Читать книгу The Man in the White Suit: The Stig, Le Mans, The Fast Lane and Me - Ben Collins, Ben Collins - Страница 7

Chapter 1

Audition

Intermittent shafts of sunlight sliced across the damp carriageway through the canopy of trees. Leaves spattered away from the spinning wheels. I still had plenty of time, but this journey was worth enjoying, so I kept pulling gears and cranked the stereo.

The suspension shuddered as I braked hard on the worn tarmac and rounded a long hairpin. The car was busy but my mind, as usual, was elsewhere. Was this a good idea? Who was this guy I was meeting? Where the hell was this place?

I glanced down at my complex route directions, then realised my turning was about to appear on a blind bend. I slowed to check for oncoming traffic before veering off down a track with no discernible markings.

My left thumb clicked at the handbrake button as I toyed with the idea of a sharp about-face. I topped a gentle crest and the view widened. Just past a field of grazing sheep lay a security entrance. Three feet and two inches to the right of the middle of nowhere.

The security guard spilt his tea and leapt to his feet as I pulled up at the gate. He emerged from his cabin and approached my window. ‘Do you know where you’re going?’

‘Yes,’ I lied.

‘Who are you here with?’

That was a trickier one, but I dealt with it.

‘ Oh, OK, just follow the one-way system around.’

I drove into a vast expanse of clear skies, grass, concrete and airfield. The path ahead led to an old DC3 passenger plane. I followed the broken concrete track to the right. An office building stood amongst a haphazard collection of large green metal warehouses. I dropped down a ramp into a staging area in front of a much larger hangar. At the far end of it, on the edge of the airfield, lay a very dilapidated cabin with ‘Production’ daubed on its side. A Harrier Jump Jet was parked in the middle distance.

It seemed I’d arrived at the ‘Studio’. With a little time in hand, I walked the site.

The airfield was as flat as a billiard table, with neat green fields surrounding the tarmac landing strips. I couldn’t make out any kind of circuit in the sea of grey mist. A tired silver tree-line separated the earth from the clear blue sky.

The place must have had a real buzz in its glory days, first during the Second World War and then as a Harrier proving ground. On this still morning I could almost hear the banter of aircrew scrambling to their aircraft.

Now it felt like the Land that Time Forgot. Rusted control panels littered the area. Cracked concrete billets jostled with disused hangars and pebble-dashed Seventies monstrosities.

I paid an obligatory pre-match visit to the nearby loos. Two fresh pieces of graffiti read: ‘Fuck Jeremy Clarkson’ and ‘Richard Hammond is a’. Sadly, Hammond’s eulogy had never been completed. My laughter echoed down the deserted corridor. I felt like a madman.

I returned to the production hut and gave it the once over. A cardboard cut-out of a policeman stood guard at the window beside a larger cut-out still of John Prescott, an ironing board, a moth-eaten mini-sofa and a cluster of toxic coffee cups and Bic biros.

What the hell did they do here?

A worn chair overlooked a grubby telephone which sat, inert, on a filthy wood veneer table. A printed list of ‘key contacts’ was pinned to the wall, belying the cabin’s absence of discernible function.

Room 2 was marginally better appointed, with a small TV set surrounded by VHS tapes but no player. A few photos of random celebrities decorated the flimsy, cobwebbed walls.

Room 3 contained a large hanging rail from which hung a gold sequin jacket, a flower power shirt and an enormous pair of jeans. A crate of Red Bull lurked in the corner. The place stank of fags, mildew and Eau de Man.

With an uncertain recollection of my last tetanus jab, I opted to wait inside my car and nod off to some filthy hard house tunes.

I woke to the sound of rushing gravel as a small hatchback pulled up in front of me. I guessed this was my man by his silver hair and media issue denim jacket. I climbed out to greet him.

He hitched up his trousers and shuffled towards me like a glum but familiar uncle on a rare visit home. It was only 9.30, but his five o’clock shadow suggested he had already had a long day. He clasped a bursting folder of papers under one arm.

He looked in every direction but mine. I moved to shake his hand. With some reluctance he eventually reciprocated.

‘Right …’

‘Great to meet you, Andy.’

‘Did you tell anyone you were coming?’ he asked.

‘No,’ I said.

‘OK, good.’

Andy explained that the track would open up for some fast laps at ten. I had no idea of what the track even looked like, what car I would be driving or what test lay ahead, so it wasn’t easy to prepare for what came next.

Andy unlocked a blue Ford Focus in the car park and it dawned on me that this underpowered front-wheel-drive affair would be his measuring stick of my performance. Years of racing experience in Formula 1 style machines went out the window; it was time to rely on a few bad habits.

Andy hunched over the wheel and drove us serenely around the track. But for the occasional steely-eyed glare at a corner, his eyes sparkled as if he was enjoying some private joke.

The silver fox indicated the areas I was ‘not allowed to drive across’, such as the white lines on the exit of the first corner, coming out of the second corner, and especially those marking the ‘Hammerhead’ chicane. I nodded respectfully, as you do on the headmaster’s tour of the school grounds.

