The Man in the White Suit_ The Stig, Le Mans, The Fast Lane and Me - Ben Collins [118]
The opening lap on new tyres was critical. They were the most signifi-cant factor in how a car handled. The bottom gripped the road, the side supported the weight as the car cornered and rolled. When you braked or accelerated, the tyre stretched lengthwise like a balloon.
Accelerating warmed the rears, but pushing too hard too soon over-heated them and cost grip when it mattered most. If you didn’t work the front tyres it created an imbalance; they had to be pliable and tacky enough to cope with the super late braking and corner entry speeds of qualifying. The trick was to work the sidewall and surface simultaneously. If you overcooked it when they were cold, the wheels locked up. That was bad news when you were still moving at 80mph because it burnt a flat spot that could later blister or puncture.
It was a delicate process, not to be rushed, but with other cars fast approaching on their flying laps, I couldn’t afford to hang around.
I flew past the pit board and my adrenalin surged as I saw I had slipped to 22nd, one and a half seconds off the pole with only two minutes remaining. There was no more time for reflection; this was the moment of truth.
I pulled sixth gear and the LED rpm lights lit up like a Christmas tree. I slipped into another world – there was no sound, no car, no me. Nothing but pure movement. The first corner was closing and I didn’t have to think. I trusted my body to know what to do.
Braking for Turn One was a last-minute showdown to slow from 170 to 90. A single error, a duff down-change, too much brake pressure whilst the tyre carcass was cold and hard, and you bashed into the wall twenty metres ahead. The first touch of the brake was everything, like a striker connecting with a football. It shifted inertia forward and generated G. The tyres stretched and took the load. The brain sensed the grip, synapses flickered and signalled more or less brake pressure. You rode the tyre stretch through the seat of your pants and adjusted within nanoseconds, instinctively. When it worked perfectly, you reached the speed at which you could barely make the corner by releasing the brakes in the nick of time to turn in.
The car fired towards the apex with some new-tyre understeer. I reduced throttle, which shifted the balance back to the front, then slammed it home to drift out of the corner. I approached a tight, right-left walled chicane, braked late into the right and added some ambitious extra speed which sent the rear gliding – so much so that there was no need to turn in the middle of the chicane to nose it through. With the steering straight the car made a graceful transition slide through the corner.
I kept on it and sidled up to the concrete barrier on opposite lock, straightening at the last moment to prevent slipping further to the right and to protect the front suspension if it kissed concrete. With millimetres to spare, plumes of dirt and marbles blew through the wheel arches and into the air.
Two tough corners were in the bag and there was no traffic in sight. I was buzzing. For the rest of the lap I played an aggressive game of point and squirt, bounced on to two wheels over high kerbs and slithered across bumpy side roads. I even had time to contemplate the final corner. The undulations in the road there were playing havoc with the brakes, making the pedal soft and treacherous and prone to locking the rear wheels. I could play safe and drop a few tenths to bank a lap that would still be good for the top five, or go for it. A split-second decision and an easy one.
The last corner bent round to the left then doubled back on itself,