22/06/2009 - W de Forte E-Type Exclusive

Chapsportation: Jaguar E-type


Some time in September, 1960, I had occasion to visit my chums at Jaguars, where a very special machine was waiting for appraisal. The prospect of a new model from Coventry was exciting, to put it mildly. Hard to imagine now after recent sorry events, but in those days the Cat people were riding the crest of a wave. Indeed, Sir William Lyons and his team seemingly could do no wrong (although the recent takeover of Daimler may not have been obviously beneficial!).
Swinging through the Browns Lane factory gates after an invigorating blast down from Shropshire along largely uninfested roads, I spotted a car-shaped dust sheet in the parking area, directly under Bill's lair. The contours were very low, very long and obviously of sporting intent. I’ll admit that my nosiness overwhelmed my sense of propriety, causing me to sidle over and lift the corner of the cover. Alas, a tantalising glimpse of a rounded flank was all I managed before being rumbled:

‘Stop right there, de Forte, or we’ll have that old banger of yours towed away to the junkyard immediately!’
With the air of an apple-scrumping schoolboy caught in the act by the local bobby, I swivelled round to see the towering presence of service chief Lofty England marching towards me. The mock-martinet tone of his voice softened as he approached, his face dissolving into a smile. “Knew you wouldn’t be able to resist having a shufti if we left it out here… the innate journalistic instinct, eh?”

After putting up with more gentle joshing at the expense of my ‘old banger’ (how they’d have laughed if they’d known that vintage Bentleys would be worth millions in the next century!), we adjourned to the office for tiffin. Somewhat inevitably, the rest of the boys gradually homed in to join us. And as the afternoon wore on, tea was replaced by a rather stronger libation, and we were all feeling distinctly merry by the time the main workforce headed home. (Incidentally, the vast majority were on bicycles: wages were such in those far-off days that very few could imagine owning the fruits of their labours.)

Despite the absence of that fanciful modern concept, ‘Global Warming’, the evening air was still distinctly sultry when we eventually trooped outside to inspect the new arrival. The wraps came off with a flourish, and there it stood in all its glory: E-type, or XK-E, as our colonial cousins insisted it be known. Reposing in oblique sunshine, the car looked strikingly splendid. I was taken aback by its beauty. Some details were not finalised on this pre-production roadster, but who could have doubted that Jaguars had produced yet another winner?

The offer of a strictly off-the-record spin was eagerly accepted. Dropping into the snug cockpit, surrounded by leather and figured aluminium, I thumbed the starter and heard the big 3.8 litre six cylinder engine gurgle into life through its triple SU carburettors, a prod of throttle clearing its lungs with a satisfying rasp. Vvvrrrrmmmm. I couldn’t help grinning as I felt the whole car rock sideways through torque reaction. “Exhaust’s a bit throaty on this one – we’ll quieten it down a touch for the great unwashed,” said Lofty, anticipating my next question. He also admitted that the power output of this particular example may have been slightly in excess of the figure to be catalogued, which was similar to the outgoing XK150S’s 265hp.

Ah, yes: ‘Bliss was it that dawn to be alive, But to be young was very heaven’. Our friend Wordsworth nailed it, to use the contemporary argot.

Threading gently out through the suburban contagions of Coventry, my disco volante felt entirely happy at 30-40mph in top gear, the revolution counter needle hardly stirring from its stop. Used thus, the E progressed with almost total silence save for a whoosh from the tyre treads. Even the exhaust contrived to stay subdued when dawdling.

Above all, though, I remember the car for its astonishingly compliant ride, courtesy of new independent suspension. While the model's predecessor, the XK150, betrayed its age and live rear axle by becoming wayward on occasions, the E’s double-wishbone set-up, developed directly from racing experience, offered limousine-like comfort. Moreover, as I was shortly to discover, the chassis handled wonderfully at high speed. Truly, the best of both worlds, and this itself was a good enough reason not to christen the model ‘XK160’, as had been intended originally.

