The Man in the White Suit_ The Stig, Le Mans, The Fast Lane and Me - Ben Collins [122]
Londoners didn’t give a monkey’s about a man in a white suit walking amongst them, with the exception of one guy who spat his pasty on the floor. Mostly it was like I wasn’t there. After a few more changes I emerged from the Docklands Light Railway just ahead of James. Hammond had arrived first on the bike, followed by Jeremy, who had howled up the Thames aboard a supercharged racing boat at the head of a six-foot wake. James’s appalling sense of direction sealed the car’s fate. It wasn’t the result Top Gear was looking for.
I fell asleep on the train home and woke up slightly out of it. I absent-mindedly started texting my father about what I’d been up to. We hadn’t seen each other much recently, but always kept in touch. Then a wave of sadness brought me to my senses. Dad was gone.
Before I had too much time for reflection, providence intervened again. A blockbusting movie stunt co-ordinator called Steve Dent rang and asked me to meet him at Pinewood Studios.
I’d always been fascinated by the movie industry. Hollywood had the budgets to do things we could only dream about on TV. I’d studied the credits of my favourite movies like Vanishing Point, Ronin and the Bond series, looking for a way in.
Top Gear gave me a cracking CV; the only problem was I could never show it to anyone. I’d put too much effort into keeping The Stig undercover to use him as currency. After numerous blind alleys and dead ends, the legendary Gary Powell had recommended me for a job on Nicolas Cage’s new movie. It featured a massive car chase through the City of London.
Just driving through the stone arch of the studio’s Double Lodge entrance, you felt the history of the place. Pinewood had been one of the most prolific film and television production facilities in the world since the Thirties, with a raft of blockbusters from The Great Gatsby to Super-man. It remains the long-term home of the greatest of action heroes, 007.
The body of professionals producing the stunts for the movie business was a closed shop. To join them required years of training in numerous specialist skills such as fire, gymnastics, horse riding and martial arts. To be allowed to join them as a driving expert would be a rare privilege.
I was required for driving a ‘pod car’. The pod was a metal cage with a set of driving controls that sat on the roof of a normal road car, in this case a Mercedes C Class. Cage and the other actors sat inside, whilst the man in the pod worked the steering, brakes and accelerator.
I met Ian, the vehicle’s engineer, aka the ‘big black bloke’ I had been told to look for in Shed 42. His eyes lit up over his small rectangular glasses. ‘Go on, climb up and ’ave a look!’
I climbed up the side of the Merc, clambered into the thick tube frame then slid into the chair like an invalid. Ian and his crew watched this palaver, then looked at each other as if to say, ‘Couldn’t Steve find one that’s not broken?’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll be fine in a few weeks.’
Sitting on the roofrack wasn’t something I was accustomed to, but it was cool. When you turned the wheel of most road cars it would unwind and self-centre if you let go. This one didn’t, because the hydraulic steering was so bloody heavy, but I could just about haul it round with my good arm. The pedals were neatly transplanted from the Merc, with the automatic gear-shifter mounted alongside the seat. It was excellently appointed, ideal for VIPs who preferred not to see their chauffeur.
Next on the agenda was to check out one of the standard Mercs with Rob Inch, another legendary stuntman who starred as the headless horseman in Sleepy Hollow. At over six feet tall Rob didn’t look much like a cowboy. This was his first major foray into a different kind of horsepower. We drove to one of the outdoor stages, a yard of gravel