Flying the OWL from London to Brighton

As the biggest global gathering of antiquarian vehicles, the London to Brighton Run invites everything from four-wheeled chariots and tri-cars to motor tricycles, bicycles and unicycles that were built before 1905 to travel from the capital to the coast.

The event tributes the first running of this journey, held in 1896 to celebrate the Locomotives on Highways Act, which raised the speed limit to 14mph from four and got rid of the need for a man walking in front with a red flag.

It was the 3.5PS (2.6kW) Wolseley that enlightened me to the delights (and frights) of Victorian motoring. Essentially a motorised version of a horse-drawn carriage, it was built by Herbert Austin in 1899 as a prototype vehicle. It was the first automobile Austin designed that featured four wheels and carried the reasonable price tag of £270. Of course, its monetary value now pales in comparison to its heritage status as an irreplaceable one-of-one.

In 1900, Austin drove the Wolseley to class victory in the Automobile Club’s formidable Thousand Mile Trial. A city-to-city endeavour from London to Edinburgh and back, its purpose was to showcase the construction and reliability of internal combustion engine cars. Of the 65 that set off, only 35 accomplished the feat. Austin’s tenacious tiller-steered Wolseley was amongst the triumphant per cent.

Today a star exhibit at the British Motor Museum, the car is affectionately known as ‘Owl’, a name inspired by its registration. Cared for by a team of specialists whose aim is to keep it fettled for active duty, the Wolseley’s reputation for derring-do continues on. It would be a shame to retire such an iconic antique pioneer.

An esteemed veteran of the London to Brighton Run, Owl has participated in the annual 60-mile outing a staggering 40 times. Being considered the capable candidate for ensuring Owl’s safe passage from city-to-sea this year came with the prerogative to pick a plus one. As a chum and doyen in the field of historic motorsport, I asked Alex Brundle if he fancied joining me on the Voiturette’s bench.

 “Coming through!” Alex hollered, as we made haste through the paddock to the Hyde Park start line, where Owl’s presence had been honourably requested. Invited to take part in the symbolic tearing of the red flag — a pre-dawn ritual that this year also marked the 125^th anniversary of the Thousand Mile Trial, of which Owl is the only working survivor — Alex and I were primed to put on a good show.

The day still dark as the seconds ticked steadily towards 07:00, carriage lamps and lanterns illuminated our way. Energised by the cacophony of engines (operatic, verging on the outrageous), we came to a halt just shy of the start line and into a blitz of photographers’ flashbulbs we went.

Once the flag was successfully torn in half, and following a few words of encouragement from Duncan Wiltshire, Chairman of The Royal Automobile Club, who have been organising the event for 95 years, Owl was made ready to fly.

We got off to a rolling start and as the car to be leading the cavalcade, my internal monologue became torturously stuck: “don’t stall, don’t stall!” Because as much as Owl’s technology has an organic simplicity, it can be a battle to get it going, as well as bring it to heel. It’s a highly physical experience. With less than two hours of practice between us, my mind raced through a series of morose scenarios: a burst tyre; I’ll lose control; the car will swerve into the back of something, or career off the road.

To get the Wolseley moving, you begin in neutral with the throttle set to its midway point, you then add a smidge of ignition advance. Then you release the handbrake before assuming a brace position to generate enough power to push the transmission lever forward into the slot and fully engage first gear. Relief is short-lived. Once a jogging pace is reached, it’s a back-and-forth change into second, and if you’re really getting a wriggle on, it’s back and forth again into third.

Apart from a hand-throttle, steering tiller and gated three-speed-plus-reverse transmission, the only other control is a not entirely effective footbrake that operates a chain drive to the 30-inch spoked rear wheels. Tame by modern standards it might be, the canter of the Wolseley’s 20mph top speed is addictively daunting.

Imbued with a certain stubbornness, the process, under normal circumstances, is a workout for your upper half – you effectively force the weight of the gearbox against the drive belt to attain more speed. As a driving experience, it’s about as authentic as it can get. Add a sizeable six-and-a-half-month baby bump into the equation, and you’ve got yourself a niche exercise activity for expectant mums.

