Somewhere Over The Rainblow

Hazy impressions from the First International Bentley Blower Meeting and Rally
2-6 July 2010, 1000 km through Switzerland-Germany-France

by Adam Singer
In your rally packs there is a paddle green on one side, red on the other. I look in the black ballistic nylon brief case, which feels quality like Philip Marlowe in brail, and sure enough under our embroidered chassis number, is a wooden lollipop of a paddle. I wonder what flavour the green side is? On this rally we will follow a simple and I hope helpful starting procedure. Every time we say good bye (whoops wrong musical) to a place we have visited I will hold up this sign that says prepare to start, you will ready your engine for the starting, switches rotated on, with ki gas pumped, when all is prepared hold

The Blower convoy cruising through the Swiss Jura Mountains. Photograph by Kathy Weibel

Franco Weibel preparing the especially for the Rally developed Blower starting procedure (see text). Unusual, but absolutely justified to get a flock of Blowers started at one go; and it worked! Photograph by Kathy Weibel

The sophisticated metal Rally Plate. The per-car individual number of the plate corresponds to the last two digits of the chassis no. (Blowers were all SM or MS 3901 to 3950). Photograph by Norbert Heim

The object of desire . . . The motivation, reason and spirit of the 1st International Bentley Blower Rally was no more or less than to celebrate the 80th anniversary of the Blower entrance to the 24h Le Mans Race. Photograph by Norbert Heim

the paddle, green side facing me. When I see all green I will hold up the start your engines sign. By now you will have gathered we are not in Kansas and this is not a typical Bentley rally, with its blend of crews from across Europe, and you can hear older British hands harrumph hold up a paddle and then what sing We represent the Lollypop Guild, The Lollypop Guild, The Lollypop 357

Around midnight everybody was sleeping except the Blowers: Most of them havent met for 80 years since they were together in the factory hall; thus, there where too many stories to tell. Photograph by Norbert Heim

Guild, And . . . We wish to welcome you to Munchkinland. Sort of appropriate as Switzerland is 200 yards away from us on the far side of the Rhine. Our leader continues, When 17 blowers start I cant hear the one that hasnt started so once your engine is running hold up the green side and I will know all is well, otherwise show me the red side and we will render assistance to get you going. This is thoughtful and eases me over my harrumphing frisson (didnt Harrumphing Frisson drive for Delage?) as it dawns on me he has a point, as Blowers can be prone to the wheeze ngrind of sclerotic starting. More evidence of thoughtfulness, is in the three types of pen, highlighted maps, detailed directions, a small flask of alcoholic spirit, to be drunk while waiting for a St Bernard, and OH! The rally plate, its the best rally plate evaaaaaah. Not the usual cheery pastiche number plate, but an exquisitely machined plaque made 200 yards away in the land that gave us Piaget, IWC, Patek Philippe and the Nagra tape recorder. Most thoughtful of all 358

were a handful of leaflets in English and German to explain that this is The First International Blower Rally, to celebrate 80

years since the supercharged Bentley raced at Le Mans. The leaflets are to satiate the curious, who gather whenever a vintage Bentley is parked and ask, what is the car? How old is it? Why is it here? Why are they all green? And how many shell bearings per billion revolutions does it consume? So instead of us monoglot Brits answering in English achingly articulated for the benefit of foreigners, we can graciously give a leaflet, explaining Bentleys, Blowers, and Birkin. I have heard owners grump I get so tired of the same old questions, I ignore them, just get in the car and drive off. These are invariably owners of the puce label, misanthrope model, but these leaflets solve the problem as they are enthusing acts of ephemera, and reflect the infectious

The heavily equipped beautiful Blower cockpits are worth a photo gallery for their own! Unfortunately there is no room to show all the 17 attending the Rally. As an example, the dashboard of Henry Peramans SM 3925. Photograph by Peter Singhof

