Testing a BENTLEY CONTINENTAL. Trilogy for BDC

Stalin had remarked to Tito during a difficult phase of WW2, when they were discussing their overworked frontline soldiers, ” that a piece of steel was made tougher and better by the amount of times it was plunged into the fire”.

Hero, our 1955 Bentley Continental is also becoming tempered and with the 11,000 miles London to Acapulco rally in April looming we decided to test the preparity work so far done by driving to Bolzano in February 1995.
It had been in early in August 1994 that we had read from the motoring press of “16 countries in South America in 31 days”, “London to Acapulco via Lisbon”, read the advert for the, “the ultimate driving experience of a lifetime”: one could not fault such a usage of the English language as a veritable road-race like that would almost certainly be the end of one’s lifetime! But that itinerary! It was magical: we would have to accept it!
Quite apart from this crazy road-race we had wanted to see the Andes, Bolivia the Altiplano, the Atacama desert and the great driving road of the Pampas so we decided we could put up with a bit of speeding, especially as some of those Latino countries are grouped tightly.
But there was a snag: the regulations insisted on full RAC/FIVA rally equipment applying not only to us in the way of fireproof rally suits, boots and helmets but much more worryingly to the car!

A full rally cage, 5 points safety harnesses, petrol tank filled with a special foam to prevent explosion, additional hydraulic reservoirs and dual brake pipes to Aeroquip specification,  and finally a 400 mile range so an additional tank needed fitting within the chassis cruciform: PHEW!! We had just 8 months to prepare and test.
A 1955 Bentley Continental is not a car which will embrace a rally roll-cage elegantly but that fact served to minimise  the other alterations, so we were undaunted, a little!
Now we spoke to the “artistes” of the proffession and after sifting through a selection of 6 we found Herbie Walsh: a tall balding and vacant looking ex Massey-Ferguson tractor mechanic with the unusual attribute of one light blue and one ginger eye and a steady flow of malapropisms: the star of which, when he saw my getting sidetracked with unnecessary complications, was, “let’s not let red herons fly across the track”!

The plan, to comply with the rules, would be that the rollover cage would be installed “inside” the cabin around the windscreen, inside and below the headlining and then cross-braced across the rear: all of this supported on 3 pylons each side stabbing through the floor to be bolted to the chassis.
Herbie would have to polish his skills with the pipe bending and welding machines: that oval tubing of vanadium and chromium steel would take some working!

To get the required strength a bar would need be placed inside each doorway at cushion level and head level! This would require dexterity on entering and some extra decorum on exiting which we would soon get the hang of, we were sure!
The Rally would involve driving down to Portugal and flying the cars by Antonov to Rio de Janeiro and after exiting Brazil, as quickly as possible, to avoid AIDS and the local mafias, entering into the relative motorists paradise of Argentina and that great 1000 mile road west across the Pampas in one fast drive averaging 65mph for 16 hours: this meant for our car, capable of cruising at 100mph with its engine running at only 3250 RPM, feasible: she is red-lined at 4000. But for others with less large motors, or motors highly stressed, such as race prepared Jaguars, Mustangs, Fintail Mercedes etc. this big flat long road would be their undoing. In fact many were to become undone as early as Spain!
But now as a lot of work had been done and an old car, however well prepared, needs a sensible test drive.

So Susie and I decided on a winter run across France on the fast Northern Autoroute, across Switzerland crossing the Alps, testing the engine for holding high revs as would be required in low gears for the Andes and then down into Italy where thorough brake testing would be unavoidable and the proving of those extra hydraulic oil reservoirs for keeping the oil from boiling and the  testing of aeroquip brake-hoses for leaks etc.
The French section was accomplished with ease, after an early channel crossing from Calais and then holding a steady 85 MPH until Basel. It was a comfortable and civilised drive in our “cage” within a shell. Oh! and we were now getting used to those 5 point harnesses: though those 2″ diameter horizontal bars inside the door apetures were a real nuisance. Very off-putting particularly at petrol stations: one really mustn’t be in any hurry to get out!

