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There was no time to phone a friend for an expert opinion on the consequences of close-range thrust, but my backside told me that we were about to be inverted.

‘TELL THE HARRIER TO GET LOST, NOW!’ I shrieked, making the cut-throat signal with my hand for good measure.

Nick landed alongside for a restart. The Harrier held all the aces but I figured I could at least get one up on him off the line.

The director counted us down, using a high-tech starting system involving three fingers.

Nick went on ‘Go’, just after I left on ‘One’.

The Saab held the lead for about 10 metres until Nick gave it the berries. In moments he was airborne and gone.

The old Saab lolled around in the corners and was in no hurry down the straights. To its credit, the pudding-like suspension made it entertaining to drive; the rear rolled and slid when I jammed it into the corners. I ran out of steering lock to stop it from spinning at the penultimate corner, and by the time I gathered it up and approached the finish line, I could already see a smug looking fighter jock hovering above it.

I crossed the line in 1 minute 37.9 seconds. It had taken Nick just 31.2 seconds to set the outright track record.

I gave it my best shot, but he refused to hand me the keys …

With a few episodes under my belt I was getting used to Top Gear’s guerrilla filming and they were getting used to my unorthodox method of training the celebrities. My goal was to beat Jodie Kidd’s celeb record of 1 minute 48.0, and that meant pushing people hard. I just needed a celeb who was willing to hang it out there.

On the morning of my fifth episode I was completing a vital experiment with a bald man in a toupé. He sat in the passenger seat whilst I hammered three cars up and down the runway to see which one was best at keeping his wig on. The syrup stood firm at 140mph in a Mercedes SL, so we had a winner.

Jim Wiseman was standing by the luxurious Suzuki Liana, awaiting the celebrity guest. He checked the footage coming through the clamshell recorder for the Suzuki’s minicams. One was positioned right in the eye line of the driver, to pick up their reactions or pieces-to-camera.

Dennis, our minicam perfectionist, double-checked the exposure. There was no rain in sight but he was dressed in his all-in-one waterproof anorak, prepared as ever for the worst.

‘Good picture, Dennis. Are these secure?’ He nudged the clamps that held the cameras to the roll cage.

‘When have I ever let you lot down?’ Dennis moaned.

Simon Cowell strolled down the airfield towards us. He looked momentarily bemused by the cartoon scene of me dressed like a storm trooper alongside Tintin and Mutley, standing by a cheap rental car.

His smile broadened again as he rolled up his black shirtsleeves to shake hands with everyone, instantly sweeping his TV’s Mr Nasty persona to one side. Pop Idol was already a huge hit, and every TV format and pop act he touched was turning to gold.

We fitted Simon out with a seriously unflattering helmet, an ‘egg’ as he called it, and climbed aboard the Liana.

I explained that the best way to drive the lap was with his hands firmly at ‘a quarter to three’ and his thumbs just over the steering wheel’s T-bar. Most people thread the rim through their grip as they turn. Why? Because that was the rubbish we were all taught to pass our driving tests. I urged Simon to fix his, and cross them all the way over. He’d know immediately when he’d gone into a corner too fast. When your arms run out of lock, the tyres have long since run out of grip.

We’d leave braking until the last possible moment, I said, and in some corners it would feel like making an emergency stop. Simon remained expressionless, nodding occasionally and cocking his head to one side as he thought about it.

I drove a slow lap to pinpoint the corners. It was surprisingly easy to get lost in the featureless landscape.

‘This time round I’ll go flat out, so you can see it won’t tip over.’

The speed