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Lewis Hamilton was next in the queue. He’d just ended his first season in F1, wiped the floor with his team-mate and former champ Fernando Alonso and narrowly lost out on the title. Now it was time for the Big One: what could the lad from Stevenage do in a Suzuki fartbox?

I’d heard so much hype about Lewis that I was keen to check him out for myself. He arrived in McLaren team gear, but hanging loose. He was disarmingly laid-back and we warmed to him immediately.

I drove him around the slowly drying track to show him the best lines. Apart from Webber, I think he was the only F1 driver to let me do that. I wanted to help him adapt to the majestic Suzuki so I could see what he was truly capable of. I reminded him to get it sideways into the penultimate corner and pin the throttle, not to drive it properly like an F1 machine. The more I explained, the more he listened. This was no prima donna. Sure, he was composed, but not in the least arrogant.

The odd thing about his laps was that they didn’t look special, they were neither lairy nor super-smooth, yet his times in the wet were absolutely stunning. He was doing 1.46, then 1.45 whilst the track was still greasy.

His dad told him not to spin the wheels off the start line, said it was costing him time. Their rivalry was all too familiar. Lewis reacted by sticking an extra thousand rpm on his next launch and smoking the bags. He was having fun, bouncing and jiving to a cool track he found on the radio, ‘Dub Be Good to Me’.

With footage in the can from his earlier runs, we waited for the conditions to improve. When Lewis went again he produced a time of 1:44.7, just 0.3 of a second slower than my best on a fully dry run. I went and checked the track. Many of the corners were practically dry, but not entirely. I played back his in-car footage and felt that he cut some cute lines through the Hammerhead chicane; but nothing unsporting. Even so, his lap was exceptionally fast; he was clearly a special talent. What I admired most was the way he did it so effortlessly and with such humility.

Chapter 30

The Scud

An impeccably turned out Italian driver in his fifties picked me up at Milan Bergamo airport in an equally pristine Mercedes E Class. His immaculately honed features reminded me of Christopher Lee, aka Saruman, the slaughterer of Hobbits in The Lord of the Rings. From the moment he tossed my luggage into the boot until we reached our destination he kept away from the middle pedal as he guided his Mercedes missile through the rugged scenery at a cool 100. He never spoke either, apart from when a pair of construction trucks blocked our progress.

‘Che cazzo stai facendo qui?’ he hissed. The hapless drivers yielding their ground immediately. No one screwed with Saruman.

After that brief interruption, I dozed off whilst the best taxi driver in the world dispatched 150km and finally rounded a hairpin to reveal the picturesque resort of Riva, nestled on the shore of Lake Garda. We descended sharply into the spectacular basin hewn into the Dolomite Mountains by ancient glaciers. The sun twinkled on the vast restless pool of water below.

Riva was full of buses downloading their quota of blue-rinsed and pastel-suited holidaymakers. They joined the ranks of cool Italians wearing insect-like sunglasses and an army of Germans chomping on Frankfurters and chips.

The twisting Gardesana road, with its unparalleled views and dramatically claustrophobic tunnels, was a driver’s paradise. Winston Churchill called it the Eighth Wonder of the world. I called it heaven, because it was my first day on set as a member of a James Bond stunt team to film the opening chase scene for The Quantum of Solace.

Production schedules for big movies lasted several months at a time and filming had become more than a part-time role for me. There was a familiar camaraderie with film crews, but I spared more than a few thoughts for my Army mates who were serving overseas with distinction.

I had reluctantly called time on my Army career when it finally became impossible to balance all my commitments,