Under the (false) impression that London would be the tougher stint, Alex and I took it in turns to drive. Soaring along the Mall towards Buckingham Palace was extraordinary, so too was sailing across Westminster Bridge, at which point the route split to ease any congestion. Later reuniting near Croydon for a communal push towards the half-way halt stationed at Gatwick, we defeated an urban motoring assault course of perpetual stop-starts. We had a few encounters with impatient drivers, too.

Tumbling down to the ground in an unceremonious disembarking, steam rose from the puddles of rainwater, within which, for two hours, we’d been sat. Our legs no longer inclined to work effectively and our bodies shaking with uncontrollable pep.

“The only thing that’s going to potentially fail before the finish line is us,” Alex quipped. Fried rations and fresh threads worked a restorative magic while the British Motor Museum mechanics readied Owl for part two of the run.

“I feel like I’m relaxing into this,” I said to Alex, at the precipice of an exceptionally long hill – which took the entirety of Owl’s princely 3.5PS to reach. Ignoring the distractingly lovely views that the B roads to Brighton offered, our full attention was on the tarmac ahead. After a vertiginous height, comes the downwards flight, so to prevent Owl from soaring into freefall, discipline had to be applied.

Using the 1.3-litre transverse engine’s resistance to establish a safe and steady speed freed us of the need to rely on, or ride the brake. Even with a clear line or on a fast corner, we were diligent to maintain steady flow. For a veteran novice and racing driver accustomed to being a little more gung-ho, we showed self-control.

Then, in the civil parish of Cuckfield, West Sussex, we quite serenely broke down. Just 13 miles shy of Brighton. The drive belt shredded, but not quite broken in two, it was irreparably damaged. A well-known mechanical weakness, Herbert Austin himself suffered the same mechanical misfortune during the Thousand Mile Trial.

Our technical point of contact from the British Motor Museum, Martin Williams, answered our SOS. “Well, Owl deserves a bit of a rest,” sympathised Alex. Thankfully not for long. With a replacement fitted in quick-fast fashion, Martin’s preparedness and adeptness allowed us to rejoin the run.

With Owl’s transmission locked comfortably into third, we clipped steadily towards the coast. At last, we felt a consummate ease. The Voiturette, we agreed, is truly a magnificent car. Even though, with only one pedal, you have to re-programme your brain to do everything else with your hands.

Though lacking the luxury of self-centring, the centrally-positioned tiller was, with adequate persuasion, and a tight grip, quite precise. The ride? Relatively stable. Owl’s ride height and amply-proportioned timber wheels did well to mute the kickback from potholes and sleeping policemen to a satisfactory par, while the distinctive “bee-hive” radiator — which is composed of gilled tubes that wrap around the front of the bonnet — kept the engine, which revolves at less than 1,000rpm, sufficiently cool.

We’d sailed across the finish line on Madeira Drive just after 2pm. “Even the concept of driving a car this old from London to here feels extreme,” Alex shared. “Hard to fathom in fact, so I’m thrilled to be here. I’m really proud of us, but mostly I’m proud of Owl.”

Of the 384 veteran cars that left Hyde Park that morning — some of which were running on sustainable fuel — a total of 340 collected a finisher plaque in the sunshine by the sea. Being overtaken by a gentleman dressed in faded tweeds atop a penny-farthing, for me, epitomised the whimsical yet strong-willed nature of the event. Tailored for the Victorian driver, Owl’s design was of practical and innovative origin. The Voiturette was intended to be deployed for a life on the road; a purpose it continues to fulfil.

Our success was a showcase of teamwork, but merely a footnote to the efforts made by those who gifted us with the chance to take part. We owe all those at the British Motor Museum a great thanks. Merely a peek beneath the bonnet of what the charity can achieve, they had an astonishing eight vehicles in this year’s Veteran Car Run, each one meticulously prepped.

“These cars represent the birth of an industry,” said Stephen Laing, the museum’s Head of Collections & Engagement, as he gestured towards the chariots that had accomplished their slow ride to the seaside. “We’re lucky to have them and showing that they are still very much alive is important. We want to inspire the next generation to be inventive; what Herbert Austin, and others, created back then has directly influenced what we drive today.”

Archive image courtesy of the British Motor Museum.