The Man in the White Suit_ The Stig, Le Mans, The Fast Lane and Me - Ben Collins [47]
I parked the car on pole position, which raised one of Phil’s eyebrows.
We absolutely romped both races. I knew that I was safer out of reach than stuck in the pack. The only time the others came close was during a safety car with a few of the really fast boys on my tail.
The one directly behind communicated via our spotters in the grandstands that since I needed to finish this race to win the championship, I’d better let him past, ‘or else’.
It was a physical form of racing, so this didn’t leave a lot to my imagination. I politely asked Doug to tell him to eff off. When the flag dropped I drove the fastest, most perfect laps I could. I pulled clear and sealed the championship by passing the chequered flag in first place.
I couldn’t wait to get back to the pits and see the boys. I flung off the belts, clambered out of the car and bear-hugged every one of them. They’d run a faultless operation all season without a single mechanical failure.
Phil had given birth to kittens on the pit wall but did well to conceal it behind his Oakleys. He had one more race to run. ‘Do whatever you like now, mate,’ he beamed.
We’d saved my best tyres for the second half of the final race, which meant I struggled to hold the lead in the first half on the old cheddars. When the new rubber boots went on I had a light fuel load and nothing to lose, so I could really push the envelope. I went flat out through all of the first three corners, so fast that the engine was hitting the limiter just after Number Three. I’d always braked for Four but it felt so good I just lifted off the throttle and went in. It pushed me a little wide, but I cured it with some throttle and crossed the line with a new track record. I drove that way for four laps. It was total freedom.
We took a clean sweep: a maximum points score from two pole positions, two fastest laps and two race wins to claim the Texaco Trophy and the European Ascar title.
Even Mum had felt it was safe to attend, and some dust from the pit lane must have blown into her eye when I saw her afterwards. Dad had secreted multiple cases of champagne inside the team’s hospitality unit, which he distributed liberally as he set about embracing the crew. In spite of his considerable experience of drinking the stuff he sank the first bottle a bit too quickly and it was fizzing out of his ears.
The awards ceremony took place a week later at the glorious Hilton hotel in Leicester. I dressed up like a penguin and laid off the booze being quaffed liberally by the rest of the team. The curtain slid back and we watched the season highlights with all the crashes, bashes and action. It was a proud moment receiving my award, but it was getting late and I was itching to hit the road.
I was beating a hasty exit when a hand clapped me on the back.
‘Not so fast.’
Colonel White from the TA had become increasingly avuncular during the course of the season. He beamed at me. ‘Bloody marvellous this year, lad. I’m so sorry we won’t be joining you next season; our new civvie marketing wizard just doesn’t get motor sport. Remember my offer, though; you’re still young enough to enlist.’
* * *
I beat it away from the Hilton in the middle of the night and followed the now familiar route towards the Welsh quagmire. My headlights eventually picked out one of the DSs with a brew on the go. As I parked up, he flicked on a head torch and wandered over.
‘How’d you get on then?’
‘Good, Staff. I won.’
‘Let’s ’ave a look then.’
I handed him the crystal championship trophy and was rewarded with an appreciative expletive. Then, ‘Well … better get changed and join the rest of the lads. Here’s your weapon.’
The rain started chucking it down. I trudged through the mud and scraped my way into the shelter of the pine trees. An acrid stench began to strip the membranes off my nostrils as I curled up for the night on