The Man in the White Suit_ The Stig, Le Mans, The Fast Lane and Me - Ben Collins [38]
Wilman arrived and directed me towards a nearby motor home. I snuck inside to get changed, then sat down to read a magazine. The door swung open. A curly mop brushed the ceiling, swiftly pursued by a pair of gigantic eyebrows. Judging by Jeremy’s surprise, I’d trespassed on his sofa.
Andy appeared from behind him and introduced us. We chatted for a moment, then Jeremy made to go. Never shy of having the last word, he turned on the threshold and said, ‘When you do the Jag next time, can you try not to drive it like a homosexual?’
Do I punch him or just give him a slap? I thought. ‘Don’t behave like your father …’ Mum’s words jangled inside my head for a few crucial seconds and Jeremy vanished.
A few hours later it was show time. Clarkson’s comment had replaced my first-night nerves with a petulant colic. Tiff took the helm and delivered a stunning display. The rear of the Jag slewed sideways and swept up the curtains covering the barriers, so close was he to striking the wall.
Tiff completed his performance and someone shouted, ‘Go!’ I assumed that meant me.
I strode across the arena, clocking Tiff’s time on the giant digital readout: 34.5. I slid under the steering wheel and cranked the key. My body shuddered as the V8 came to life.
The view ahead was worse than before. The camera flashes from the audience flared across my visor and blurred the platforms I had to navigate around.
The only way out was through. I decked the throttle and followed my earlier line with a series of jerky, uncertain movements, keeping my foot down for as long as possible, with no sense of the far wall and too angry to care. I caught sight of the platform a bit late and braked, skidded on to the dirty outer floor and nearly ran straight into the wall. Some grip came back to the front, and she just turned.
To score the best lap time I had to repeat the process on the other half of the 8 by braking as late as possible. I wanted to beat Tiff’s time so much that my chest was heaving.
I wove between the platforms and lost myself in a sudden shaft of light. I instinctively added steering to compensate. My vision cleared. Iceberg … dead ahead … I swerved and braked to avoid it. Back on the gas, I slid the Jag around and finished the lap.
Eyes bulging, nostrils flaring, I demanded the time.
Jeremy guffawed to the crowd. ‘The Stig’s lap – it’s not very spectacular … but it’s FASTER – a 34.1!’
Yes. Stick that in your pipe, big boy.
I was beginning to understand Jeremy’s World. Behind his brusque façade was a man working tirelessly and fastidiously to put on a good show, a man who wanted everyone pulling in the same direction. There was logic behind his madness, an unpasteurised honesty, and people either loved him or hated him for it. It was this politically incorrect fresh air that had attracted me to Top Gear in the first place, not an obsession with cars. I was glad I hadn’t smacked him.
Chapter 10
Rockingham
Someone representing the Ministry of Defence left a message saying I had a drive – the Army ‘Stealth car’ – in the European Ascar Series, starting that weekend. Maybe my fortunes were on the up.
I arrived at Rockingham for the first race as the morning sun fought its way over the grandstands. The pink skyline blossomed and the sun poured into the concrete bowl of the modern-day Colosseum. The warped reflections of thirty race cars glinted on the mirrored glass of the hospitality suites above the pit straight as the crews readied their machines. A 200-foot timing tower reached for the sky, ready to display the competitors’ ranking.
The camouflage stickers were still being applied to Car 84, but my name was over the door and that was a good sign. The team, Ray Mallock Engineering (RML), were proven winners in everything they did. Their attention to detail left nothing to chance.
I climbed aboard and connected the window net. At the centre of the big wheel