The year was 1929. The place, a pub in Cricklewood, England. The big man took a long drag on his cigarette as he sat back on the barstool and considered the sketch on the envelope in front of him. His friend ordered another round of single malt, and looked at the drawing.

"What's that all about?" he asked.

"My new motorcar...the best bloody lorry on the road!" he grinned.

The big man was Capt. Woolf 'Babe' Barnato, then-chairman of Bentley Motors Ltd. and son of the wealthy diamond merchant, Barney Barnato. Just three years earlier, 'Babe' had invested quite a sum of capital into the company to keep it afloat, being one of its most noteworthy patrons.

Bentleys had been a dominating force in racing, particularly endurance events like the 24 Hours of Le Mans, and Barnato himself was victorious in the 1928 event, co-driving a 4½-litre-model, and again in 1929, co-driving the new Speed Six (he went on to win a third time in '30).

The 'Bentley boys', as the team drivers were known, were a boisterous, high-spirited bunch, and 'Babe' was known as somewhat of a playboy as well.

Very enthusiastic about the 6½-litre Speed Six, he wanted a closed version for his own personal transportation. Hence the doodle on the back of the envelope. The statement "the best bloody lorry" was a reference to racing competitor Ettore Bugatti's comment that the Bentleys, with their imposing, lofty architecture - as compared with his own relatively diminutive racing Bugattis - are "the world's fastest lorries (trucks)."

Taking the scotch-stained envelope to coachbuilder Gurney-Nutting of Chelsea, Barnato informed them that he would promptly deliver a new Speed Six chassis (in that era, cars of this stature were delivered 'naked', to be bodied by the coachbuilder of the owner's choice), and instructed them to build him a body based upon his sketch.

Most noteworthy of the design was a rakishly swept roofline and very shallow window areas. The body was to be in the Weymann style, with padded fabric covering. The coachbuilders told Barnato that his sloping roof would prevent the accommodation of rear seat passengers, unless they were headless! A compromise was found, and a unique single sideways seat was fitted behind the front seats allowing a third person to join in whatever adventures the Captain might dream up. In this way, the inspired roofline would not be compromised. The oddly-shaped space aft provided some extra cargo area, and on either side were cocktail cabinets for roadside entertaining. A removable panel in the rear allowed access to the small boot.

The design included separate fenders with a quick upsweep at each end, a motif repeated subtly in the door handles. Sidemounted spare wheels relieved the rear of the car from the prodigious overhang common to dual rear-mounted spares. The massive chassis (11 feet, 8½ inches) was to be covered by a body that was functional but elegant, in a brutish sort of way. Much like Barnato himself. Even back then, people knew "your are what you drive." Built for Barnato's own personal grand touring needs, this might indeed have been the very first GT car!

Completed in early 1930, it was resplendent in black with polished aluminum and chrome. The interior was trimmed in tan hides with the typical polished walnut dashboard and window trim.

Barnato took delivery of his stunning new car and decided a shakedown run to the South of France would be ideal. While there, he again found himself in a pub, having lunch with his golfing friend Dale Bourne, discussing his new motorcar, only now a reality in gleaming metal, not a two-dimensional scribble on a piece of paper.

As the story goes, he boasted that, in his Speed Six, he could beat Le Train Bleu (the Blue Train) - the then-fastest form of overland transport in the world - across France, take the ferry across the Channel, and arrive in London long before the train's passengers. A wager of unknown amount was made (reputed as £100), and at 6 PM on March 13, 1930, Barnato and Bourne left Cannes, shortly after the Blue Train pulled out of the station, on its journey to Calais.

The pair in the Bentley reached Boulogne at 10:30 AM the next morning, after averaging 43.43 mph over the crude 'roads' of pre-war France, reportedly never exceeding 75 mph. They rolled onto the 11:35 AM ferry and made the crossing, reaching RAC headquarters (for official witnessing) in Pall Mall, London, at 3:30 PM.

At 7:15 PM, the Blue Train passengers arrived at London's Victoria Station, three and three-quarter hours behind Barnato and his Speed Six. The car was forever after known as the 'Blue Train' Bentley and a legend was born.

In subsequent years, the celebrated motorcar changed hands as newer 'toys' came along. Owners included Lord Brougham and Vaux, Charles Mortimer (of Brooklands fame), and Mr. Reg Potter, who bought it in 1941, after which it languished in a drafty wooden garage, deteriorating with the years and the weather.

Woolf 'Babe' Barnato died in 1948, and probably did not see much of his beloved Speed Six after selling it. It's just as well he didn't see it in the condition in which Hugh Harben bought it in 1968, after lengthy negotiations with Potter. The proud old motorcar was a rolling wreck, bashed and worn in every panel, the interior serving as a rodents' nest, and missing its righthand door amongst sundry other items.

At first Harben considered converting it to an open touring Speed Six, which was what he was originally searching for, but was convinced by his friends to restore it to original as it was too historical a car to modify.

