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Apart from the occasional blast with TG, my whole life had become centred on passing the Army course, whatever it took. I prepared all my equipment for the final exercise and streamlined my webbing with fresh bungee cord that made it lighter, tighter and very Gucci darling. I loaded essential condiments such as Tabasco and olive oil to transform my ‘rat packs’ into the kind of pukka taste sensations that would make Jamie Oliver drool.

Lastly, Dr Collins’s surgery was stocked with eight packs of synthetic ice to soothe my creaking Achilles tendon between beastings, enough oxide tape to mummify a giraffe, and elephantine doses of anti-inflammatories. For all the bravado, I was crapping myself about the prospect of failure. It would only take one misplaced step on a cold morning to put me out of action.

* * *

With my kit squared away I was ready for war, but before that I had to go and compete at Rockingham. I switched my head into racing mode. The team had been working around the clock to put the new car together. As I climbed in for the first time, Graham, the team manager, stood in front with his headcans on, arms folded. Graham was a grafter. His normally gentle face was taut and unsmiling.

‘Radio check.’

‘Good, yeah,’ Graham replied.

‘Don’t worry, if it drives half as good as it looks they won’t stand a chance.’

I got the impression he didn’t necessarily agree.

I took her out for a spin and felt the grip hook the chassis into the track again. We were back in business.

I qualified on pole and we blitzed the first race of the day. Graham personally worked one of the pneumatic wheel guns to guarantee a lightning pit stop; the sparks flew off the spinning metal and he kept me in front of the pack until we crossed the line. He was so ecstatic when I came into the pits that he threw his radio on the floor and picked me up off the ground and grinned the winner’s smile. It put us on pole for the second round later that afternoon and I planned on repeating the result.

I led the field into the rolling start and wove and slammed the throttle to get as much heat into the tyres as possible. As we approached the back straight I lined up to sweep through the final corner and allowed the other cars to form around me. Colin White’s bright green machine pulled so close we nearly collided. A gesture of intent.

I sped up and found my engine’s sweet spot in second gear as we approached the start, and the instant the flag twitched I buried the long throttle pedal. As we hurtled towards Turn One I narrowly held the advantage, committed my entry speed and opened a tiny gap. Colin held close inside.

I kept enough margin to be able to take a racing line through Two, with Colin darting inside in a futile harassing move, but my tyres just weren’t gripping enough to shake him loose. The last thing I wanted was to concede the lead and get embroiled in a dogfight.

I forced the throttle wide open through Three and skidded towards the exit wall. Colin had a run on me. The back straight was four lanes wide and I was in lane four on the right-hand side. To have the lead going into the final corner, I had to get left across the track into lane one. So did Colin.

As I covered across the track the green car went with me, then he pulled towards my inside. According to the rules I could block his move once, and only when he was fully behind. By the time I reached lane two, the green car was alongside my rear bumper in lane one. I had raced him hard; now I had to be fair and give him room. I stopped covering and let him pull alongside as we wound up to 175mph.

An almighty force rocked through the cabin as I was flung around into a spin. I instinctively jammed the brakes, took in a half breath and waited. As the car sped backwards it felt like I was falling. I stared through the windscreen at the pack of pursuers slowly blurring around me. Smoke blossomed from my tyres as the topside melted away and the canvas shredded and punctured. The wall rushed up