The Man in the White Suit_ The Stig, Le Mans, The Fast Lane and Me - Ben Collins [40]
I squeezed the brake with my left foot for Four and accelerated at the same time – you never released the throttle completely on a fast oval because the axle was angled – then blasted across the finish line. My number went to the top of the tower and we set a new track record. After the other 24 cars completed their laps, it confirmed we had pole position.
From pole I led the race until the pit-stop window, which happened to fall on a safety car for another crash. We’d planned to come in at the end of the three-lap window, but you usually pitted on a safety car because it saved track time.
Well, we opted to stay out and as I led the field past the pit entrance, I looked in my rear-view mirror and saw every man-jack filing into the pits. I completed a lonely lap behind the safety car as it dawned on me, the team, the crowd and the commentators that the race leader had just committed suicide.
I finally dived into the pits. The crew leapt over the wall, dressed head to toe in Army DPM clothing. Vince slammed his hydraulic gun into the front left like a demented Kwik-Fit Fitter and sparks from the wheel nuts ricocheted off his goggles. His hand was raised first, I red-lined, seconds later the jack man dumped me onto the ground and I gassed it away. I emerged from the pits dead last.
With less than half the race left to run there was hardly time to overtake twenty-four cars. But rather than focus on what I couldn’t do, I had to adjust to the situation. The win was gone. I had to launch a clear-headed counter-attack.
My spotter, big Doug, was up in the clouds, at the highest point in the grandstands. He talked to me all the time, acting like radar to position me around other cars. A good spotter was worth his weight in gold, which made Doug more valuable than the national treasury.
‘Sorry about the screw-up, Ben. The boys are gutted.’
‘Don’t worry. Let’s see how many we can take down before the end.’
I was itching for the green flag to drop. With just over twenty laps to run, the signal was given.
I was still cornering at the tail end of the snake when the leaders passed the start gantry on the pit straight. I flat-footed the throttle in second gear, the V8 squirmed as the power raged through the rear tyres and I clunked the enormous shift across to third, instantly pulling alongside my first victim. We drag-raced to the first corner; I took that flat and raced the next guy into Three. I was coming through no matter what.
I kept the pressure on and went inside, outside and underneath one car after another, loving the stability of my machine more with every pass. Doug was on overdrive. ‘Car inside, car outside, he’s on your rear quarter, hold your line, you’re clear, he’s having a look, c-c-clear.’
Coming up on a pack was like running through a crowded street; their movements were unpredictable and you had to read their body language. These cars were so unstable at high speeds that a slight knock could put everyone in the wall, so it was a delicate exercise of positioning, slip-streaming and cutting through. In the end we placed fourth.
I started the second race in fourth position, took the lead and lost it again in the pits. For some reason we lost eight places during the tyre change. I couldn’t catch the leader and finished second, which was enough to leave the first weekend as the championship leader. In spite of the performance, racing economics reared their ugly head. I was told there wasn’t enough funding to continue the season. Just as well I had a full-time part-time occupation.
Chapter 11
Hard Routine
As we moved off the muddy track it began raining. With an hour of light left, we made camp under our ponchos in a steep copse on the outskirts of the base. One of our comrades was struggling to undo the top flap of his bergen. When he succeeded, food, compass,