The Man in the White Suit_ The Stig, Le Mans, The Fast Lane and Me - Ben Collins [153]
I explained the basics on the demo lap, but found myself avoiding her feline gaze as she lowered her chin and looked up at me. She had this way of making you feel like you were flirting. I cranked up the AC.
She took to the driver’s chair and shuffled it forwards and back until her golden ballet shoes rested precisely on the pedals. A screech of rubber and we shot onto the dried-out track.
Cameron had raced the Long Beach grand prix circuit in a Toyota Celica, so I knew she had plenty of backbone. She was pushing the Kia hard from the outset. Her trademark pout barely altered except when she bit her lower lip for her first flat out assault on Follow Through.
The slower sections were more revealing, as she discovered the limitations of the gearbox.
‘God, what gear is that?’ Her Valley Girl accent catapulted me back to junior high.
‘That’s first. Try and avoid that one.’
‘No kidding, it’s a raw deal. Fuck.’
‘That’s fifth; don’t rush it. Swearing helps.’
‘Shit. Fuckin’ piece of crap car …’ Her giggle did funny things to my spine.
Cameron was dialled in so we sent her solo. Grant gave her the count-down. She stalled in third gear, then nailed it.
Her times were fast. I asked if she needed any help with anything.
‘Actually yes, could I get my lip gloss? Crackin’ up in here.’
‘Grant, she’s going a lot faster than Tom,’ I said.
‘I think we can get him another go now the track’s dry.’
Mr C had already reappeared with a helmet, itching to go back out.
I followed Cameron’s progress until the Kia spluttered to a halt. After the previous week’s roasting at the hands of the mighty Andy Garcia, its clutch had finally quit. I picked her up in a white Jaguar XKR and paparazzi hiding in the treeline recorded the moment for posterity under the breathless headline: Shaken Hollywood star rescued by mysterious knight in shining armour. If only …
Cameron took the spare car and promptly set a record time of 1.45.2.
Cruise hopped back in and I rode shotgun to dial him into dry running.
‘Basically your braking markers are the same in the dry, but you brake less and carry more speed. So use third gear through here …’
‘But you said second …’ This was no laughing matter. ‘I know, but not in the dry.’
Poised on the start line, Tom closed his eyes, lowered his head and rehearsed every inch of the circuit with his hands. I taught him to arc his entry to the penultimate corner and use the new concrete to boost his time. He ran wide with just one corner to go but held onto the bucking bronco by its ears and dragged it back onto the tarmac.
He kept it lit and sliced inside the border so fast that he tipped onto two wheels. For a moment it looked like he might roll and I could hear the producer’s knees knocking behind me. Tom shot through the corner, then feathered the throttle and covered the remaining 50 feet before coming in to land. It was his fastest lap.
His reward was to take out the new Bugatti Veyron Super Sport which I’d lapped earlier. The T Rex of the motor world boasted an added 196 horsepower and a top speed of 267mph. 1200bhp was enough to smoke all four wheels off the line, force your mouth wide open and keep it that way. It gripped so much in the corners that the tyres melted after just four laps. The fuel tank emptied after six. The combination of the newly-laid final corners, with surplus concrete allowing you to carry extra speed, and the Bug’s atavistic grunt helped me post a new track record that I can’t see being beaten anytime soon, and left Bugatti with a £20,000 tyre bill.
I’ve put on my helmet and the white suit for the last time; taken one final look around the pilot’s changing room. Reg the beetle is long gone, as are many of the friends I made here over the years. The place is empty once more, the paint still peeling, but the memories remain.
Sure I’ll miss the car park packed with Ferraris, the cabin