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I turned the corner, put on my green helmet and lined up 30 metres away from a wall with a window four feet above the ground. The little incline before the window prevented any indication of what lay beyond.

Ken was eagerly looking on. ‘Now don’t fack about, Colin.’

Jones leered at me and tapped my shoulder. ‘Go.’

I sprinted at the window and dived through head first. There was a sizeable drop, a rattle of body parts and a forward roll. Next came the cargo net. Another leap cleared the first eight feet of it as I punched my arm through and hooked in at the shoulder, climbed up and flipped over the top. This pleased Ken, who jogged alongside.

The next sprint was less fluid. This upset Ken.

More climbing, jumping, swinging and running led to a brick wall. ‘Colin, get up that fackin’ wall.’

I ran in, dug my foot into the mortar line and hopped up, getting a hand on to the top. A big pull, then the other arm, and over to the finish.

The next course was a team event and unsighted. I hooked up with the Bear, Johnny and a lad from another company. We attacked the course and its festering water obstacles before approaching the monkey bars, where Geordie was lurking with a mischievous smirk. It wasn’t long before we found out why. When we were halfway across the bars, he whipped out a high-pressure hose and artfully switched his fire between our eyes, balls and fingertips.

We had a problem with our heavy Bear, who spent more time swimming the lagoon than on the bars overhead. I went back for him with Johnny and we shoved him on top of the bars, where Geordie couldn’t squirt him off.

‘Ah, that’s quick thinkin’ there, fellas.’

We sprinted to the final obstacle. I vaulted up the high wall with Johnny, but we struggled to drag Bear over, so I climbed back down and shoved him over the top with his boot in my mouth. I was wrenched over as the last man, falling in a heap on the other side, where everybody else was already waiting.

I lifted my saturated helmet from over my eyes, got to my feet and collided with the training officer. ‘Switch on, Collins. You need to work on your phys.’

An Officer and a Gentleman it wasn’t …

I loved the Army. It had become the only constant in my career. Back at ‘work’ I had to try and capitalise on my championship title and get a NASCAR drive. When I wasn’t training with the boys in green, I was back on the phone selling my soul to the marketing and advertising genii of Madison and Vine. I also had to earn some money and pitched endless ideas to Top Gear.

Winning the Texaco Trophy had opened the door with their UK marketing agent. Given that Texaco also sponsored a car in NASCAR’s top category, it was a link worth forging. I struck a deal to drive for them in the UK, with the proviso that I would compete in a NASCAR support race at Charlotte at the end of the season.

I joined a new team with a tiny operating budget. As returning champion I had it all to lose. But I still had a lot to learn about NASCAR racing, so I figured it was a risk worth taking.

The team collected our car from a pool of spares held by the series organisation and put it together. Then we set about testing, and my first laps in it confirmed my worst fears. The back end shook around as awkwardly as a John Sergeant mambo on Strictly Come Dancing. I couldn’t get anywhere near my own pace from the previous season and we ran out of adjustment on the car trying to fix it.

The first weekend was an exercise in mediocrity. We crossed the line in fifth and sixth positions. I met with one of the series organisers in his ivory tower at Rockingham and pleaded our case. Our car was incapable of winning; we needed to exchange it.

‘You are the last person we would want winning the series again,’ he explained as he rocked back on his leather chair. ‘That’s half the problem with Formula 1 these days, right, it’s bloody boring watching the same person winning again and again.’

I knew it. This was all Schumacher’s fault.

‘Well, I assume that