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The silver Porsche 911 went through next. Its powerful brakes and chassis developed over generations of racing at inclement venues like Le Mans saw it revel in the wet conditions, mullering the time set by the M6 by six seconds at an average speed of 84mph. Doesn’t sound much, but when I tipped into the fast left at ‘Black Hut’ and ran wide towards the verge it felt plenty quick. I could have had an excellent crash there. Part of me wanted to.

I rounded off with the Aston and maxed it to an identical time to the BMW. Wilman, the wily fox, eyed each timed run carefully and refused to let me do any more. I got changed and joined the presenters. They were borderline hypothermic by that point, each of them quivering like a dog crapping a peach stone. They carried on filming all day and night with the longest discussion of cars I had ever witnessed. The crew were on their chin straps by the end.

I was getting into TG. The cameras felt less intrusive and more like a protective bubble. I think the show was getting me too; my direct approach worked for the producers. Most of the time.

You can walk through any security cordon and enter any building in the world if you’re carrying a bucket of water. It makes you look purposeful, like you’re there to put out a fire or water flowers. The White Suit did all this and more. It made me virtually bullet-proof, even when tangling with the Law.

The guys wanted to build a Caterham kit car in less time than it took The Stig to drive a prefab Caterham from Kent to Knockhill racing circuit in Scotland. If I arrived before they finished, I won. The distance between the two was 465 miles.

The Caterham was one of the best track cars on the market, especially the R500. You could drive endless flat-out laps without killing the brakes or blowing the engine, or spend a day driving sideways without the rear differential exploding. Doughnuts and powerslides were tea with two sugars for this bad boy. Driving it on the road was more challenging – unless you hated your wife; you wouldn’t hear a thing she said over the engine and wind noise.

I banged along the motorway north out of London behind a Range Rover full of TV crew. Ben Joiner was filming me from inside the tailgate. His Mad Max cycling mask helped him cope with the fumes. Passengers in passing cars occasionally clocked the storm trooper in the middle lane and waved.

The Caterham’s plastic door had refused to close properly since we left Kent. As I blatted up behind the Range Rover for another shot, the whole thing flew off, spun 30 feet into the air and landed on the hard shoulder.

‘Nigel, my door just blew off. Now the roof’s got the shakes.’

‘Sorry, Stiggy, you’re just going to have to hold on. We’re a bit under the whip …’

Nigel Simpkiss was the original director and one of the creators of Top Gear’s look and feel. He had a rare talent for framing cars against landscape, which made his films wonderfully fresh. I loved Nigel’s shoots because they never lacked pace, and beneath his focus lay a deep fascination with everyone and everything around him. But it paid not to forget that a flicker of his hazel eyes could send a King Cobra scuttling home to Mummy when his temper was fraying.

A minute later I detected a blue light in my wing mirror.

‘Nigel, we’ve got company …’

‘Pull over. We’ll film this.’

With me sandwiched between the Range Rover and the Law, we pulled in to the hard shoulder. The crew were out with the camera in a flash, ready to home in on the action.

Two coppers walked up alongside the Caterham.

I stayed put.

‘Is that your door that just fell off?’

‘Yes, it is. Sorry about that.’

‘Is this your car?’

‘No.’

Pause.

‘Have you got your licence on you?’

‘No.’

Another pause.

‘What’s your name?’

I thought about it for a moment, then leant across to really spell it out for them.

‘THE STIG.’

That broke the ice. They very kindly returned my door. The pressure of Ben’s camera lens bearing down on them precipitated their rapid withdrawal, and Nigel thanked them for their understanding.

* * *

We once filmed