Entering Switzerland at Basel and overnighting there we awoke fresh and after checking for water, petrol and oil for leaks we plotted a course around lake Lucerne and up to Chur afterwhich we would motor on up and over the Alps at the Ofenpass and down into Bolzano Italy for dinner: an easy total of 270  miles on meticulous Swiss roads and if we’d had enough we would stop at a lovely alpine hotel and dine well. We were hungry not having stopped for lunch, and as it was winter the heaters were on full even though the sky had been pure blue with not a cloud!

But plans do go wrong and in an eerie light with fine snow falling we took a wrong turning south to Tiefencastel: we should have stayed on the 28 to the Fluella pass so we turned around, and then journey was slower than we had hoped for: we now took the main road for Davos where we expected to find a choice of suitable hotels eager for our custom: why, I thought to myself, I may even quibble over the room charge and select a suite with an alpine view: but a hearty dinner was more on my mind: we hadn’t eaten since breakfast of coffee and a bread roll!
The road into Davos was tortuous and slow with a veritable conveyer belt of skis, each car had its mandatory skis sets on the roof. Things deteriorated as we finally entered the town in the growing gloom of dusk and snow flurries.

Davos was alive with the apres-ski set: promenading up and down, across and between the procession of poseurs cars. Blast them I roared! They’ve taken every hotel, blast them! And I continued to blast them in their bobble ski-caps and designer boots that would never see the piste, blast them!
On the other side of Davos there was a petrol station where I topped-up and bought a larger scale map as we had now decided we would hack on to Bolzano in the dark: blast those smug apres-skiers who had inconsiderately filled all the hotels!

” I’m going to Bolzano”, I addressed the female cashier in the garage, she had a very shapely figure, slightly over voluptuous but unfortunately blessed with a man’s head on top of it!  “How long do you think it will take me?” I asked in my best and slowest English. “You want Bellinzona” she barked. No I didn’t, “I want Bolzano”: she looked out onto the Bentley cupping her hand to the window against the glare of the fluorescent lights and looked at me in her masculine severity, ” you won’t make in Zat car”!
Zat did it! Zat car indeed! Zat car was soon to penetrate and conquer the Andes which would make these very Alps look like mere foothills! But I didn’t say Zat. I just returned to Susie and the Bentley: we were on the way to Bolzano Italy.
Strangely we were soon out of town, all that struggling to get in and here we were alone on the road under the stars in inky blackness with not a single car coming or going! Our powerful headlamps soon  picked up a placard with the legend “Col du Fluella: Ouvert”! But with the the wording discreetly tucked underneath, ” difficile”!

Good, that’s very good, we’ll soon be over the hill and zipping down to Italy and eating spaghetti aglio e olio peperoncino, I said to Susie.
That left us 2-1/4 hrs for a mere 8000 ft climb: easy. Comfortingly there were now 3 sets of car lights well behind. We conquered the pass easily and where Hero could climb like a leopard it descended like a bear being heavy and our little train of followers slipped by easily.
All was going well and we passed Such and Zernez. Here we sought an hotel in vain and presently came upon another placard: warning of the Ofenpass 7100ft which also was Ouvert and without a qualification, unlike the “difficile”  advised on the Fluella.

After passing the placard the road took a sudden turn left and abruptly reared up in front of me: the marvellous RR autogearbox mated to that incomparable 5ltr 6 cylinder engine took the gradient with ease. I thought to keep the climbing speed to 35 mph and many bends later I was noticing my speed had crept up to 42mph and all was well.
But it wasn’t well at all: in fact we were seemingly driving along at 45mph according to the speedo but earily the passing trees, bushes and the dormer walls interspersed with scant Armco on the extreme edges of severe bends were now passing in the headlamps light in slow-motion!

It dawned on me, after I had realised I was not dozing that our wheels must be slipping! This accompanied by momentarily tail wagging was slightly disconcerting but the placard warning had been less severe than the Fluella and the Ofen was 800ft lower: all still boded well.

