Evie wakes before me, sees lots of Triumphs in the hotel car-park, people beginning to mill with nervous intent, and collects breakfast for us both. She’s definitely the morning person between us. By the time I’m even upright, she’s connected with Doug (US participant in the GTR5) who in turn is checking our handiwork and giving an independent review of the work we’ve done.
By the time I arrive on the scene, Doug and Evie already have the wheel off. He’s a more than capable mechanic, and quickly explains he has a sidescreen car at home in South Carolina. He agrees our steps were correct. A second set of eyes is always welcomed. Too easy to miss something obvious, and obvious means different things to different people.
We connect with Rob and Mark as they head to the TR6 at 08:00. We delineate the only plan we have, hearing ourselves explain it and beginning to process what it actually means.
With no pedal, a handbrake remains the only option. That’s not safe enough to join the fray, and certainly isn’t getting us anywhere near the alps. It’s a shared cylinder, and if the brakes can seize closed, the clutch could seize open. It’s all just a bit too unknown.
That said, we’ve already driven it 170 miles in the dark, so with understandable trepidation, Evie agrees we can take TS2 a very careful couple of kms to the E. Leclerc designated as our official start. We owe it to the group and the car to say our goodbyes, and ought to thank everyone for their efforts. Besides, a supermarket car-park is easily big enough to get a low loader into, and it’s probably a better choice than our current hotel for recovery. We’ll need supplies for the long ride home anyway.
It’s a little bit rush hour out there, but it’s also light, so I score it about the same as last night’s cross-country scrabble in terms of safety.
I’m concentrating so hard on keeping TS2 under control, I don’t initially register the external noises carrying across from the start line when we arrive. I eventually decode it, and am humbled to realise we have received a round of applause from the massed participants. Entrants from UK, Europe, and America unite in welcoming TS2 to the fold. Many have seen the WhatsApps and are coming over to offer options and ideas. Again, we are forced to realise just how many hopes ride with us. The briefing is about to kick off, and there are around 90 Triumphs lining the bays.
We connect with Coops (white TR6) who is a local friend and great sounding board for our diagnostics. Shackford bounds over with his unique blend of Scooby Doo and springer spaniel mentality, pops the bonnet and quickly suggests winding out the brake limit screw on the master cylinder. We are already 10 flats out from reference, but with a magic twiddle from his fingers, suddenly we have a brake pedal that works. Nip it up with a 7/16ths spanner. Let’s test…
A few minutes later, we’ve demonstrated that “stop” and “go” both seem good. The steering wheel still turns left and right, so arguably that’s a full feature set. Could this yet be a go? A talk is had. Decisions have to include the both of us.
At 08:45 we head over to find Ellis, the organiser of the 10CR, and countersign our names on the official start list.
08:58 and we are on the road. We are following Rob and Mark, but it soon becomes clear TS2 does not handle or brake as effectively as their TR6. The interstitial 19 years at Triumph were clearly put to good use.
The gap between us shrinks on the straights but expands whenever we have to slow for a turn. We can’t just dab the brakes and fling the car in like a modern. Acknowledging the varying pace is going to risk annoying the occupants of both cars, and needing a comfort break, we decide to part for now. They’ve been great shepherds, and excellent companions. We vow to reconnect with them tonight, if we are still in the running.
The side of the road feels lonely. A few Triumphs head past, and we realise how much we gain from being part of a community. But we aren’t alone for long. Dom and son Archie (Black TR6) spy TS2 and pull in behind us. For a small town, Ferndown is fielding an excellent team. Rob, Mark, Dom, Archie, and Coops all live within a mile of Evie and I. It’s good to talk, and Evie is elated to reconnect.
Dom and Archie set off after five minutes, and we clamber back into TS2. She’s behaving for now. Careful use of downshifts and handbrake mean we avoid coming to a complete halt on the pedal, and with luck avoid any further seizing. Lazy gear changes reveal she still rolls fine. No noise. Mistrust lurks, but perhaps we are fixed?
Soon enough, we see Luxembourg and Belgium. If we reach Germany tonight as intended, we will have scored five of the ten countries already. The aires all have Germanic names, but the signage is French. We are getting close.