"Restore it as it is," he recalls them saying, "and if you don't like it, you can swap it for an open car."

Thankfully, he heeded their advice and embarked on a comprehensive, three-year restoration. A few modifications were carried out, but none so extensive as first envisioned. The shallow, hinged windscreen was replaced with a fixed, non-opening and slightly taller version, and the 2-inch slot-like rear window was also deepened slightly for better visibility. A Webasto fabric sunroof was installed for ventilation in warm weather, and the main body color changed from sober black to British Racing Green, although black fabric covered the roof area.

Harben fitted higher compression (6.6:1) pistons, with a higher (3.3:1) ratio rear axle - identical to those used by the factory race cars in 1929 and 1930. Unseen, but certainly needed and appreciated was the inclusion of a vacuum reservoir for the big drum brakes' servo, complete with vacuum gauge, to allow an additional element of safety should the car be moving with the engine off.

The car was used in many vintage car meets and Bentley Drivers Club events since restoration, and has actually competed in club racing at Silverstone and Shelsley Walsh, although more for exhibition purposes than outright competition. It's even been back on the roads of France fifty years after racing the Blue Train, and has lapped the circuit at Le Mans where its sister cars forged the Bentley legend.

In recent years, the Blue Train Bentley has been in the custodianship of North American owners. Between Harben and its later owner, well-known collector Bob Cole, there's a gap in the car's history. Cole purchased it through Sotheby's in 1984, and in recent years carried out a partial restoration, refurbishing the interior, paintwork, fitting new tires, and rebuilding all systems except for the engine itself, which proved to be in good order. He drove it on the Colorado Grand rally in 1991, recalling a fabulous 30-mile dice he had with two pre-war Alfas. Apparently the razor-sharp Italian racers were not man enough to shake the big, lumbering Bentley on the winding country backroads, their rearview mirrors full of grille and headlamps at every turn. Of course, Cole, a former race car driver, can get the most out of a good car, drifting the Speed Six in the corners and having a marvelous old time...

The Bentley was used to promote the Hillsboro Concours one year, and even pulled off a publicity stunt wherein it 'recreated' its famous 1930 dual, and raced the Southern Pacific train from San Francisco to nearby Burlingame, where Cole's office is located. Of course, the latter 'race' had the benefit of police escorts through crowded San Francisco streets and highways, a luxury Woolf Barnato never could have hoped for!

It was on exhibit and offered for sale in Monterey as part of the Blackhawk Collection's sale in 1992, for a sum of 4.5 million dollars. Exactly how much it changed hands for is unknown.

It was purchased by Vintage Racing Motors of Redmond, Washington, just outside of Seattle, to reside in an impressive collection of historically significant racing cars. The Bentley - towering over its low-slung stablemates - is one of few non-racing examples there, which include Graham Hill's Vl6 BRM, Le Mans racers like the Ford GT40, Gulf Mirage, Porsches, Ferraris, etc. Many interesting Lotuses, Elvas, Coopers, Can Am racers, and other important competition cars make this soon-to-be-museum a race car fan's mecca.

Driving An Automotive Legend
The first thing I noticed was the key. It wasn't a key like a normal car, but a skeleton key instead, like something you'd use to unlock an old chest in your grandmother's attic. Walking up to the imposing old beast, one gets a sense of great power; not just the automobile's, but that of the person who had it built to express his place in the automotive hierarchy.

The door swings open wide, exposing an inviting pair of true bucket seats in pleated tan leather. The door panels repeat the pattern, with straight-grain walnut trim pieces along the doors to carry the dashboard's warmth through the cab to the rear section. The floor is very flat, and it's a relatively simple interior, less adorned than you might expect.

Stepping up into the car is no easy task for the short-legged (I'm sure Barnato was quite obliging to help boost his ladyfriends up an into their seat). It's more like climbing in. Once aboard, on the right-hand side of course (providing you're fortunate enough to be driving!), the view is simply delicious. Stretching out before you is one of the longest, proudest bonnets in the business, the fender tops and chrome headlamps visible to the sides.

The dashboard is symmetrical, with its Jaeger 150-mph speedometer on the left (presumably to entertain or frighten your passenger), with the almost superfluous matching tachometer in front of you. Between are a lovely Roman numeral clock, and fuel gauge, ammeter, water temperature and oil pressure, as well as a vacuum gauge for the brake servo reservoir. The big three-spoke steering wheel (changed at some point from a four-spoke wheel), in understated black bakelite and polished alloy, is set off by a central hub featuring levers for mixture, throttle setting, and spark advance. The long gearshift lever is to the right of your right leg, next to the flyoff brake lever.

Starting is a simple matter of richening the mixture slightly and retarding the ignition (unnecessary when warm), turning the key and pressing the starter button. The car had been sitting for quite some time before we came to visit VRM, and a float had stuck, allowing fuel to leak from the front carburetor. I could smell the rank odor of old gas too, which concerned me as to its effect on performance that day. Old gas has much lower octane than fresh, but my worries were unfounded as the relatively low compression engine could probably run on ale and not know the difference.

