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Memories of my Rhode embrace endless punctures of its perished inner tubes on the first run home, vulcanised in those pre-war days for a few bob as we progressed from garage to garage, and having to abandon it en route to Prescott for the same reason, until I returned with difficulty some days later, by tube and train, with a couple of AC wheels shod with decent tyres. I used to drive to the Motor Sport offices sans starting handle or starter, relying on the goodwill of passers-by for a push-start, and was once told by the point-duty policeman at the Bank to switch off before the exhaust smoke gassed him but when I yelled that if I did this I wouldn’t be able to restart, he immediately waved me on. Imagine any of this, today! I used this clapped-out Rhode for runs to a Southend rally, Prescott, Brooklands, Box Hill etc. The only fright it gave me was when one Saturday I took a girl to Brooklands, with the prospect of seeing some flying and things like that. I left her in the car facing that long drop down into the finishing straight, at the top of the Members’ Hill. The handbrake ratchet was broken and while I was away for a moment the car rolled forward, knocking one of the wooden railings onto the track far below I very nearly ended up with a dead bird …. For me, at least, the Rhode is scarcely a “forgotten make!”