The Man in the White Suit_ The Stig, Le Mans, The Fast Lane and Me - Ben Collins [152]
‘Stig, come and meet, er, Tom …’
Hammo and James stood chatting with a familiar figure outside an Airstream – one of three – the size of a B-52 bomber. In a loose grey sweater, jeans and gold-rimmed aviators, Tom Cruise looked ready for any mission Wilman could throw at him. Hammond was in his element too, frothing at the mouth about the Top Gun star’s recent acquisition of one of Steve McQueen’s restored ‘Indian’ brand motorbikes.
Tom gave me a winning grin as he shook my hand. He couldn’t have smiled more broadly if he’d tried; even the big black cloud that suddenly appeared overhead failed to dampen his spirits. ‘Man,’ he said, ‘we’re gonna have a blast out there. The rain makes the car spin out easier, right?’
I nodded. ‘It can be pretty extreme – like Days of Thunder, but without the thunder.’
Tom took a while to join me by the Kia; he stopped to greet every single member of the crew on the way. None of us felt starstruck, though; his excitement was too infectious.
‘So nobody knows who you are, right?’
‘Nope, not even my kids.’
He clapped his hands and laughed.
I normally drove two recce laps with each celeb. Tom wanted six. I eased off a touch for the superfast Follow Through at the end of my run.
‘You came off it there?’ ‘Yes, the rain’s picked up a bit.’
Tom quizzed every gearshift, studied my every move as I pushed full tilt. I ran wide at the penultimate corner on the greasy tarmac, slid sideways over the grass and gathered it to cross the line.
‘Sorry about that.’
‘You kidding? You’re so smooth, man; the way you take those turns is incredible.’
‘I’ve been around the block a few times – but thanks …’
He scooched deftly over the centre console and into the driver’s seat. ‘I’m just gonna take a look see for the first lap; nothin’ too fast …’
‘Exactly right. Let the place sink in.’
He kept his thumbs hooked into the T bar as per my instructions, but with his fingers pointing past the wheel. He was memorising every twist and turn.
His pace naturally quickened, so I threw down my standard test of a maximum ABS stop. He slammed on the anchors so hard we were pulling our dentures out of the dashboard, then swung hard left and right through the chicane, howling with laughter all the way.
‘This is just great; it’s like a vacation.’
The rain eased off and Tom was soon taking the fast corners flat out.
‘The best way to picture the final bend when it’s wet is like an oil slick. As soon as you steer left the car will slide.’
‘Gotcha. What gear?’
‘Second. And when the rear breaks away you can steer into the slide a little …’
‘Counter-steer?’
‘Yes, but not for too long. And the other thing you can do – but don’t ever try this in your Ford Mustang – is floor the accelerator, because the front wheels can drive it straight out of the skid.’
We launched another assault. His expression was as focused as Maverick’s in a 4G inverted dive with a MiG-28. We spun on the oil slick corner and he counter-steered faster than anyone I’d ever coached. Time flew by, but complaints from the producers were noticeably absent whilst Cruise was enjoying ‘the best day ever’.
‘There’s some people around the place making me a little nervous. Before we go can we make sure they’re clear, especially the guy on this last turn?’
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘Nobody likes him much; that’s why he’s there.’
He grinned, went solo and promptly punched out a 1.47 lap in the wet. I could scarcely believe the stopwatch. He lost it on two occasions going into that final corner, burying the throttle like a touring car driver and clipping the mini tyre wall just in front of where I was standing. Each run culminated in gales of raucous laughter.
With his film in the can Tom thanked everyone profusely and went off to be briefed for his interview.
The largely male crew found it hard not