The cockerel who's alarming application wished sincerely to be heard over the sweet cradling early morning silence cockerelled its little red combed cockerel head off.
Zut! *smack!* Off.
Silence.
It's Oh Dark Thirty and the sun hasn't yet thought about rubbing sleeply crusty stuff from its eyes. Into the salle de bain I stumble to wash the body and scrape the stubble from under the beard around the neckline and over the top of shockingly and extensively balding regions.
Dressed somewhat appropriately and just barely nourished (some might say weakly energized), as well empty-boweled as time and movement would allow, a kiss to my wife and out the door I dash. Ox-cart narrow somewhat functional and always entertaining French roads and the promise of (swelling cinematic music, please) the smell of castor oil in the morning demanded my attention.
It's time to head to the Vintage Revival Montlhery, 2019.
*wiggle*
My trusty steed would wait for no one and suffers late-comers with strong Gallic Gallus Gallus indifference. Doors slam, brakes release, some semblance of forward motion is indicated, and we're off rattling, swaying, and lurching our way due south to where the morning dewed sweet green grasses waited to dampen shoes at the duly appointed point of dew drop draped arrival.
Huh. Strange. No one is where they claimed they would be. This is no way to show up for a pre-1940's only automobile event. Ah, the humiliation. Ah, the horror. Ah...
"Oui. Allô. Je cherche quelqu'un qui peut me faire livraison, c'est a dire emmener a... oui... oui... ah bon?... D'accord... je vous attends."
This is what happens when my normal, usual, and customary l'isle de france traversing transport has had its keys and travel documents reclaimed by its proper owner, thus leaving this expatriated non-naturalized observer of cultural and sporting events rather High and Dry, as it were. Which leads to nothing good and the transport en commun (aka: metro, RER, etc.) and this Sunday morning phone call in something other than my mother langue to a taxi company which is situated somewhat outside Paris city limits in the region known as la Terre Inconnu.
Si je peux aller en direction de l'autodrome Linas-Montlhery, s'il vous plaît...
The trip was rapid and pleasant enough... only to have the client, aka: me, be dropped off at the bottom the hill... because there are so so many old cars trying to get into the site... that I'm now on foot moi-meme! Ah, the humiliation. Ah, the horror. Ah... wow... woof... whee...
Now look at that, will you? Haven't seen one of those before. Hah! There's something rather purdy in red. Ooo... and there goes an early Mog. And another. And another. Followed by a full-zoot road-going full-blown as in supercharged Bew-Gat-Ee.
*pop*
It seems that I've stepped out of present time and into a chapter straight out of The Wind In The Willows.
The very first thing I seem to see is Mole and Rat pushing Toad's Magnificent Edwardian Conveyance with Toad looking rather Wonderful and Masterful at command of the controls, which were at that point refusing to be controlled, while Badger looked on. Who built this damnable contraption? The weasels, stoats, or foxes? I know. I know. They can be "All-right in a way but well, you can't really trust them." No matter and no wonder the damnable thing won't light off. Poor Monsieur Toad.
A walk through the much promised aforementioned long slender and heavily dewed sweet grasses of the vast Mog-filled champs lead to a brocante (swap meet for us anglo-origined folks). This must be where the yer-o-pee'n squirrels of the River District stash their car parts. Carburetors, oil cans, gas cans, wheels (laced and otherwise), chassis, carrosseries to die for, and a few brand new pneu too! Everything from bits and pieces all the way up to a fine cone of stacked high glace (ice cream to us anglo-origined folks) is laid out for display, pawing through, offer, purchase, worship (see that De Dion motor over there?) and, in the case of les glaces, eating.
Having successfully negotiated les champs de brocantes without loosing un seul Louis d'or (I have no garage and, hence, no ability to garage anything I might buy) I see I'm in for a tougher go of it in the next section. Well-heeled Italians have brought their early Alfalfa Romeo-Tomatos up for the event.
V8's? Yes. V8's with superchargers? Yes. Gorgeous, slinky, slithery lingerie... er... bodywork laid out all nakedy-like? Whew! I'd read somewhere that they are famous down there for this kind of thing. But merde! how it gets an old fart's heart a-pounding. Who needs a sports workout gym when a person can be around these? Besides...
Zounds! There goes a very American utilitarian Ford-um Model Tea Speed-stir. Quickly followed like a dog sniffing another dog by a B-flat Cord, also from les Etats Unis. Ah, those silly Americans with their tail-sniffing animals.
Zut!! There goes a pretty little Bew-Gat-Ee single seater Compressor Pressor Coffee machine. And another. And another. And...
Zykes!!! There sits a Snort'n Norton Route-N Toot-N Single Cylinder Dust Bin bike in bad need of a push. Before I can cross un petit champs to help, someone has beat me to it and they're off and running, pushing, grunting, willing the motor to life.