Acceleration, made things worse so I announced to Susie that I would stop and fit the snow chains. Applying those lovely huge drum brakes with their RR friction servo certainly halted the illusion of progress: but worse we were now sliding almost imperceptibly but backwards on a straight steep incline! There had been no noise, no squealing of tyres, just silence and darkness, and the frightening feeling of sliding out of control on a deserted mountain road! I was out of my seat, as far as my harness would allow, pressing that brake pedal fiercely but we were sliding!

They drive on the wrong side of the road in Europe so I had a good view of the danger we were facing: a black void yawned out of my window with the sharp looking frosted connifer trees tops jabbing upwards from the slopes below the road: strangely I was calm even though I felt my heart beating furiously: Susie was quiet and calm, implacable and stoical as is  her manner.
Those are rare moments in one’s life. Very clear thoughts, presumably encoded from millions of years of adversity, occur  with  great definition on such occasions of seeming impossibility: what will the girls say when they see what I’ve done to their mum? That abiding thought still haunted me days later as to what may have happened.
But now we were slithering backwards: I had often thought what I would do in a dangerous situation like this: ask Susie to jump out and then bale out myself?: but I didn’t I was transfixed, probably hoping the tyres would bite.
We were sliding backwards and the road was about to swing left: I could not remember any dormer walls or Armco railings: I felt we were soon to plummet over the edge!

Other thoughts did come and then there was an odd noise: a tearing of metal, a screeching of metal and a thump. We had stopped. The engine was ticking over in gear: I pulled the handbrake up slowly.
I wound the window down and saw my door was close to the Armco. I would have to gently get out of Susies door after she had got out first all without nudging the car which might start it’s backwards slide again: Susie had got out daintilly and I slithered over to her seat, blessed is the Bentley for having a flat floor and no transmission tunnel and closely set seats. I slithered like a python and extracted myself in a lather of sweat and cramps!

Walking round to the from to check how we were fixed I went over with a bang! Gingerly I now assessed our position: we had been saved by good Bentley engineering & design coupled with excellent Swiss Armco fitters slight, but so welcome, poor assembly! The front bumper comes round by the front wing in a pointed hook and this hook had caught on a proud untightened bolt head which secures the Armco to an upright steel post!!! Joy of joys, but would it hold?
The night was still and dark and I could feel the sweat freezing on my back: the road surface was sheet black ice! No wonder Hero had lost traction, it was a wonder we had got this far up! I briefly recalled that beauty with a man’s head at the garage, ” you won’t make it in Zat car”

I’m sure if it had been less of a potential disaster looming I would have called down all and every possible nasty swearword upon her man’s head for putting the jinx on us: but now was not the moment.
But we were both out and if the car went over now it would be the least of my potential losses which I had faced only minutes before with the disaster then looming.
Then there was the sound of a motor and lights: up came an Audi with German plates: he passed and stopped well ahead placing two wheels on the small verge, he got out dressed in a lounge suit  complete with court shoes and immediately did a cartwheel just as I had done but more elegantly, picking himself up, he came running,  though probably not by choice, to ask in good English, ” are you alright?”, yes I replied! Good said he and asked,” “is that 4 wheel drive?” And not waiting for an answer was off up to his 4 wheel drive!

Why did I say we were all right? Why? I must be English! Here we were stranded on the point of loosing our car over the edge and doomed to die of frostbite! English indeed!
Now what to do? I checked the bumper was still safely connected  to the Armco bolt and drew in some relaxing alpine air: I had a plan.
As this journey was by way of a test we were carrying all things we would take on the S. Am. Rally: this compliment included an exhaust inflated wheel jack and a set of snow chains, thought necessary for when crossing the Gonzalos desert, the highest desert in the world where the sand is like talcum powder and a special set of snow chains was thought necessary.