Once fired up, it settled into a sound-salad of deep-breathing intake hiss, a bass, hollow rumbling of the drain-pipe exhaust, and a surprisingly muted clatter from Once fired up, it settled into a sound-salad of deep-breathing intake hiss, a bass, hollow rumbling of the drain-pipe exhaust, and a surprisingly muted clatter from the aluminum motor. Contributing to its relative silence (for a big pre-war car) is the ingenious overhead camshaft drive. As you all know, W.O. Bentley learned his craft working in the railroad industry, and the system of eccentric crank rods that drive a locomotive's wheels was employed in his OHC engine designs. Driven by a gear on the crankshaft, a short, secondary crank with a 2:1 reduction directly above rotates a triple eccentric connecting rod drive (to maintain smooth, continuous rotational action), that is connected in turn to the overhead camshaft.

The result is a direct connection between crankshaft and camshaft, without the noise or slack of chain drive, which was common practice at the time. Ingeniously, the con rods that drive the camshaft are built from an alloy that expand with heat at the same rate as the block, maintaining precise tolerance and component longevity. It's also extremely silent. The vertical tower in which the camshaft drive operates adds noticeable length to the rear of the engine, giving the impression of even more motor than is the case. By the way, that overhead camshaft bumps four valves per cylinder.

As expected from cars of its era, there is no synchromesh on any of the gears, and the four forward ratios must be double-declutched going up through the gearbox as well as when downshifting. This process is made all the more challenging by the very heavy flywheel and low compression engine, which tends to keep on spinning at the same rate when declutched, reluctant to lose revs.

It takes a great affinity for those old (and expensive) teeth in the gearbox, 'feeling' your way between gear dogs and trying to keep crunching - and the resulting embarrassment - to a minimum. Second gear was the real tough one, trying to get into the cog before your momentum dropped so low that you'd just as well be in first again anyway. Remember, the rear axle ratio was raised to Le Mans specs by Harben, and 'long-legged' is an apt description for the torquey brute.

Once into second, the big six yanks the 2½-ton car along with aplomb, and my J shifts into third were usually quick and silent. Fourth was rarely needed, except on the highway, where it felt like an overdrive. A bit more boot in fourth, however, was just too tempting to resist, as the tall, narrow Bentley happily thundered past modern traffic, turning heads all the way. The feeling was like driving a well-upholstered truck. No, more like a bloody locomotive, and here I was, Engineer Dave! With that view high above the road, the long bonnet before me, I could well imagine a pair of steel rails stretching to the horizon, as I poured on the coal…

Gear whine almost drowns out the deep exhaust note at highway speeds, but it's a mechanical melody, not offensive in any way.

Steering is surprisingly responsive and tight, although very heavy at low speeds - particularly when parking. Ride quality is firm yet well-damped, and quite isolated from road irregularities, which I presume is a result of sitting almost directly between the distant axles. Brakes from this era almost always need at least a day's advance notice, but not so with this Speed Six. Whether it's the nature of the Bentley's cast iron drums, the geometry of the brake shoes and levers, or the servo, I was very impressed with the braking, and felt confident to give the car a good hard run, even when traffic was present. A firm foot was needed to bring the leviathan to a complete halt, but for peeling off speed when quick downshifts were out of the question, a couple of strong dabs did the job.

Visibility is minimal, but Barnato obviously cared more about where he was going than where he'd been. The tiny rear view mirror gave no more than a glance at something in the slot rear window, and the side windows, again, convey style - particularly with their unique glass 'awnings' - more than view.

The Blue Train pulled long grades with ease, and was remarkably relaxing to drive - if one could forget that its value exceeds that of a fleet of ten new Bentley Turbo Rs and a house with enough garage space in which to park them!

The name Speed Six suggests a fierceness or overt element of high performance, but the performance of this big car is deceptive, in that it loafs along and gets the job done without any fuss or strain. It's almost docile, and requires very little work on the driver's part to maintain a high average speed over a long distance (once into top gear, that is). Lesser cars - even in its day -could extract the same performance, but at the expense of the driver's effort and therefore seemingly more high-performance oriented. The Speed Six driver, however, could maintain the pace far longer. Tractability is such that you could keep it in top gear right down to a walking pace - perhaps 400 or 500 RPM - and burble along smoothly, then plant your foot in it and pull strongly up to somewhere over 100 mph.

I could see how the affluent sporting motorist of the thirties would choose the Speed Six as the car of choice. Few others could match its performance, ruggedness, comfort, or driveability. Or the statement it made about its owner.

'Babe' Barnato's private car was perhaps the ultimate expression of the model, and of the long-distance Gran Turismo - a genre that wouldn't come into its own for decades after this bespoke Speed Six sped across France in those carefree pre-war days.