The track looked straightforward enough, and there were some ballsy fast corners in the middle that could be hairy in a proper car.

‘This one sorts the men out from the boys,’ Andy said with something approaching relish.

A riot of skid marks and freshly carved-up grass around the final corners did indeed suggest that the last two turns might be treacherous.

Andy’s expression darkened again as he parked on the start line and he compressed his lips. ‘You start each lap here, yeah, and I’ll be timing you. Go across the line and then I’ll reset so you can go again.’

‘So it’s not flying laps then?’

‘No. Standing start every time.’

‘How many do I get?’ I asked.

‘Um … we’ll do a few. OK.’

Andy disembarked. I jumped into the driver’s seat and clunk-clicked. The foam seat didn’t give much, it felt upright and too close to the wheel. I shuffled it back for some leg-room, adjusted the steering higher and removed the valet paper from the foot-well. I gave the controls a quick once-over. A five-speed manual box and a fairly solid brake pedal.

I searched the dashboard for the traction control button and turned it off for the closest its 1.6 litres could get to maximum, unbridled acceleration. I envisaged making a few reconnaissance laps to learn the track, then posting a ballistic time.

As I looked up Andy was gesticulating with his right hand and brandishing a stopwatch with his left.

‘Shit, hang on …’

I grabbed the gear-stick and jammed it into first gear, simultaneously gunning the engine to a respectable 4,000rpm. Andy’s arm dropped and I didn’t stick around to ask questions. Dumping the clutch, I lurched off the line, wheels spinning and clawing at the track.

Less revs next time …

The car felt tiny on the broad expanse of runway. I approached the first corner by positioning myself to the far right, then swung across to the left, leaving my braking till the last possible moment.

I heaved on the middle pedal and the ABS cut in immediately, reducing it to a vibrating waffle. The front tyres of the Focus were in protest all the way. I missed the middle point of the corner by a country mile, which cost me speed on to the short straight that followed. I planted the accelerator anyway.

The tyres howled with discomfort and wafts of burning rubber filled the cabin, replacing the sweet silicone smell of the new fabrics.

I pulled out of the gutter and lined up for a simple left-hand kink marked only by a white line as the surge of torque ran through the Ford’s engine. There was no need to release the throttle as we sped towards the next corner, marked by a wall of tyres, that Andy had called ‘Chicago’.

I hit the brakes with a little more sensitivity and the front tyres responded by turning more gracefully in the right direction. I slapped the stick across to second and gradually soaked up the biting point of the clutch to let the torque of the engine-braking do its job. I snatched a tiny bit of the throttle mid-corner to keep up the speed before burying it again.

I proceeded down the middle of a gigantic runway and realised I had no idea where to go next. After a while, the straight began to run out. I noticed some unfriendly looking fencing in the scrub beyond for netting runaway aircraft. I didn’t fancy tangling with it, but I didn’t want to lose time being cautious either.

To my right was a braking marker, with some squiggly white lines adjacent. The notorious Hammerhead chicane.

I whipped across to the right-hand side and dived on the brakes. The ABS thought it was having an accident, then so did I as the rear end lost grip.

I flicked the steering left and right as the back swung around like a Beyoncé bootie shake. I accelerated to regain control and the powering front wheels dragged the squirming chassis into line, a trait unique to front-wheel-drive cars.

Messy, I’ll get it right next time …

I sped down the straight towards the fast ‘Follow Through’ section. Without knowing how many laps I had to prove myself, I opted to try the corner flat out and see what gave.

I turned in towards the red-painted chevrons on the tarmac and felt the Ford’s body lean heavily on to its wheel arches as the weight swung across the suspension. The wing mirrors were scraping the floor as I ran out wide towards the grass. Her ass wiggled as she dipped in and out of a small gully and I breathed again as we rejoined the tarmac.

I approached the Chicago tyre wall for the second time, remembering to hold it flat for the left, rather than braking to turn right. The level horizon made it hard to read the ground coming fast through the dashboard but I could see a seam where the taxiway joined the main runway. I aimed for the angular join, clobbered a storm drain and flew out the other side. A flurry of spray squirted out of the brimmed windscreen washer reservoir as the impact weakened its bladder. The citrus taste in my mouth made me swallow for the first time since I started the lap.

The big challenge lay in the final two corners, which I couldn’t even see because the runway was so wide and stretched so far into the distance.

I would be approaching ‘Bacharach’ at the car’s terminal velocity. After my Hammerhead experience, I opted for a sensible approach and scoured the runway for signs of a corner. Suddenly, 100 feet to my left, an opening in the grass appeared.

The brakes groaned. The car pointed clumsily in the correct direction and travelled the breadth of the runway to finally join the corner, which abruptly tightened. The road quickly ran out and I dropped two wheels on the turf. Now I knew why this was skid mark central.

There was a short shoot to the final corner and I wondered if I could take it without braking. I dabbed the pedal anyway and was glad for it as the front broke away and the grass verge to the outside loomed into view, with Andy standing on it.