The weak foot-brake, possibly operating in ‘apply once only’ mode remains a concern for both of us. We are off-route through tiredness, and start seeing signs for Strasbourg. We need a garage with a lift. We opt to target Sélestat, recalling that TS11 lives there. We met her custodians, Arthur and Vincent at Malvern. Perhaps they can lend expertise and help restore our confidence? Many Register members relay conversations throughout Europe to try to connect us, but regrettably Vincent works away from home. We turn and head for Stuttgart.
At half two we cross the river into Germany. Evie is still in her dry robe, and we’ve been concentrating so hard on TS2 we hadn’t realised how hot we are both running. We need to get out of the sun. Penny’s supermarket/pharmacy does the honours, and ten minutes later we stop to buy cold caffeinated proteinous things of dubious origin.
We sit for an hour in the car-park, supping things cool, shoes removed, grounding ourselves. Evie hides from the sun under a bush. I stalk the chiller cabinets in the supermarket aisles. We had no real sleep last night. Driving requires 100% concentration, and our nerves are shredded. Do we have what it takes to go forwards?
By half three, we’ve found the answer. Yes. TS2 and occupants are fully cooled. We drive off route for a couple of miles to treat her to fresh fuel, and head on.
We’ve taken to calling TS2 “Darling”. She seems to like it, once we explain to her it’s not about being sweet and little. It’s “Darling, like Grace.”
For those unaware, Grace Darling was a lighthouse keeper’s daughter on the Farne Islands. At 4am on the seventh of September 1838, the Steamship “Forfarshire” broke its back on rocks a mile from her window. Spotting survivors clinging to the rocks at first light, the 22 year old and her father launched their small wooden rowing boat into treacherous seas. Grace held the boat steady, whilst her father clambered onto the rocks to examine the injuries of the survivors. They made two trips, rescuing nine souls against the odds. She became a national hero.
188 years to the day, another tiny vessel sets off in enormous conditions, ferrying her souls to safety. Sound, sturdy and brave, TS2 restores faith that against the odds we will be delivered.
The roads get prettier, but tired paranoia creeps up on me. Are our lights working? I can’t see them reflecting on the car in front. Sunset is 7:52pm. We should arrive at our destination around 7:30. The back side of each hill is darker than I’d like. We develop an excellent body steering technique (observed at Goodwood with Ray) and start chewing through switchbacks. We are against the clock.
The fear takes over, and I am fixated on the lights. There’s a Spitfire behind. It’s almost certainly on the event. Can we message them? Evie heads to the 10CR WhatsApp, and the word comes back, “Yes, that’s us, and yes, you do have lights”. Pah! My paranoia won’t be silenced by mere negation of the issue from a third party!
Quarter past seven. Now there are slow trucks ahead. We can’t get round, but they’re putting precious minutes on our ETA. It’s getting too close to dark. Dare we stop and try to fix it? Evie relays guidance from the Register back home. Keep going. You have light. Fix it when you get there. On we race towards Biberach an der riß, our car-park, and rest.
Twenty five past. We roll into the hotel car park. I’m a mess. Rob greets us on arrival. He’s sorted the keys, decoded the entry procedure, found our room and handled everything in advance of our approach. It’s a complete relief.
Also, the lights are demonstrably fine. I stand in front of the car as Evie flicks them on and off. No issue at all. Gremlins in my head. I should remember this from endurance cycling. All who know me could have told me to shut up and get on with delivering it. Hmmm… I do recall Evie saying that. She has an excellent habit of being right.
As adrenalin fades, I approach TS2 to thank her for another day’s service. I drape the vinyl cloak which passes for a roof across her shoulders, protecting her soft innards from prying eyes and the threat of rain. I find myself kneeling beside her, nominally to fasten the side-screen door poppers. But the floor is quiet. Calm. Still. With engine off and all others gone indoors, I lose a few minutes locked to the floor. It was a very long day.
The muted aristocratic growl of a V8 undercut by a silky straight six rouse me. A Stag and 2000 MK2 arrive. People. Somersetians, no less. Tony and Lisa introduce themselves. The obligation to pass as human wakes me, and I fool myself for long enough to believe it. Evie and I have promised each other a date night. Lord knows, she deserves a treat after the last few days. It’s not even a few days. It’s one day, but it’s lasted 48 hours already. Food first, then work out tomorrow’s route, then write this, then sleep.
PS: I will rewrite this. But not yet.
PPS: Looking at the arrival photos, it’s not even really dark. Paranoia is a wonderful thing.