From 1922 onward, Lawrence owned no fewer than seven Brough Superiors, each christened “George.” More words are devoted to Lawrence’s association with Brough than to the bond between other 20th century achievers and their chosen brands. Candidates include statesmen, racers and movie stars. Some, tragically, like both James Dean and Lawrence, were at the helm of their wheels when they perished. George VIII, tailored to his requirements, was on order and awaiting collection when he died. (Click image to enlarge)

About 3,000 Brough Superior’s were made in all; barely 1,000 survive today. Brough was unorthodox—he didn’t actually make anything, not even a gasket. His philosophy was to buy the best parts available, including engines, from Britain’s then booming proprietary industry, building individual motorcycles as near perfection as possible. Unhurried artisans assembled incoming components and subassemblies into high-end machines. Most were pre-ordered by a discerning clientele with an appreciation of quality. Brough, a self-styled designer/rider/manufacturer, had an instinct for what-looked-right-was-right. He was, arguably, the most accomplished marketer in the two-wheel industry. Only he could have persuaded a high-end auto executive to endorse his “Rolls-Royce of Motorcycles” slogan. (Click image to enlarge)

Occasional acts of God and the second World War have, in the way of things, helped diminish Brough Superior numbers. Not all were former Brooklands or LSR runners—with stirring historic provenance—but into black holes they vanished just the same. Too few have re-emerged. Today there exists a coterie of Brough buffs who ask no more of life than that, before riding on to the great blacktop in the sky, they too discover a barn-find Brough Superior.

A circa-1912 photograph, somewhere, depicts a Triumph-mounted Lawrence on the streets of Cairo, although another 10 years would elapse before his love affair with Broughs began. During a busy dozen years of ownership, his septet of Superiors brought immense satisfaction, never mind a couple were crashed and “written off.” Poor surfaces were mainly responsible for these spills, flavored, shall we say, with a dash of pilot exuberance. (1920s urban roads were often surfaced with wood blocks, which, in winter fog, tended to sharpen the senses.) No slouch in the saddle, Lawrence frequently undertook daily itineraries of over 250 miles, determined that the day’s average must exceed 40 mph. By 1926 he had completed more than 100,000 miles on five different “Brufsups.” Distinguished non-riding friends fretted and chided, “You are an accident waiting to happen,” but he subscribed to a “press-on” school of riding, keeping accurate chronicles, too, of journeys awheel. In a 1934 letter to Brough, at age 44, he observed, “George VII is going like stink ... if you’d seen me drop the County Police ... along New Forest roads ... you would have been pleased.” (Click image to enlarge)

Four of Lawrence’s Broughs were SS100s, a flagship model introduced in 1924. Only 400 or so were made, and approximately 100 survive. North London firm J.A.P. produced the SS100 engine until 1935, before Brough switched to Matchless motors of south London. In an interesting commercial aside, Morgan’s rugged three-wheeler followed a similar pattern of supply. Both of these 1,000cc V-twin engines were capable of propelling a handsome 300 lb SS100, on skinny 21-inch tires, to more than 100 mph—a great velocity in 1925. Lawrence’s favorite Brough Superior, he claimed, was GW2275, specified with 19-inch rims at front and rear, among other custom items. It was this machine upon which he was fatally injured in 1935. Ironically, it is the sole remaining Lawrence Brough. Having ridden helmetless, as was the fashion, to send a mid-morning telegram from his local post office, he collided with a teenage cyclist on the return, 400 yards from his cottage, suffering a fractured skull. Sir Edward Farquhar Buzzard, physician-in-ordinary to King George VI, attended in person, but T.E. never regained consciousness, succumbing six days later in Bovington Military Hospital. A devastated Winston Churchill—whom Lawrence had advised at the 1919 Middle East Peace Conference—was one of many eminent mourners at the private funeral nearby. Churchill’s quotation inscribes the esteem in which Lawrence was held: “One of the greatest in our time ... his name will live in English letters ... in the annals of war ... and in the legends of Arabia.” (Click image to enlarge)

It was a fortuitous initiative by Texan war correspondent Lowell Thomas that brought Lawrence—reluctantly, even at that stage—to public attention. Thomas and photographer Harry Chase had covered the first World War from a North African perspective. Inspired, Thomas later organized a presentation of silent movies at London’s Royal Opera House. The audience was enthralled by the contribution of a young Lawrence—considered a maverick within certain sections of the army’s stuffy upper strata—by capably uniting the disorganized Arab tribes against the occupying Turks. Encouraged by General Edmund Allenby, Lawrence led his tribesmen into innumerable skirmishes and pitched battles; unconventional tactics that proved hugely successful, prompting his promotion to colonel. He was knowledgeable on desert matters, having earlier worked on a series of archaeological and cartographical expeditions in the region. Hyperintelligent, he understood the country and its nomadic peoples. As hostilities drew to a close, Lawrence, in conjunction with the sheiks, assisted in devising a post-war strategy for the dispensation of power, given the Ottoman dynasty was over. Alas, promises pledged by the British military to Arab leaders were unexpectedly reversed at the peace conference in Paris, 1919. A disillusioned Lawrence withdrew from public life to write Seven Pillars of Wisdom and other works. (Click image to enlarge)