Slow down and have fun at one of the most stylish events in the calendar – the London to Brighton Veteran Car Run. Fan Johnstone went along for the ride 

Although it’s the oldest continuous motoring event in the world – first run in 1896, making it 130 years old this coming November – the RAC London to Brighton Veteran Car Run is one of those things we all vaguely know about but rarely stop to notice. It tends to crop up in the press alongside stories about cheese-rolling contests or townsfolk processing through the streets with flaming barrels of tar: mildly diverting, faintly eccentric, but not something you ever imagine doing yourself.

But, idlers, this is a call to arms. Get in those cars! Because having taken part last November, I can report that this event is not only worthy of sponsorship by RM Sotheby’s, but was – quite unexpectedly – one of the most charming adventures I’ve ever had.

The Run is open only to cars built before 1905, and while the original speed limit was 20mph, many cars struggle to manage half that. Some of the oldest survivors date from the late 1890s. Even by 1900, while the commercial possibilities of the motor car were beginning to dawn on some clever and mechanically minded people, the wider public remained unconvinced by the whole idea.

We need to remember that the first car was a genuine Frankenstein’s-monster moment. Somewhere, someone invented an engine – though precisely who remains a matter of lively debate. Étienne Lenoir produced the first practical internal-combustion engine; Nikolaus Otto developed the four-stroke cycle in 1876; and Gottlieb Daimler and Wilhelm Maybach created the high-speed petrol engine. But as far as the London to Brighton Run is concerned, first-car glory is generally given to Karl Benz, who not only built an engine but wrapped it in transmission, steering and chassis, and lo, the car was born.

It didn’t change the world overnight. That took decades of people with different skills, resources and levels of optimism – but to put the pace and excitement of these years into context, it’s worth remembering that by 1908 Henry Ford had released the Model T Ford, transforming everyday life for millions of Americans.

Anyway, here’s what happens at the Run. The actual drive takes place on the first Sunday of November. But the day before, on the Saturday, around 400 cars – representing roughly 100 marques – assemble outside the gorgeous RAC headquarters on Pall Mall and are lined up for the public to admire. Anyone can wander over and talk to owners and mechanics, comment on flywheels and chains, peer at hand-formed brass, and “ooh and ahh” at the wonderful period costumes of both drivers and guests.

But the magic – for me, anyway – didn’t really happen until dawn the next day, when the cars are penned together on Rotten Row in Hyde Park. Some have headlamps lit by candles, some cars run on steam… You get the picture. Because it was there, in the early-morning drizzle, with the vehicles’ engines steaming gently, headlights reflecting on the wet tarmac, that I realised I was looking at the very evolution of the car itself.

What a moment! Imagine if someone could lay out human evolution on the grass: not a straight line from ape to us, but a jumble of related forms – early hominins, Neanderthals, Denisovans – overlapping in time, trying different ways of being human. That’s what this was, in car form. I found it unexpectedly moving to see these “living, breathing” forebears of the automotive age still working – and charming the pants off us in our brutal, digital AI era. The joy they bring begs the question, what else could remind us of the child-like pleasures of trundling along, on innocent adventures, open to obstacles and inventions, while relishing the camaraderie of our fellow travellers?

Historically, the Run began as a celebration of the repeal of the Red Flag Act, which had required a man to walk in front of motor vehicles waving a red flag, thus limiting them to little more than walking pace. When the flag was ceremonially torn up in 1896, this journey from London to Brighton became a declaration that man had conquered speed.

Adding to the atmosphere, smoke, vapour and anticipation, a rather amusing sense of mild dread hangs in the air. Many owners bring guests – new girlfriends, joshing pals, long-suffering spouses, company directors – partly for pleasure; partly to prove that, yes, their ancient automobile really can reach the Sussex coast.

The cars set off in age order, the oldest first, with staggered starts. Ours was an immaculate 1904 Humber, owned by the serenely enthusiastic and equally immaculate Chris Lunn. At 6.30am we stood in warm but relentless rain (note to self: a plastic poncho over a leopard skin print is not a good look) until the sky obligingly tore itself open to blue, greeted by cheers.

And then all aboard the Humber. What a revelation. The seats were comfortable, the driving position lofty, the exposure exhilarating. We were off. Everyone waved to us. We waved back. We felt like a minor royal procession, and it barely stopped for 60 miles. I smiled so much my cheeks ached.

We trundled out of Hyde Park, through the Victory Arch at Hyde Park Corner – a spine-tingling moment – passing the first casualties already stricken on Constitution Hill. A significant proportion of the field fails to finish each year, which only sharpens the sense of triumph when you keep rolling.

After a jostle over Westminster Bridge with pals, a swerve or two through Brixton and Croydon, chats with a bus driver while we were all held at a traffic light, and a conversation with a Rastafarian vintage-car enthusiast, Chris noticed we’d lost the top of one of the Humber’s brass headlamps. Annoying. Twenty minutes later a modern car drew alongside, and a grinning child leaned out of the window. “Excuse me – is this yours?” Would that happen in a Porsche or a Ferrari? Probably not. It’s the slow, open-air nature of these Victorian and Edwardian machines, with their poop-poop horns and long brass levers, that invites goodwill.

The joy they spread is hard to exaggerate. Along the route, families and ravers alike laid out breakfast tables in front gardens, picnics on verges, gazebos on driveways. Beyond London, winding through Surrey and Sussex villages, tables groaned with champagne, coffee, pastries and hip flasks. At one stop we encountered the perennial Pith-Helmet Crew, moustaches bristling beside their safari-ready Rolls-Royce, cheering the Run as if this were the only rational way to spend a Sunday in November.

Against the odds – and in sunshine – Chris and the Humber delivered us to Brighton without complaint. Others were less fortunate, but we rolled onto Madeira Drive to applause and a profound sense of happiness.

So here is my advice: do nothing in 2026 except trying to secure yourself a place on a veteran car for this November by any means necessary – charm, sharp elbows, bribery, or a good old-fashioned stowaway manoeuvre under the tonneau. One thing is guaranteed: you will be smiling all the way to Christmas and beyond.

This article is from Idler #109.

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