After the 200 Miles Race one of the new special overhead camshaft four-cylinder engines was installed in the chassis, and I was sent out to get the 1 I/2 litre hour record, then much coveted because there was always a remote chance of being the first car to accomplish 100 miles in the time. Several people had tried and failed, but were known to be ready again for further attempts.
I set off, flat out, keeping as low in the car as I could to reduce head resistance, and we had a glorious half-hour going really well, a most inspiring run, though the tail bumped on the track every round when we leapt bodily from the home banking down on to the railway straight. There is nothing more lonely than the cockpit of a racing car on the track. In it, one seems cut off from all the world, the exhaust noise, added to the roar of the wind, deafens, the track itself seems wider and longer than ever before.
Cutting the Vicker's shed corner by pulling the car off the Byfleet banking early and heading straight across to the shed, where the wind, rebounding, caused the A.C. To drift bodily sideways as we passed, I was delighting in the fast, fierce run up to the home banking; suddenly there was a fearful crash, the rear wheels locked, the car skidded violently, then, as I freed the clutch and switched off, straightened to coast past the depot down to the timing strip at the first mile box. A piston and rod had collapsed; but the average for fifty miles was 93.86 m.p.h., which included the final coast, and we took five records.
It was always the same thing, a big burst of speed, then the pieces flew. Weeks would be spent finding out how to cure the trouble, then perhaps success would reward our efforts; followed experiment to make the engine go faster still, another catastrophe, and more weeks' hard work. But we learned a lot.
Naturally there were some humorous interludes. On one occasion I was going round the track fast in a certain car and suddenly noticed one of the depot staff on all fours on the concrete, apparently offering up prayers according to some Asiatic rite. Next round round every member of the depot, mechanics and all, were spread out in a long line, all of them squatting or kneeling, and all of them looking at the car! It suddenly dawned on me that there must be something the matter, and greatly excited, I made desperate efforts to find out what the trouble might be, though the narrowness of the cockpit made it impossible to turn and look behind. I began to have that unpleasant feeling when imaginary, icy fingers play up and down the knobbly part of one's spine.
Two rounds later I came out from behind the Members' Hill to be greeted by men holding up their arms, men waving flags, a blackboard with “STOP!” on it in huge letters, and one man who seemed to be dancing with excitement. I came to the conclusion that either they were all mad, or the car must be coming to pieces. If the latter, obviously I had got to be careful to stop gently, as a sudden hard application of brakes might precipitate the disaster. So I switched off, got into neutral, and coasted. A car came alongside full of men who shouted and pointed. Since I was stone deaf from the exhaust, that conveyed nothing, but when my car came to rest I found it lop-sided. The bolts holding one front quarter-elliptic spring had broken. From the depot the gradual list had been seen, hence the excitement.
