The Man in the White Suit_ The Stig, Le Mans, The Fast Lane and Me - Ben Collins [39]
I gradually built up speed on track. NASCARs ran on the edge the whole time, and one slip on a patch of oil could deposit you backwards into the concrete fence. Turn One, with its gentle banked radius, was at the end of the pit straight after the main grandstands and taken almost flat out. Two was trickier as the track dropped and veered sharply away, hiding the apex until you had already committed your soul at the entry. It was flat out for the brave. Three was easy flat, and Four required some brake, some wheel wrangling, then a heavy right foot to please the crowd. The car was superbly balanced and steered beautifully through the turns. I was fifth fastest in practice with plenty in reserve.
The field lined up to set two f lying laps, one at a time, for qualifying. The tower displayed each time to the crowd, cranking up the drama.
I went out third and stayed in the car whilst Vince, my wiry mechanic, stood on the pit wall to observe how the first two got on. He suddenly ducked, as though a shot had been fired at him.
He came over sucking air through his teeth. ‘That looked expensive. He’s gone in hard at Two.’
I didn’t want to hear that. In my mind’s eye, I’d already taken Two completely flat. But if someone was in the wall there it meant the corner was already a bitch, and now there was debris …
After a delay, the next victim went out. Vince rotated his index finger to signal ‘start engine’. I would be joining the track as soon as the other car recorded its time. My heart thumped as I listened to the roar of the V8 flying past. As it reached peak revs on the pit straight, the crisp note of the motor bounced back off the grandstands. It didn’t come round a second time.
‘Turn Two again. Nasty,’ Vince said.
This was getting ridiculous. Phil Barker, the team manager, decided to have a word. Phil was a racing stalwart who tuned his team to run as efficiently as a Swiss watch. He saw me coming a mile away.
Phil came to the front of my car and brought his radio mic round to his perfectly planed silver moustache.
‘Two cars in the wall at Two, Ben. Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realise there’s something wrong down there. Remember, this is the first weekend and there’s two races tomorrow. If you smash the car up, you’ve only got yourself to blame. All right?’
‘Understood. Thanks, Phil.’
My first lap out of the pits showed me there was nothing to fear on the track but fear itself. I felt the tyres come in and stick like glue. Here was an opportunity to assert dominance over the rest of the competition right from the start.
I backed off early for Four, then jammed the accelerator to the floor. I kept a stiff hold of the steering as the front end crept towards the wall. It ran to within an inch of touching and I kept it there down the length of the straight to benefit from the low air pressure, picking up a tiny amount of additional speed. With the throttle wide open, I cranked the steering wheel into One as late as possible, trailing off the throttle all the way down to the white line of the apex, with my left foot hovering over the brake. As soon as the tyres hooked up, I squeezed the gas back on towards Two.
You could tell yourself a corner was flat out all day long until you actually came to do it. Even the slightest lift affected your speed and there was never any going back. Turn in too early and the car would exit early into the wall. Turn too late and it wouldn’t turn enough and I’d have to back off. On new tyres you had to believe the grip was there. Knowing that two cars had just greased themselves on the wall made the throttle pedal weigh a ton, but no guts, no glory. Make it have it.
I took a late line but turned sharply to make up for it. The fresh rubber soaked up the strain; it speared in, flat out. I cut the inside white line and howled up to