Zwoop!!!! There pushed by several men goes a low slung Cycle Car that looks like it's not yet dressed for the day. Down the road they run, grunt, and push. Nothing catches. Back up the road they run, grunt, and push. Still nothing. Oops! Now there she goes *zoom*
I realize rather just in the nick of time that I need to step off this narrow oxen cart wide beastway or I'll get run over by an unstoppable river of wonderful conveyances.
Something else catches the attention and we, the rabbits and squirrels and I, float and paddle our way over to the Fields of Functional Fun and Relatively Fast Ratty Mole-ish thingies, chez Morgan. The chez Morgan licensed Darmont are in plentiful supply as well. And before I can inspect anything further, the whole of Morgan-Darmont champs is in motion and making its way onto the track.
Which gives me the opportunity to increase a bit of thumbulary muscle mass by exercising the twiddler of a stop (time) watch. It could be fun to witness and measure the speed of a scampering Wild Woodland ferret through its Natural Habitat. So out comes the stop (time) watch. Press the twiddler to start, the watch hands crank into motion and the world comes to a stop. No, not an end, just a stop. Press the twiddler to stop the watch hands and the world restarts anew right where it left off. Handy device this. What will Mr. Badger think of next, wise philosopher of his time that he is?
So, calculating the amount of time the world stopped and comparing it against the motion of a scampering Wild Woodland squirrel we find that, ah, yes, six times nine, carry the zero, and, huh, who would've guessed a well driven Mog would make that kind of distance in under a portzibie? Hold on. That's not a sufficient measurement of speed. How about an attoparsec? No. Maybe a beard-second? No, such things only apply to me and my beard as it regards, negotiates, and calculates Beer Quaffing Speeds. How about a tatum? No. Even though we've finally found a measurement of time, it won't do. A furloungh-firkin-fortnight, then? Absolutely not!
This is getting us nowhere. Let's move along, shall we?
Rivers of contraptions of the More Civilized Regions as well as those coming from the Wild Wood are of various ages, wages, rents, and origins. Everyone who is anyone is circulating the Linas-Montlhery autodrome, the wild and the haut-cultured alike. It was astounding to look at and to consider. Motion as Monsieur Toad would know, understand, and appreciate. In fact, there goes Toad now.
There was a somewhat recent history when the soon to be fabled and not yet to be knighted Monsieur Lyons of England ran a prototype-ish contraption mechanism rattle-trap through here at speed. After a successful run the rattle-trap was dubbed the Jag-y-warre XK120 and the world was forever and ever changed, ay-men. Slippery is the Road to Perdition as Jag-y-warre is now owned by an industrialist from a former colony and things, frankly, are just not the same as they once were. Yet it was the very place where I now stood, in wonderment, in honor, in supplication to the Gawds of the Automobile...
... what the ??? He's here? No. Not possible. That man sure gets around, doesn't he?
Before I could come to my full senses the Piper at the Gates of Dawn blasted by. The last I saw of him, Pan was moving rather more slowly as he pushed a bright red and newly rebuilt Phyat S76 out of a Paris Pavilion down at la porte de Versailles. The Fire Belching (when running) Beast was on its way to be push-stuffed onto a covered trailer that was pulled by a Land and Sea Rover. Useful that Land and Sea Rover for recrossing la manche.
This time it seems that Pan, oh, sorry, Monsieur Pittaway has motorboated (for it poured merciless water from the heavens for forty days and a few nights while he waded and wended his way across Merry 'Ol, over la manche to make his way swimmingly to Linas-Montlhery) something Very British, something Very British Racing Green, something perhaps aero-motored, and something ginormously big. Gawds! Quelle belle vue, ca.
A short time later I encounter Pan a second time. This time his navigator is carrying a trophy of some kind or other for Best of Show ou un truc similarly cunningly named. They both seemed happy enough, Pilot Piper Pan and Navigator, and their time in France was being well toasted and honored by one and all.
Was it now time for Mole and Rat to return to home, hearth, and Dulce Domum? Yes. Perhaps it was. The pleasant experiences of Edwardian England as seen from a French point of view and place all tinged in colors and form of The Wind In The Willows had come to a close.
I went to hail a taxi. Ah, the humiliation. Ah, the horror. Ah... Wow. Woof.
Event participants were starting to head out and were driving down the road to tomorrow and the beginning of a new work-week. I can't help note the passing fancies.
What a purdy fading likely original French blue Bew-Gat-Aye! Such a glorious Mog driven in Grand Style by Mr. Badger. There's a bright red modern-ish Fezzazz. Oh and what fun is that, a sweet sweet Alfalfa Romeo-Tomato on the back of a flat bed trailer being hauled away by the stoats and weasels and such.
*warble*
*wiggle*
*pop*
[For more images please see this Album]