Ready for the thrilling downhill drive on winding roads glued to the ridges after a marvellous Swiss Alpine lunch on top of the Klausen-Pass. The reason why there is no cattle on the prairie is explained in the text. Photograph by Peter Singhof

passion of the man addressing us; Franco Weibel. He has an energetic charm that seeps into you like balm on Connolly leather, making the hazed and cracked, smooth and smiling. The women on the rally gaze at him with the rapt focus of 17th century astronomers discovering the rings of Saturn, and comment on how Franco looks like a young Robert Redford. He doesnt, but that he does to them, tells you all you need to know. We are in Bad Sackingen (Germany). The name hints at some terrible event in the Middle Ages, but in fact its a peaceful Spa town on the banks of the Rhine, founded by an Irish Monk called Fridolin in the 7th century. Just off the central square with its baroque church and cafes, is the Hotel Goldener Knopf with a parking area filled with 17 supercharged Bentleys. If you were raised with tales of the Bentley Boys in the Eagle, and rushed to buy the Scalextric supercharged Bentley with its accompanying Alfa (never understood why it was not an Mercedes SSK), and later gazed upon the 1/12th scale Airfix kit but were

afraid that your shaky glue smirched fingers would render the assemblage unfit for the shrine, you would have sighed in

joy at this collection of Bentleys as they brought back formative passions. There may have been gatherings of Blowers in the past, but what is a collective noun for supercharged cars? A puff a squall, or if you have followed one for twenty miles with your eyes watering, as it burps rich, with unburned fuel at each gear change, perhaps its a belch of blowers. Sort of works last Tuesday, Perkins and I were following a belch of blowers to La Sarthe. The organizers believe this to be the first international rally solely for blown Bentleys. Franco, with help from his wife Kathy, father Werny, Ralf Storandt, Thomas Fischer and - at the UK end, John Bentley and Tim Houlding, had spent almost 18 months setting up this rally, tracking down and inviting owners of the original 50 cars. It is a feature of many great cars, Bugatti 35Bs, AC Cobras, Ford GT 40s,

Helma Finks little siesta in the stunning MS 3950 after lunch in St Ursanne, an authentic medieval small town in the Jura Mountains with roads as if just made for Blowers to fly over them. Photograph by Robert Fink

359

and supercharged Bentleys that, of the original cars, at least 150% have survived, with more each month. In a way this is the greatest compliment a car can have, as fecundity in replication is almost a definition of iconic status. So it was fitting that this rally was not just for the 50 but also for 4s originally unblessed with a blower but, like the Tin Man, had subsequently gone off in search of a supercharged heart, and having once owned such car all I can say is and why not? For these cars are also missionaries of the legend. It was not easy getting cars, some were too far away, some were hors de combat, and some were washing their hair. Allegedly one owner of a 50, when asked to come on the rally, coughed, spluttered, and like a cold blower expostulated what, use the car? Drive it on a rally? Dont be ridiculous, its an investment! How wise it was for that founding congregation of Bentley owners to call themselves a Drivers Club. The marque lives through the exploits of Bentley drivers who keep the story alive by using their cars, and if every vintage Bentley owner never used his car again because it was an investment, none of the investments would have value, as the story that preserves the value would fade. There lies a conundrum, to use is to erode the machine, not to use is to erode the legend; fortunately the drivers on this rally side with the likes of Beowulf and other saga folk who knew that immortality rested on minstrels to tell their story, and heroic machines need minstrels of use. On the first morning of the rally, the minstrels are gathered for a day of driving in the Jura Mountains. Franco is holding up the card saying prepare to start and then looks for red paddles denoting problems and, seeing none, up goes start your engines, and its all green paddles, and the burble bark of idling Bentleys and Franco waves us, off, shouting fly my pretties fly. 360

Amazing accumulation of horse power on the horse breeding farm of family Gigandet, famous for their outstanding herd of the Franche Montagne breed, the traditional horse race in the Swiss Jura Mountains. Mr Gigandet Junior showing a champion breeding stallion. Photograph by Robert Fink

For me, just rolling out of a car park, is the height of the rally. Three weeks previously I had satisfied a life-long curiosity to know what its like to ride in an ambulance with flashing blue lights. The National Health Service, brilliant at emergencies and babies, had whisked me through traffic, A&E wards, and the latest magnetic scanners, to tell me that the 1920s may have been a great time for cars, but now is better for having a stroke. Luckily it was more a gentle squall across the arterial pond than a full force 9 abandon ship job, and at a stroke it stopped me from driving for a month and ended my racing season early, but here I was in the relief of normality as a passenger. My wife Jill was at the wheel of our interloper of a blower, interloper because it has always been red, always had a central gear change, and always been 3 litres but it predates the Birkin cars as FR5189 is the proto blower, supercharged in 1926 and raced by May Cunliffe. Jills vintage Bentley driving experience amounted to three hours earlier in the week being tutored by my son Joe (the S in F&S racing), and if you are learning to drive one of these cars, FR5189

