C&SC GOES ON TRIKE
Our intrepid correspondent risks life and limb to report from the front line of Britain’s oldest motor race
Reviving memories of the motorsport pioneers in the De Dion Bouton GP
Bad knee; out of the country; too short to reach the pedals. The excuses come rolling in almost as soon as Nick Pellett’s invitation lands in our in-tray. The challenge laid down is to take part in a revival of one of the earliest forms of motorsport, flying the flag for C&SC in a series of races dedicated exclusively to pioneering trikes from the likes of De Dionbouton, Rochet, Phebus and Automoto.
Competition secretary Pellett is the man responsible for the recent resurgence in competitive tricycle racing. The passionate enthusiast has spearheaded the De Dion Bouton Club’s recent staging of renaissance events, headlined by the celebrations for the 120th anniversary of the first British motor races in 2017. This year’s contest, the inaugural De Dion Bouton Grand Prix in June, marked the 120th anniversary of the very first championship race meeting, won by legendary competitor – and the inspiration for the club’s racing wing – Charles Jarrott, ahead of Charles Wridgway and Selwyn Edge.
The challenge presented is a series of three races, ranging in length from one to five miles, around an oval circuit laid out on the hallowed Finishing Straight at Brooklands. But whether it’s hot-blooded competition or a demonstration drive is difficult to tell. Period race reports talk of Jarrott leaping off a damaged trike before his machine somersaulted, and a crash involving Jarrott’s old 5hp tricycle – ridden by Selwyn’s cousin Cecil Edge – that resulted in the machine ‘dashing into the wooden palings’ before being
‘shattered to pieces’. The war stories continue when we arrive at Brooklands, with one of the shinier examples being fresh out of restoration following an unplanned high-speed excursion into the undergrowth at an earlier meeting.
Of the eight machines officially entered in the race, four are De Dion-boutons and all but one, the Automoto, is powered by a De Dion engine. Pellett lends us his ‘sprint’ tricycle, which, fitted with smaller wheels than the rest of the field, should give us an advantage off the line. Even so, I feel out of my element. It’s taller than you expect, so throwing your leg over the saddle isn’t an option; the preferred mounting method is to stand on the rear axle and haul yourself up by the handlebars. Once aboard, it’s difficult to ignore the curious geometry, the swept-back bars crowding my knees and leaving a sensation of being slightly off-balance.
Much like a motorcycle of the period (which, of course, I’ve never ridden), most of the controls are mounted to the top tube. The delicate brass knobs and levers are unmarked, so it’s a case of memorising their functions. First, there’s a lever that controls compression. To the right of that is the timing advance, which is connected via a rod to the back of the trike, where it rotates the entire distributor on its spindle. Pulling it towards you retards the advance, which is where it should be during the starting procedure. Close to the saddle are two further levers, the left one controlling the amount of fuel in the mixture, and the right the volume of air. ‘Our’ machine is one of a pair in the race fed by a surface carburettor, a simple form of fuelling
that runs off fuel vapour drawn from a chamber mounted beneath the saddle. Pellett fills it with Hexylene, a more volatile fuel than normal pump petrol. “It’s good stuff – very fresh,” he says, raising the chimney to compensate for the greater fuel load; as the level drops, so too should the chimney to maintain perfect fuelling.
Any thoughts of my physical fitness coming into play as an advantage are quickly dashed during a start-up procedure that, with the trike up on axle stands, requires a good dose of pedal power. On Pellett’s mark I begin turning the heavy cranks, which is harder than expected due to the resistance caused by the compression stroke. Faster and faster the pedals fly until I’m out of the saddle, channelling Lance Armstrong’s Col de Montgenevre ascent in 1999. But unlike Lance I don’t have an ace up my sleeve, and within 30 seconds I’m blowing heavily, legs burning with the effort as the motor fails to catch. A second attempt finally brings the machine to life, revving and vibrating with such ferocity that the entire apparatus – stand included – begins to shuffle across the paddock. We open the compression to kill the engine for some last-minute fettling before practice.
