The Man in the White Suit_ The Stig, Le Mans, The Fast Lane and Me - Ben Collins [132]
I was extremely proud when they eventually crossed the line, third in class. That the BMW finished at all was a miracle.
Georgie – equally miraculously – held on to her waters and I hightailed it home. Forty-eight hours later, she started contractions. It was time to become a dad.
Attending the birth was not the ‘mystical experience’ I’d heard it described as by new-age men in the media. It looked pretty damn awful to me, but the conclusion was magical. A determined little girl wrapped me around her finger on Day One and I drove our new family home comfortably below the speed limit.
As for my racing career, my recently acquired knowledge of the Square Mile wasn’t helping me raise the finance needed to run a go-kart race, let alone a NASCAR campaign, but I kept my radar on.
I’d started writing for Autosport magazine, reviewing new and exciting racing cars. Out of the blue, they sent me to Orlando, Florida, to drive Red Bull’s top-flight NASCAR at Lakeland Speedway. It was a dream ticket.
The last British hopeful who went to the States hunting for a NASCAR test was British Touring Car Champion Jason Plato. They welcomed him with a little southern hospitality.
Introduced to the legendary Dale Earnhardt in the pits, Jason waxed lyrical about the prospect of joining the series. Dale never took off his wraparound sunglasses and his moustache barely moved as he drawled, ‘This here racin’ ain’t for puppy dawgs. This here’s where the big dawgs take a piss.’ That’s why they called Dale ‘The Intimidator’.
On my arrival at Lakeland I was told to look for the team’s crew chief, Randy Cox. It came as no surprise. On my previous visit to America I’d met Dick Trickle, the famous racing driver.
Randy bolted me into the Camry without so much as a shock and awe safety briefing. It was stuffed with so many restraints I had to wedge myself into the seat.
‘Y’all set?’
I gave Randy a thumbs up.
‘OK, let’s go.’
I had 800 horsepower at my command in an instant and, with it, a hurricane of sound.
At the end of each short straight I leant heavily on the brakes and worked at straight-lining into and past the apex. The car nose-dived and fired in with superb accuracy and stability. I screwed the speed off, let the big girl turn through the middle and followed the test driver’s advice by opening her out towards the large black tyre marks on the retaining wall as I exited. The power, the beautiful power sang and screamed on the straights as the wheels spun over invisible bumps in the asphalt.
The ever-present concrete wall would punish the slightest deviation from the racing line. It was a superb feeling, like street racing but with more grunt and grip. I drove harder with every lap and my twenty-something passes went all too quickly. It left me wanting more.
‘Where do I sign?’ was my first question as I clambered out of the car. If only it was that easy.
The all-important debrief with Randy took place the same evening at Hooters Bar over a bowl of chicken wings and a beer.
‘When you first drove outta the pits I was takin’ bets from the guys on which lap you’d crash,’ he chuckled. ‘But the times you did in that car, with that set-up, were really impressive.’
I’d narrowly outpaced their benchmark time on lap seven, in spite of driving on older, slower tyres. Not bad for a first drive at a new track, but that’s where the honeymoon ended. Red Bull already had a driver lineup, so I thanked the team and flew back to the UK. They say it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
* * *
Series 10 of Top Gear was there to console me. Jenson Button had attacked my time in the Suzuki the previous year and failed to beat it. (He subsequently won the Formula 1 title, so I seriously doubt that keeps him up at night.)