The Man in the White Suit_ The Stig, Le Mans, The Fast Lane and Me - Ben Collins [48]
Chapter 14
Cowell’s Got Talent
I made my way to Dunsfold a couple of days later and climbed gratefully into my silky white suit. Lieutenant Nick Arkle from the Royal Navy climbed into his olive green one. We were about to see if a flyboy driving a Harrier Jump Jet could beat The Stig in a Saab 9-5 Aero.
James May was looking eagerly across the airstrip from the shelter of the production office with a coffee in one hand and a scrunched yellow script in the other. I found James to be a thoughtful character, who looked like a motoring version of Doctor Who with his floppy hair and stripy jumpers. As I greeted him he turned and saluted. ‘Good morning, sir. How do you fancy your chances?’
‘Not great. But if he doesn’t win he’ll probably shoot me.’
He gave me an indulgent smile. ‘Did you ever see the flying bedstead contraption they used to develop the Harrier back in the Fifties?’
‘I think so. The one that looked like an insect?’
‘Mmm. Marvellous technology, especially when you think that jets had only been around for a few years back then. Brave men tinkering with the extremities of physics.’
I knew a bit about Harrier pilots from growing up in America during the Falklands confl ict. I had a poster detailing the fleet of ships that carried our troops and aircraft thousands of miles across the ocean to face an unlikely but determined enemy. As a kid in a foreign country I felt proud to be British, watching TV clips of Paras and Marines tabbing across the desolate, misty terrain, into the unknown. Ace pilots like Flight Lieutenant David Morgan became heroes to me as they flew dangerous missions to defend the fleet.
I never imagined that twenty years on I’d be racing against a Harrier pilot at the very airfield it was first flown and developed.
The Harrier weighed in with 21,000 pounds of jet thrust versus the Saab’s 3-litre blancmange. I asked Nick how close to the ground he wanted to fly, just in case I needed to duck.
‘Shouldn’t be hanging around long, Stig. Once I get a few knots under my belt I’ll be pulling angels.’
Slick and self-assured, Nick really looked the part. I could imagine him at the bar popping out lines from Top Gun to a melting audience. The fact that he was a good bloke only made it worse.
We’d start alongside one another on the runway and blast off together. The Harrier would get in the air and follow the course of the lap – ish – whilst I blatted round the tarmac.
The Harrier started to get noisy even though the director still couldn’t make up his mind whether Nick should start the race in the air or on the ground.
I looked across the Saab’s modest felt interior and watched the Sea Harrier pull alongside me. It was a hot day and with no air conditioning the sweat was trickling from my helmet lining and stinging my eyes. The radio crackled. The director shouted instructions, one word at a time, over the screaming jet engines. ‘RIGHT … STIIIG … THE … HARRIER … IS … GOING … TO … HOVER … OVER … THE … TOP … OF … THE … CAR … AND … WE … MIGHT … START … THE … RACE … OK?’
‘OK.’ With zero chance of being heard, I added a thumbs up.
A few moments later Nick cranked his engines and rose vertically some 40 feet. The noise inside the Saab was deafening.
The Harrier moved in my direction. The 1,000mph, 400˚C exhaust announced its presence loud and clear. The right-hand side of the car lifted a little and wobbled. The director had his eyes closed and his high-visibility jacket around his ears. The crew shielded their eyes as plastic bags and other debris careered towards them, but kept their cameras pointed in our general direction.
I could hear nothing above the sound of the jet blast, so I would miss the start unless someone waved. Then Nick must have done something, because the pressure seemed to double and the Saab sank into its suspension until the tyres topped out on the wheel