After skirting Lady Godiva’s home city to the south we picked up the old A45 coach road, the pace picking up as we plunged into glorious green countryside and traffic dispersed. A scintilla of extra throttle made the long bonnet rise with feline grace, the speedometer rushing past 60mph with contemptuous ease.

There was good reason to be heading this way. An early strand of Britain’s much-delayed motorway network began near Dunchurch, about ten miles of largely empty dual-carriageway appended to the old A5 at Crick. Wily Sir William liked to claim Minister of Transport Ernest Marples had built this new superhighway expressly as a development facility for the Midlands car industry. A slightly dubious notion, perhaps, but there’s little doubt that M45 was a handy place to test a car’s high-speed mettle!

A trace of mist was rolling in off the meadows as we crossed the unofficial ‘start line’. After overtaking a dawdler who seemed alarmed by the novelty of a road with no junctions for so many miles, I was finally able to give the Jaguar its head. 5,500rpm in third launched us past the ton. Then into top (without much help from the dratted Moss gearbox, one of the car’s less marvellous features), foot to the floor, and 110mph… 120mph… 130mph with a mellifluous trail of acoustic spume in our wake. And although I thought it prudent to straddle the central white line, she tracked straight and true at such elevated velocities.

Acceleration was waning now, but we had motorway to spare for an assault on the magic ton-fifty! A mile or so later, the needle on the big Smiths dial was still nudging higher, 150mph looming.
Speeding in an open car is truly exhilarating. Trapped in a screaming vortex, head buffeted, eyes streaming: I can only liken it to travel in an early aeroplane, or perhaps the first few moments of a parachute jump, before the canopy opens (the latter tends to follow the former!).

We clocked 152mph that distant day. Possibly the instrument exaggerated by a few percent, but I do know that we despatched eight miles of Tarmacadam in well under four minutes, in an era when most vehicles were lucky to do it in ten. Arriving back at Browns Lane, the return leg enlivened by a dice with a determined bod on a Triumph motorcycle, no doubt a tester from the nearby Meriden factory, I had never been more impressed by a car.

Reader, I bought one. As soon as RHD production examples became available, a red drop top became mine. The best £2,000 I ever spent.

Many E-types have passed through the de Forte stringbacks since. Apart from a ferrously-challenged V12 automatic, I liked them all. But original is definitely best, as I re-discovered nearly half a century after my first drive, when the chance to sample an early 3.8 litre Series 1 arose.

Sadly, my aged bones dropped into the cockpit with less alacrity than in 1960, but once ensconced the cabin was as appealing as ever. Pressing the starter summoned the past in my mind, yet failed miserably to do the same in reality. Alas; the open roads we enjoyed then are now a seething morass of inhumanity.

Yet, pushing the loud pedal lightened my gloom. A bid to clock 150mph again would have no doubt resulted in a period of incarceration in one of HM’s hotels, so I did my best to keep tight rein on the six cylinder beast. But my best fell short, and I must confess that I gave in to temptation a couple of times when goaded. Thus, an upstart in an Audi, of all things, learned that an old motor driven by an even older gent would not necessarily be driven at molluscs’ pace! Exiting a roundabout, the blighter pulled out to overtake. I waited until he was alongside, then floored it in third. Soon he was a straining silver dot in my mirror.

A drag race is one thing, but it would be folly to presume that 1961’s ultimate could match 21st century chassis technology. Fortunately, the road was straight. By current standards, the E has modest roadholding and will be embarrassed by whippersnapper hatchbacks in the twisties. No matter, because driving pleasure comes from a car’s feel, sound and handling feedback, more so than ever now that speed is deemed to be so socially unacceptable.

The E-type is an automotive icon, of that there is no doubt. But is it suitable transport for chaps, one might wonder? Of course it is! While in the second half of the 1960s Jaguars generally attracted the wrong sort of clientele, personified by that ghastly Simon Dee character, the marque later recovered its dignity, if not its profitability, and any fellow of taste should be proud to be seen in one now.