The Man in the White Suit_ The Stig, Le Mans, The Fast Lane and Me - Ben Collins [46]
‘Don’t even think about it,’ Bernie rasped.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Fucking certain. We’ll go back up the track.’
A grey-haired couple made their way past us, walking their dog. ‘Good morning, boys.’
‘Good morning,’ we replied in choirboy unison.
Following Indiana Jones had cost us ten minutes we didn’t have. We reached the bottom and charged along the tarmac road towards the ‘twat wagon’ parked in the layby, arriving in the nick of time. I necked my milkshake and used the hot tea to help me gobble clumps of concrete chocolate. Four swigs later it was time to saddle up for the return leg.
We headed straight back up the minging slope we had just come down, before curling round the mountain, back into the weather. You could lean 45 degrees into the wind without falling over. As the slope neared the vertical I dragged myself up by pulling on a barbed wire fence, leaning on my weapon, hands and knees, chin strap. I was flat dead. At long last the descent began, and I started to catch people again. I ran past Plissken’s basha. He flicked the ash off a cigarette and shouted, ‘Straight down the hill, son. Keep it up.’
For the first time, I felt I was going to make it. It made the back of my head tingle. We sprinted the last kilometre. My boot lost traction for one final spectacular face plant into the muddy track.
The finish was in sight and the lead group were cheering us in, with Kojak whipping up proceedings into a drag race with a guy who suddenly appeared behind me.
‘He’s catchin’ ya. C’mon, lads, he’s catchin’ ya!’
I was the seventh man in.
The DS stared at me over his clipboard, unable to identify the bog man standing before him.
‘It’s Collins, Staff.’
His pencil ticked me off. A little over half our number made the cutoff point. Laughing Corporal described the cull as ‘carnage’.
We shuffled towards our transports like a gang of rubbery-legged John Waynes. The pain in our bodies was far more bearable than the anguish of the guys who didn’t make it; some were lost in the fog for hours, including my old chum and navigational genius the Lord of War.
I melted into my seat and turned on my mobile. A text from one of the Top Gear production assistants read, ‘Naughty naughty mr stig, heard you were telling people who you were in a restaurant last night …’
‘What?’ I said aloud. I must have missed the section of the Naafiwith white tablecloths.
I angrily texted my reply. ‘No I didn’t, no I wasn’t. Must be someone else.’
A couple of beeps heralded the reply. ‘Watch out. remember what happened to the last stig …’
The brutality of the march had reduced our group to a more manageable number. The survivors included a few surprises like Johnny, the silent but apparently deadly schoolteacher, Milo the IT technician and one born-again racing driver.
* * *
The RML team put their faith in me and kept my car on the track for the remainder of the Ascar season, in spite of the financial burden. It was a magical year. We led every race, winning most of them, with the help of soldiers from all regiments, some of them working on the pit wall. Colonel White, who was running the exercise, reckoned it was the most effective recruiting drive they’d ever employed.
We had a good lead going into the last race weekend of the season. The championship title was within our grasp, so it was time for a pep talk with Phil, the team manager.
‘Now, I’m sure you’re aware of this Texaco Trophy they’ve thrown into the mix for this weekend …’
I certainly was. It was a special award for the driver who scored the most points over the final weekend.
‘Well, you can forget all about that bollocks. You’re here to become a champion and that’s all you need to focus on. All you need to do is finish tenth in both races to win it.’
He was absolutely right. Settle for tenth. No brainer.
I took the TA car on to the track for practise and realised we had a gift. I’d been driving the