round this circuit just to see ‘ow it might ‘ave
been, is that it?
Then I began to explain. I recon that the
start line could be just where the underground garage is half way up the inside
run of Park Lane. The garage complete with petrol pumps and everything could be
used as the pits. Then the track would go from there straight up to Marble
Arch, turn left down the inside of the park to Lancaster Gate and then follow
the turn around, across the Serpentine Bridge. From there down to the traffic
lights at Knightsbridge and keeping inside the park turn left and straight
through to Hyde Park Corner and up the Lane again to the finish line. Not bad,
eh? Bags of scope to run pedestrian bridges over the circuit into enclosures in
the park on the inside if the circuit. No problem about pits and paddocks and
with a little careful pre-planning all traffic could be diverted and rerouted
to avoid congestion in the immediate area. Five underground stations serve the
park and if no cars were allowed with a
half mile radius on race day all spectators could arrive happily at their
selected grandstand by tube. How bad? ‘Well, if you can talk Dick and ‘Arold
into that one you’re a genus. We’re off now and don’t let me ever catch you
speeding in the…’
I
fit a couple more laps while it’s still half light and before the maddening
commuter crowds start crabbing my lines. It seems that first gear is good only
for about 30hph using six-five, using the same limit 50 just about comes up I
second and 75 in third. I’m not telling you where, but I got 103mph flat out in
top gear.
In
fact the bloody thing was practically footless and you went where if took you.
You probably wouldn’t believe me if I told you that I spun it in the middle of
Hyde Park Underpass flat in third gear… so I won’t tell you. Anyway, just for
laughs we pull in to the petrol pumps in the garage in Park Land and ask for
two gallons please. The whole place is staffed by birds (friends of ours, so
hands off – Ed) and they all leap out of their mini things and make like it’s
the most fun thing they’ve known since the Beatles came to town. Our tame
lensman for the day is hopping around like a looney going snap, snap, snap
while they lift the bonnet and rush around with oil, water and petrol.
By
this time it’s morning rush hour and suddenly the Lane is crammed with big red
buses and taxis and people and all human life is here. Ferreting around in
traffic is no fun at all. People in large motors don’t see you. Buses and
trucks fart straight in your face and small boys keep falling off their bicycles
staring at you. We have agreed by now, photographer and I, that if we were ever
going to prove anything we’ve already done it. Also it is about time we drove
back to Arnold’s hotel and made him buy us breakfast. At which point up rushes
this copper on a bike.
Wassllthisthen,
is this licenced… I must tell you… under section 14 of the Construction and
Use… no reverse gear… invalid… produce license and insurance at your nearest…
Vroom,
vroom, vroom to you too.