The Man in the White Suit_ The Stig, Le Mans, The Fast Lane and Me - Ben Collins [73]
He was new to the TG production team, but he had a point. I’d never set one.
We’d already hosted two Formula 1 drivers. Damon Hill came along for a laugh, and Aussie star Mark Webber set a sensational time in the rain. Mark recognised me immediately from our Formula 3 days, apparently from the way I walked, so I made him swear not to tell anyone.
Our next guest was World Champion Nigel Mansell.
As he made his way down the tarmac to join us, he grew increasingly agitated. By the time he reached the car, the producer seemed to have his hands full. I walked away to relieve some of the pressure.
Nigel wasn’t happy. ‘I don’t know about this. No one told me I’d be driving this thing for a lap time … Ooh no, no, no …’ He prowled around the Liana, kicking its tyres.
No one dared say it, but why else was he carrying his personal racing helmet?
Producer: ‘Right. Well … um … you don’t have to drive it, obviously … but we were really hoping you could … do a few laps before the interview …’
Uncomfortable silence.
I decided it was time to break the ice.
‘Hi, Nigel, it’s really great to meet you. This car is shit …’
Nigel: ‘You’re telling me.’
‘… but it’s quite fun to drive …’
No comment.
Me: ‘Have you been busy?’
Nigel: ‘Yeah, I’ve been racing in the new Grand Prix Masters series. I won the last race at Kyalami, actually.’ He leant closer. ‘In one of the fast corners I was 14kph faster than Jan Lammers.’
Me: ‘Awesome.’
Some of the tension dissipated, but we weren’t out of the woods. Our Nige made a final inspection of the shitbox, then mumbled something that sounded vaguely conciliatory and put on his familiar Union Jack racing helmet. We were on.
I was a big fan of Mansell in F1 mode. Even Senna and Schumacher had no answer to his attacking style when he was on one, like when he overtook Gerhard Berger around the outside of the sweeping last corner at the 1990 Mexico Grand Prix.
Mansell’s physical strength was apparent in shoulders that extended from his ear lobes. During the active suspension era of F1 he was the only driver physically capable of coping with the G-forces. It was rumoured that he clenched his teeth so hard during one qualifying session that it shattered a molar. In the Liana, with no grip to manhandle, I reckoned that approach might slow him down.
Nigel didn’t want to be driven, so I hopped in the passenger seat and directed him around a lap of the track to show him the lines. He sparked up on the second lap; I was impressed by how quickly he’d adapted to the car. He was committed every inch of the way.
I left Nigel and joined a giddy Jim Wiseman.
‘How was he?’
‘He’s bloody good, obviously. This could be interesting; he’s taking it seriously.’
Nigel dumped the clutch and wheelspun away. The car screeched and groaned from one turn to the next. He completed the lap by neatly slicing the final corner, the rear kicking slightly wide and dropping a wheel into the gravel. It looked precise, tidy and angry. It was also a new record. A high 1.45 on his opening lap.
Jim ran over. Nigel’s eyes were round and unblinking, his nostrils flared. It was a look I knew very well. The window slid down and the voice of Jim’s boyhood hero spoke to him from behind the helmet he had followed for fifteen years on TV. ‘What’s me time on that one?’
Jim looked apologetic. ‘We can’t tell you the times until the interview.’
‘Bollocks to that, mate,’ Nige said. ‘Tell me my bloody time.’
‘Um … I can tell you if your times are getting faster or slower, but not the actual time. Sorry …’
The window wound up again.
Nigel drove the Liana, twitching with complaint, to the edge of its physical boundaries and then beyond. But the car looked slow in the straights. Jim let me swap it for the spare.