As the mileage mounts, so does my confidence and trust in the car.  The sheared Woodruf key took 20 mins to fix, and the Petrol Tank, whilst Beyond Limited Repair, was not the disaster it would have been in a modern vehicle.  Daughter remarked to me the other day ‘you actually like taking it apart, don’t you?’  This is not strictly true, but fettling is certainly part – for me at least – of the deal.  I am slowly building a list of tools and spares to carry with me (not much, it has to be said, as the ‘boot’ is the size of a glove compartment).  With this experience comes more enjoyment – I am still listening for noises, and more often than not find myself leaning forward into the steering wheel rather than sitting back and relaxing, but it’s getting better.  As the mileage mounts, the engine has become less tight and the torque characteristics of these long stroke thoroughbreds more apparent.  Comparison with modern forms of transport is fatuous for this reason alone.  The forgiveness that this torque imparts has allowed me a little more time to master the crash box to the point that changes up are now effected silently most of the time (although not yet sans clutch) and downshifts are improving with each new adventure.  On the return from Prescott I actually managed a completely silent and smooth shift from fourth to third, leaving an inane grin on my face for the next five miles or so.

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Accidents do happen, of course, and sometimes they can be embarrassing.  A stuck throttle on the Brooklands test hill at the centenary event with Wife as passenger caused some excitement, but switching off the Mag as we breasted the top – rather more quickly than on earlier attempts – worked efficiently.  Closer examination outside the cafe at the top showed that the hand throttle control linkage on the carb had gone over the 12 o’clock position and caused the jam.  This was quickly fixed, and down back onto the Member’s Banking we went, closely followed by a Napier Bentley being driven by a Bowler Hat (at least that’s what it looked like in the rear-view mirror).  At the same meeting a marshalling mishap had us on the MB circuit immediately in front of another Napier – this time the famous Railton – during the cavalcade of LSR cars.  The (inaccurate) ad hoc commentary over the PA raised our profile well beyond what one could modestly call artistic licence, so our short-lived glory soon gave way to discretion and we pootled off to the Byfleet banking instead.  Thankfully Mrs. H had camera to hand.