It is a grey Saturday morning in April 1968. A small group gather outside the tower at Castle Combe to study practice times for Clubmans sportscars. Topping the list is one Harvey Postlethwaite – a second and a half quicker than anyone else. Amid an amount of chuntering the group disperses. We head for the cafe, for fried egg, bacon and bread smothered in baked beans. In the queue, my mate asks the question: “Who the hell is Harvey Postlethwaite?” A tall, quiet bloke in faded overalls is next to us in the queue. ” Uh … I’m Harvey Postlethwaite,” he mutters. We decide anyone who can get an elderly Mallock round Combe faster than our all-independent Lotus Seven deserves a free plate of breakfast and some chatting up. As we eat, we discover three things:
Harvey has an excellent appetite (he eats my fried bread too); he is very good company; and, technically, he is on a different planet. Stuff about laminar flow and boundary layers goes way over our heads. Works a treat on old Mallocks though… and on Heskeths, Ferraris, Tyrrells and possibly Hondas. As a result many got to know who the hell Harvey Postlethwaite was. He won the race too.
I am, yours, etc. Rob Gordon, West Camel, Somerset