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Truthfully, it was the first time during the whole weekend that my heart rate had risen above its nocturnal state. Driving on slicks in the wet made the BMW super-sensitive. It gripped, but would suddenly let go as though it were on ice. It was all about precision and feel; every input was critical and you drove every second of every lap, just as racing should be. My stint got us past over twenty cars and into contention for a class win.

As we settled into the night my respect for the presenters grew and grew. Sharing the changing room with them, helping them with their helmets and safety gear, I realised just how little they knew about racing, and how fearful, excited and passionate they really were.

Jeremy was glued to the results screen the whole way through the race. James looked increasingly haggard. His eyes were puffy from sleep deprivation and his face was as white as a sheet. Their lap times went up and down like a bride’s nightie as they strained to navigate each circuit the same way twice.

Hammond got stuck into his night stint and I monitored from the pit wall, telling him his times and keeping him going. The human contact was vital and his pace dropped noticeably when I stopped talking.

He was taking the line I’d taught him on the Hangar straight, crossing from right to left, across the front of a car he was overtaking to line up for Stowe. A much heavier, faster GT2 Mosler sliced between them and crashed into Hammond’s left side at a good 140mph.

‘Guys, I’ve binned it,’ he said over the radio.

The impact broke the BMW’s wheels and suspension, crumpled the bodywork and killed the engine. It was the last thing any of us wanted to see happen to Hammond.

He stayed in the car as they dragged it back to our pit and was understandably shaken, so the cameras laid off him. Typically, Hammo’s primary concern was for the car that had hit him. I soon put him right on that.

Steve’s merry crew swivelled their baseball caps and tucked in. Nearly three hours later I went out and drove pretty much all through the night. I kept awake by chatting to Steve and getting him to wind up Jeremy by saying that I’d pissed in the seat. Hours felt like days.

The field was too strung out to pass anyone until another gift landed in my lap. Fog descended over the circuit, and soon it was like swimming through pea soup. Visibility was zero and it was easy to drive off on the straights, which seemed longer as you counted the seconds until the corners.

We were so far behind that it seemed reasonable to take some silly risks. I overtook as many cars as I could; some were pootling along at 40mph. Their fear was our opportunity to claw back lost time. I revelled in the conditions; it was licensed madness. When it became impossible to see past the windscreen the race was stopped for safety reasons.

They re-started it several hours later when the fog had thinned a bit and, at Jeremy’s suggestion, poor James was sent out into oblivion. The rules required the presenters to drive a minimum percentage of the race, otherwise I could have done the lot for them. James was cautious, but even at a fraction of my pace he fired through the gravel trap a few times. Jeremy talked at him on the pit-to-car radio the whole time: ‘Drive faster … Slow down, save the tyres … More speed James …’ and so on. If that didn’t encourage him to get to the end, nothing would.

I slept on the floor for a total of two hours. I could sleep anywhere as long as my head was higher than my chest and my knees were bent for circulation.

The morning after, the presenters looked like zombies. Their driving styles were overloading the front tyres, chewing the rubber down to the wire cords, so we kept a careful eye on them as they ran their final stints on autopilot.

James’s body was present but his mind had long since gone home and was waiting for the rest to catch up. He stared vacantly across the garage, fondling an empty teacup. Hammond had the giggles and