is not the best, as its always been a racer, it neighs and whinnies like a racer, bucks and bolts like a racer, and it has no front brakes. This is not a metaphoric statement, as in, yeah I get that had a 68 Ford Capri, this is literal, as in totally lacking front wheel retardation dude, and we are heading for the mountains. Jill is a heroine and drove brilliantly, not least as her gear changes had a crunch to silent ratio better than mine. Curses! She got tired hauling round the hairpins and slowing the car on descents, but as the miles wore on a smile replaced earnest concentration, she was enjoying it, naturally getting the speed off before the bends then powering through, and cheerfully yelling at slower blowers in front who failed to ascend with what she thought was suitable alacrity. I will spare you rallying descriptions of the road; these are normally encapsulated in a cheery blues in E. Woke up this morning, drove my Bentley to the coffee stop, No mechanical problems, only a few oil drops Full fat croissants, right good scenery too

Great line-up at Sallneck in the German Black Forest with a special guest (right): Eduard and Armielles Haefliger 4 (AD 3656) wearing the original Body of the Blower MS 3946 which is presently in the USA and could - to the pity of both chassis and body - not attend the Rally. Photograph by Klaus Brunner

had a great run driving the whole day through. Better this than the other Bentley blues such as the famous My cross shaft done gone and broke, or for 6s My free throw she aint free no mo. This rally may have been about an automotive legend set in mountain vistas, but it was really about food. Every stop involved cakes, cream, sandwiches, open sandwiches, cabriolet sandwiches, and sandwiches with a sunroof. Then there was the meat, a mouth wateringly succulent vegan hell of delicately cooked juicy tender meat, with meat sauce, meat on the side, while being asked if would you like extra meat with that meat to accompany your potato mit bacon? This explained why the hills were not alive with the sound of livestock - we had eaten it all. It was delicious. Franco had ensured that the rally had offset the 12 tonnes of carbon-dioxide that 17 blowers would emit across a 1000 kilometres in four days, and we just wished we could offset the carbohydrates as easily.

In between courses, we visited a horsebreeding farm, and one driver wondered how WO squeezed 200 of them under the bonnet without being done for cruelty. Then on to a clock factory making mechanical movements that ran for forty days and forty nights at a single wind. Noah could have used one of these, ah the clock has stopped time to unload the animals, and get the grill going. Then there was the tanginess of the Alpine cheese factory and on to the Bugatti ossuary at Mulhouse. That evening we are addressed by the Night Watchman of Bad Sackingen who, in 80F/29C degree heat, is perspiring in 16th century woollen garb and armed with a handy dandy pike. He tells us that the Town was; the setting for a hit book of the 19th century the Trumpeter of Bad Sackingen, your standard tale of love, a commoner, an aristocrat, and a trumpet; the town has the longest covered wooden bridge in Europe, and it was only their propinquity to Switzerland, that saved

them from bombing, bridge burning, and supplied with chocolate through the war. I didnt hear the rest of the talk; I am wrestling with propinquity, dontcha hate it when foreigners speak the language

Bentley Historian and guest speaker at the Rally, Tim Houlding (in the back), enjoying the ride along the scenic Lake Lucern on board of ex-Amherst Villiers and very originally preserved MS 3937 entered by John Bentley and Tamsi OBrian Photograph by Peter Singhof

361

John Bentley handing over the gift of the Rally group to the completely overwhelmed organisers Franco and Kathy Weibel at the occasion of the dinner party in the car collection hall of family Weibel. The picture is the only existing copy of a hand-painted drawing of an Amherst Villiers supercharger, and was signed by all participants secretly before. Photograph by Tamsi OBrien

better than you do, but then propinquity is Latin not puka Anglo Saxon like near. Thus illustrating that if English were an historic racing car, it would never get an HTP (Historical Technical Passport) and an entry into Classic Le Mans. Meanwhile, back at the rally. The Mayor arrives, gives a courteous warm welcome, and breaks into a full-blooded duet with the night watchman, accompanied by a trumpeter standing on the Castles balcony. Imagine the Mayor of London bursting

