The Man in the White Suit_ The Stig, Le Mans, The Fast Lane and Me - Ben Collins [43]
This unlikely event was billed as The Stig’s debut appearance in a motor race in June 2003. By the time I reached the circuit, the plan had changed. I had to muster another set of racing overalls to compete as Ben Collins.
I walked into the garage to find that ‘The Stig’ was emblazoned in vinyl on the side panel of the Deux Chevaux alongside the names of my team-mates. The first of these was Anthony, a ‘Racing Reverend’, who had earned his stripes by winning the ‘Top Gear challenge for the Fastest Faith’. The other co-driver was a Top Gear presenter called Richard.
‘Who are you then?’ the team manager asked me.
‘I’m Ben,’ I said. Then, before the penny dropped all the way, ‘I’m replacing The Stig. He can’t make it.’
Whilst the peace of the Loire valley was being broken by the crack and throb of V10s and V8s for Le Mans qualifying, I drowned my sorrows with a cup of tea. A fellow tea addict approached briskly in my direction, rubbing his hands together in expectation.
‘Ah, tea!’ he exclaimed.
‘PG’s finest.’ I passed him a polystyrene cup.
I guessed this was the presenter. He looked familiar, had a confident chirp and a clutch of hippie bracelets. Some abrasions on his otherwise perfectly formed hands suggested a rugged lifestyle. He was bubbling about his tea but was clearly even more excited about the race.
We shook hands and Richard nodded like a stag offering its horns before locking. His hair was short back then, before the days of the shaggy-dog bouffant that would snap the knicker-elastic of female audiences across the UK.
‘Have you done any racing before?’ I asked.
‘No, never. Well, I did an historic race in a Rover once.’
I grinned. ‘Well it all helps …’
I talked Richard through the basics, showed him the track and where he might expect to jostle with other competitors. I explained how he could slipstream other cars and dive down the inside to pass them. He assured me that he had no interest in overtaking but appreciated the advice. He was ‘just here to have a good time and soak up the experience’.
Within a few laps of his opening stint, Richard Hammond was dicing four abreast down the pit straight. He was clamped to this pack of racers like a junkyard dog for forty minutes until he stopped for a driver change. He emerged red-faced, beaming from ear to ear.
I raised an ironic eyebrow. ‘Not interested in racing with anyone then, Richard? Just here for the craic, slow and sensible?’
‘Well, sort of, you know …’ he said a trifle sheepishly. ‘That guy in the green car cut me up, I had to do something!’
‘Of course. That must be why you scythed past three of them into the first corner and nearly ran into the turnip field.’
As for the Reverend, his Christian driving nearly resulted in a punch-up. A jumped-up, pumped-up little man with square shoulders appeared outside our garage and began remonstrating with him.
The Rev held out his palms as if he were delivering the Sunday sermon and politely explained that he’d only been trying to let him past, then apologised profusely if he had accidentally crossed him.
Mr Angry’s abuse continued unabated. I found myself drifting across the garage along with a few kindred spirits, including Hammond.
A few curt insults were exchanged and I may have suggested the other driver try cornering on his roof sometime, whilst Hammond’s stare became increasingly fixed and dilated. He looked like he was about to audition for a George Romero movie. ‘You really should leave,’ he rasped. ‘Right now.’
I liked Hammond; he was naughty.
Mr Angry scuttled off and I felt strangely proud to be included in his parting salvo, ‘Top Gear wankers …’
I had so far encountered two of the show’s presenters. The one with mad hair would have to wait. I had some pressing concerns of my own to deal with.
You know that your hearing test isn’t going well when you have to ask the doctor if it’s started yet. He looked up at me from his panel of buttons and switches and then