Gingerly I opened the boot and brought out firstly the air jack: these are easy to manipulate on a warm day but here the plastic construction, folded and rigid, was like iron: then the neat box containing the Cobra snow-chains.
The streamlined design of the Mulliner Fastback bodywork would not allow for the normal link chain but these were thin cables with hardened steel rollers only at the tread.
I pushed the bag under the chassis ahead of the rear wheel and connected the hose: 5 LTRs and 6 cylinders of hot exhaust gas soon had that bag flexible and hoisting the wheel off the ground enough to fit that chain and then carefully let the bag down repeating the exercise on the other side: my knees were bleeding from the fall earlier so I had used my dinner  jacket, folding it inside out, as a cushion.

I slithered back in, across the seats followed by Susie. No time for harnesses. And gently I released the handbrake whilst simultaneously bringing up the revs in 2nd gear: we were off to the distinct sound of a “pluck” from that bolthead.
We were moving nicely and in fact so securely I could have taken the speed well above the 15mph we were now comfortable at: that rather nice jacket which I had forgotten in my hurry to get away from that nightmare scene was a welcome gift to the early tramp or poor shepherd; altruism aside I certainly wasn’t about to stop or return to pick it up!
Only a few more bends and we were at the top of the pass running slowly but surely, like a tank, the first hotel was full:  I told Susie we will stop in a cow shed, or the car park of  an hotel if the next one were full: I was not going an inch further that night.

There loomed up the beautiful hotel Schweizerhof built in 1900: we went in: did they have a room we asked, certainly they did and with an alpine view but no dinner as we were too late and besides the chef had gone home as they had no guests! Absolute Nirvana!
A plate of cold meats, cheeses, salad, bread and Swiss beer would be brought to the room. Were these hard times?: nay, a veritable banquet and in a suite, these were joyous times of plenty!
I looked at my hands, filthy and bloodied, my trousers torn, my knees bruised and thought of our beautiful Bentleys lovely aluminium body scraped, gouged and dented for its length: it was, though, now good, very very good, to be alive.

Or, as Winston S Churchill, said after the battle of Omdurman, “Nothing in life is so exhilarating as to be shot at with no result”.

The following morning I was up and down in the car park inspecting Hero’s damage in broad warm sunlight: the lovely chrome bumper was twisted, the front r/h wing dented on its voluptuous curve, but worse the driver’s door was gouged and the stylish fastback wing was scraped right through the scallop design!
It had only been 70 miles from Davos! Blast those skiers, and curse those guests at Zernez atop the Fluella where the Post&Baer hotel was full!
But curses at a maximum for the raven haired “beauty” upping the ante at the Davos petrol station!
It had been the most strenuous driving we had put Hero through which included Monaco to Burgos via Barcelona in one hit of 850 miles: and we were in time, if not a little early, for dinner!!

And for those, like me, who often travel vicariously may I say, “it IS better to travel than arrive despite emotions to the contrary at moments of great difficulty” : apologies to Graham Greene.


Peter

P S within 5 months we would set out on the journey of many lifetimes worth, on a journey of images like Wagnerian stage sets from the Andes to the smoking volcanoes of Nicaragua: the unforgettable cities of Rio, Potosi, La Paz, Medellin, Managua, San Salvador, and those lovely humming birds, giant butterflies and the rare but incomparable Condor.

We had said goodbye to the remnants of the rally, as they shipped out at Acapulco, to warnings of robbers, bandits and drug firms wanting carriers: we drove alone north up the Pacific coast to enter the USA at Nogales and park Hero with our friend Jim Moore in Missouri for a few months as we had now got that Latino taste in our mouths and would compete in the Mexican Carrera PanAmericana from Tuxtla Guiterrez south to Nuevo Laredo north for the months of Oct/Nov when super tuned Packard-Hawks would devour the Mexican countryside at 220 MPH!: but that’s another(and frightening) story.

Hero, our wonderful Bentley would cover over 20,000 miles in the Americas, wrecking its rear axle differential, all four shock absorbers, a front wheel and a wiper motor, yet still motor down to Key West Florida, for the motor-boat racing and then up to Jacksonville for shipment home RO-RO to Felixstowe! Not a bad result for a then 40 year old car.