into song with a passing Beefeater. Given the current Mayor of London, a perfectly possible contrivance, but in Bad Sackingen it seemed like a normal thing to do. Franco had fed our bodies, our eyes with scenery, and now our minds with two talks about the Blower by Tim Houlding and Paul Kenney. Tim Houlding gives good Bentley, and that night, he told the Bentley story with the panache of passing a Stutz at Arnage. He showed seldom seen pictures, and went from the starting of the first engine through to Birkin Blowers, and RollsRoycian nemesis. At the end there were questions, and I asked something I have often pondered; At Le Mans in 1930 when Caracciolas Mercedes broke down having been harried by Birkin, did the Bentley pit crew sing: Ding dong, the Merc is dead, the wicked Merc ding dong, the wicked Merc is dead . . . ? Tim patiently explained that this was unlikely, as the Wizard of Oz would not arrive on cinema screens till 1939. Which coincidently, after a nine year absence, was when WO returned to a now tar surfaced Le Mans, with the V12 Lagonda, coming 3rd and 4th as a rehearsal for a planned victory in 1940. Here in a sentence is the theme of WOs career, the poignancy of

Uuuups . . . a flat battery can happen to everybody. But with a little help of my friends, this little inconvenience for Chris and Jill Blundell in their lovely MS 3927 was rapidly over-bridged. Photograph by Markus Koelliker

greatness truncated by events, be they the development and importation of the DFP, a French car made sporting by WO and cut short by 1914, or Bentley Motors cut short by the great depression, or Lagonda cut short by World War II. Equally engaging was Paul Kenney, the author of The Man who Supercharged Bond (Haynes Publishing), a well written, enjoyable biography of Amherst Villiers. Paul told us how Villiers work with Raymond Mays is part of the legacy of modern Formula 1, how he came to meet Birkin, supercharge the 4 and thought that WO was a bit of a cold fish. Villiers was a man upon whom was bestowed a brilliant mind, hands that could create paintings for National Portrait Gallery, and wrest performance from Bugattis, Bentleys and Rockets. Then the Gods, just for a laugh, cursed him with being unable to get on with most of his employers. Hearing the stories of WO and Amherst Villiers side by side, made me realise the truth of Napoleons quip that the most important skill in a general is not courage or brilliance, but luck. Bentley, Birkin and Villiers, were short on luck; they were not like the tin man, straw man, and lion in need of courage, or a brain or a heart, but they too were on a quest; for Bentley it was a product looking for a business, for Villiers, it was intellectual freedom not commensurate with being for hire, and Birkin longed for a competitive English racing car. If star crossed isnt a designer brand of perfume, it should be as all three have the perfumed allure of what might have been. Sheer random chance determines our lives, no matter how talented or industrious one is; without a benevolent push from Fortuna you dont get to drive a vintage Bentley. So for me, this rally was celebration of luck, that I was there at all, that Blowers existed, that they raced at Le Mans, didnt finish but won iconic status.

362

That we were celebrating Bentleys, Blowers and Birkin in a latter day mead hall on the banks of the Rhine, a Wagnerian image that would seem perversely random to our heroes, may have been down to chance but not accident as the boundless energy of Franco Weibel, the nothing is too much trouble charm of his wife Kathi Weibel, along with the attentiveness of Thomas Fischer and Ralph Weibel, and the rest of the family made this rally. A triumph of ingredients from the diversity of the driving, to the ease of being in the same hotel each night, to the good company that were all the crews, culminating in a dinner of yodelling and alpine horns in their shed of old cars. (You and I should have a shed like this!) Now for those of us who think of yodelling and alpine horns as a jolly tourist

The traditional NightCustodien of Bad-Sckingen together with Maeggy Weibel. Parked beside the Police Station and with a private security service, the Blowers were as safe as the Queens Jewelry. Photograph by Kathy Weibel

clich, it was a surprise at how haunting they can be, reminiscent of plainchant or Balkan choirs, with chords echoing in the harmonies. My last memory of the rally was of Francos father, Werny, rapt and

entranced as he shared his family, his cars, and his culture with us. His face round, wisely approachable and moustached, looking for all the world like the wizard in this Swiss Oz. B

363