The warm-up laps do not go smoothly. I opt for a pusher, who gamely runs behind the tricycle for 50m while I struggle to adjust the levers and keep it all pointing in the direction of the Brooklands banking. At last it catches, the burst of power taking me by surprise; we pitch wildly towards the barrier until I grab the opposing handlebar and wrestle it to straight ahead. There’s no time to think before the first corner, a long sweeper at the top of the oval, which is laid out in cones to emulate the velodromes of the early 20th century. Unable to ‘bank’ as you would on a motorcycle, turning the handlebars at pace feels wrong. Every fibre of your body screams ‘stop’ and it’s impossible not to listen, twisting the left-hand grip to kill the spark.
Before I have time to catch my breath it’s midday and the start of the first race proper: a one-mile, six-lap sprint. I start at the back of the grid and, as the Union Flag falls, throw all my might at the pedals. Heavy breathing is quickly drowned out by competitors’ engines
as I’m left puffing at the tail of the field. Again, it takes an age to fire. More speed this time, with it the added complication of Brooklands’ historic surface: the Finishing Straight, once hidden by the Bellman Hangar, is scarred and rough. The bars bounce and dance in my hands as the unsprung front wheel clatters over the concrete – with all the weight over the rear axle it skips during turns, forcing you to lean forward and down towards each apex. Despite feeling more comfortable on the trike, I spend the race alone and finish dead last; hot, excited, and relieved to have made it back to the paddock in one piece.
Being off-track offers an opportunity for more fettling, so we sidle up to Robert Lusk, who counts among his racing successes a podium at the 1967 Canadian Motorcycle Grand Prix, and his driver John Rhodes. “F**king scary, isn’t it?” says Lusk, giving me an encouraging slap on the back. The pair suggests dialling-in our settings before taking off, and using brute force to kick straight into action and eke out a head start.
There’s barely time to think before lining up for the two-mile race, a 12-lapper with a reverse grid; I’m pleased to be bumped up to the first row until the realisation dawns that it’s because I’m catastrophically slow. Again the flag drops, and again the antiquated Corre-de Dion puts up a fight. We’re first away, but only by virtue of pedal power, eyes stinging with sweat as we’re passed into third before a healthy dose of advance shocks the single cylinder into life.
Leaning into the top sweeper becomes more natural, though the bottom turn is altogether more sketchy – the run-in flanked by red cones to denote the worst surface on the circuit – and
‘We splutter across the line in ignominy, and to a round of applause from onlookers who clearly appreciate an underdog’
the bend itself more acute. Great care has to be taken to judge exit angle as the second-placed trike flies wide, nearly striking the barrier ahead of the start/finish line. On lap seven we nearly follow suit, forgetting briefly the operation of the grip kill-switch and accelerating through the corner. Lap after lap ticks by until the bell rings, but by now I’m struggling for pace – I suspect the height of the chimney is out of sync with the fuel we’ve used. We splutter across the line in ignominy, and to a round of applause from onlookers who clearly appreciate an underdog.
Following the afternoon recess the crowd has swollen to an intimidating size, and it’s time to don a period Team Jarrott jersey and Davida pudding-bowl helmet in preparation for the 30-lap scratch race. With more eyes on the riders there’s an air of seriousness about the final round, but the field has thinned to just five.
For once I get off to a good start; a burst of pedal power sends me out in front and the engine fires quickly. The first lap goes by in a blur, and it isn’t until the second that I realise Pellett has struggled to get going and languishes at the top turn, frantically pedalling to rejoin the race. Spurred on, I lean harder into each turn, but the pace of the little trike is bested by the field and we quickly drop places. Any thought of being here just for the experience disappears as I tuck down on the straight in a vain attempt to reduce drag. I glance left to see the lead trike gliding past – possibly for a second time – in a serene cloud of putt-putts as if we’re standing still.
Despite only being five miles long, the De Dion Bouton Grand Prix is very much a marathon rather than a sprint, finishing the race proving almost as big an achievement as winning. After 20-odd laps it’s difficult to say where we are in a spread-out field hit by mechanical failures, so as the bell rings for the final time we give one last push, taking the top corner flat-out and bouncing perilously around the bottom hairpin, pedalling furiously for the line and the drop of the chequer. Relief quickly turns to elation as we’re told that Team C&SC has achieved what we had thought was impossible: we haven’t come last. As the dust settles, it turns out we finished second from last.