His trousers were bunching at the ankle again as he bent and fixed me with his stony gaze. He snapped down hard on his stopwatch as I crossed the line.

I pulled up alongside him and rolled down the window.

‘What do you think?’ he asked.

‘I think I know which way the track goes now. What am I trying to beat?’

‘We don’t tell you the times.’

‘What? Not even my times?’

‘Nope. The old Stig’s pretty fast round here though. He knew this place like the back of his glove. Can you go any quicker?’

‘Absolutely. That’s just my first go.’

A puff of smoke appeared from behind the wing mirror. A sniff in its direction confirmed the problem.

‘Excuse me, I think the brakes are catching fire. I’ll be back in a minute.’

I set off down the airstrip to cool the pins and assess the situation. This was unlike any qualifying session I’d done before. The rules seemed to be changing by the minute.

Without a time to beat I had to focus on maximising my personal performance. If I could put a lap together that I would struggle to repeat, I’d bet it would beat whatever benchmark time Andy had for this car. The track was simple enough, if a little hard to make out, but my peripheral vision was dialled in. Now I just needed to master the rhythm. Just one, perfect, lap.

I lined up at the start and warned Andy to stand further back this time.

My second lap was much cleaner. I punished the front tyres less by braking lighter and earlier to carry more speed into every corner. I slammed across the finish line, ran a little wide and caught a glimpse of Andy pouncing on his stopwatch.

I rolled the window down and he leant against the door.

‘How was that?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know,’ I grinned. ‘You tell me!’

‘You’re not far off.’

That was when the adrenalin started. The early laps were just kitten play. To eke out the tiny fractions of speed in every corner, I needed one exceptional run. My mouth dried as blood surged around my body and I felt the elation of impending excellence. I was becoming quicker, stronger and more explosive with every heartbeat. I was a heartbeat away from bursting out of my shirt and turning green.

I made a perfect start. The short hairs prickled on the back of my neck. At the far end of the tunnel lay the first corner. I absorbed the view. As I closed in, I allowed my vision to loosen, blur and widen into the periphery. One all-seeing eye.

I braked late, skimming the gravel on the inside and loading the front tyres just enough to prevent the ABS from gate-crashing. I squeezed the throttle. The car remained steady, boring even. Perfect.

The process was repeated through Chicago and then Hammerhead, staying just within the tolerance of the front tyres, controlling every movement, stealing every ounce of throttle, every inch of tarmac.

I used as little steering as possible through the fast right, then the left, keeping the friction of the rubber to the bare minimum with the gas pedal welded to the floor. The tyres emitted a guttural howl as all four wheels skated at 100mph. Only two turns to go.

The speed ramped up as I shifted into top gear. The markers appeared on my right side, with the 100 first. I scanned left and found the corner. Not yet. Past the 50. Not yet. The final marker, an arrow board, was coming up fast.

I braked, the car dug in, then I immediately had to release the pressure to get the front wheels to turn. It was an impossible speed and the rear skidded away. I jammed the throttle open. The front wheels spun in third gear and I flipped a coin in my head: stick or spin. Stick, you bastard.

The car launched into the corner at an acute angle, cutting across the grass at its apex and bouncing over the concrete kerbing. I was out of control, but coping.

I slid across the narrow section of tarmac and dropped three wheels on the grass on the exit. I barely had time to get back on the black stuff to blat the brake and chuck it left for the last time.

I pitched her in a bit too quick, swiped the apex, slid wide and hit the mark where Andy had been standing. The verge projected the car sideways into the air but it no longer mattered to me. It could flip on to its roof and explode because we’d still cross the finish line just 25 feet away.

I crashed landed on the other side of the grass, the metal wheel rims ploughing first into the concrete then crunching through the gravel bed lining the edge. Rocks spewed in all directions.

‘That one felt good,’ I said.

Andy was scribbling notes in his little pad.

‘Yeah. That one was faster.’

I thought to myself, Yes, I’ve bloody got this! but made no outward sign, since he hadn’t either.

His brow furrowed. ‘Do you think you can get any more out of it?’

‘More?’ That had me worried. I didn’t think it had any, but it was worth a try.

I banged in another lap that was nearly as fast as my best, then conceded that I couldn’t go any quicker.

‘All right. Well, if you think that’s it, we’ll call it a day.’

Andy put his stopwatch back into his pocket. It seemed that our business had been concluded. He thanked me and said he would call me sometime.

I waited weeks for any suggestion that my performance was up to scratch, or that there was any work with these people that might pay the rent. Andy called and asked me to send him a commercial I’d done for Vauxhall which featured lots of precision sliding close to camera on snow and ice, just the kind of tradecraft he needed. ‘Can you send the rushes too?’

‘Sure, no problem,’ I told him, not knowing what on earth he was talking about.

Rushes, I learnt, were the raw footage. By sifting through them, Andy could determine whether the director had had to edit around my driving or if I was consistently getting it right on the first take. His attention to detail knew no bounds. Only time would tell if I had a future with Top Gear.