The Man in the White Suit: The Stig, Le Mans, the Fast Lane and Me (15 page)

The one directly behind communicated via our spotters in the grandstands that since I needed to finish this race to win the championship, I’d better let him past, ‘or else’.

It was a physical form of racing, so this didn’t leave a lot to my imagination. I politely asked Doug to tel him to eff off. When the flag dropped I drove the fastest, most perfect laps I could. I pul ed clear and sealed the championship by passing the chequered flag in first place.

I couldn’t wait to get back to the pits and see the boys. I flung off the belts, clambered out of the car and bear-hugged every one of them. They’d run a faultless operation al season without a single mechanical failure.

Phil had given birth to kittens on the pit wal but did wel to conceal it behind his Oakleys. He had one more race to run. ‘Do whatever you like now, mate,’ he beamed.

We’d saved my best tyres for the second half of the final race, which meant I struggled to hold the lead in the first half on the old cheddars. When the new rubber boots went on I had a light fuel load and nothing to lose, so I could real y push the envelope. I went flat out through al of the first three corners, so fast that the engine was hitting the limiter just after Number Three. I’d always braked for Four but it felt so good I just lifted off the throttle and went in. It pushed me a little wide, but I cured it with some throttle and crossed the line with a new track record. I drove that way for four laps. It was total freedom.

We took a clean sweep: a maximum points score from two pole positions, two fastest laps and two race wins to claim the Texaco Trophy and the European Ascar title.

Even Mum had felt it was safe to attend, and some dust from the pit lane must have blown into her eye when I saw her afterwards. Dad had secreted multiple cases of champagne inside the team’s hospitality unit, which he distributed liberal y as he set about embracing the crew. In spite of his considerable experience of drinking the stuff he sank the first bottle a bit too quickly and it was fizzing out of his ears.

The awards ceremony took place a week later at the glorious Hilton hotel in Leicester. I dressed up like a penguin and laid off the booze being quaffed liberal y by the rest of the team. The curtain slid back and we watched the season highlights with al the crashes, bashes and action. It was a proud moment receiving my award, but it was getting late and I was itching to hit the road.

I was beating a hasty exit when a hand clapped me on the back.

‘Not so fast.’

Colonel White from the TA had become increasingly avuncular during the course of the season. He beamed at me. ‘Bloody marvel ous this year, lad. I’m so sorry we won’t be joining you next season; our new civvie marketing wizard just doesn’t get motor sport. Remember my offer, though; you’re stil young enough to enlist.’

I beat it away from the Hilton in the middle of the night and fol owed the now familiar route towards the Welsh quagmire. My headlights eventual y picked out one of the DSs with a brew on the go. As I parked up, he flicked on a head torch and wandered over.

‘How’d you get on then?’

‘Good, Staff. I won.’

‘Let’s ’ave a look then.’

I handed him the crystal championship trophy and was rewarded with an appreciative expletive.

Then, ‘Wel … better get changed and join the rest of the lads. Here’s your weapon.’

The rain started chucking it down. I trudged through the mud and scraped my way into the shelter of the pine trees. An acrid stench began to strip the membranes off my nostrils as I curled up for the night on a bed of sheep droppings. Their erstwhile owners were clearly in dire need of medical attention. I heard a rustling sound nearby. One of the boys was moving off for a piss, hopeful y not on the face of the last man in.

I
made my way to Dunsfold a couple of days later and climbed grateful y into my silky white suit.

Lieutenant Nick Arkle from the Royal Navy climbed into his olive green one. We were about to see if a flyboy driving a Harrier Jump Jet could beat The Stig in a Saab 9-5 Aero.

James May was looking eagerly across the airstrip from the shelter of the production office with a coffee in one hand and a scrunched yel ow script in the other. I found James to be a thoughtful character, who looked like a motoring version of Doctor Who with his floppy hair and stripy jumpers. As I greeted him he turned and saluted. ‘Good morning, sir. How do you fancy your chances?’

‘Not great. But if he doesn’t win he’l probably shoot me.’

He gave me an indulgent smile. ‘Did you ever see the flying bedstead contraption they used to develop the Harrier back in the Fifties?’

‘I think so. The one that looked like an insect?’

‘Mmm. Marvel ous technology, especial y when you think that jets had only been around for a few years back then. Brave men tinkering with the extremities of physics.’

I knew a bit about Harrier pilots from growing up in America during the Falklands confl ict. I had a poster detailing the fleet of ships that carried our troops and aircraft thousands of miles across the ocean to face an unlikely but determined enemy. As a kid in a foreign country I felt proud to be British, watching TV

clips of Paras and Marines tabbing across the desolate, misty terrain, into the unknown. Ace pilots like Flight Lieutenant David Morgan became heroes to me as they flew dangerous missions to defend the fleet.

I never imagined that twenty years on I’d be racing against a Harrier pilot at the very airfield it was first flown and developed.

The Harrier weighed in with 21,000 pounds of jet thrust versus the Saab’s 3-litre blancmange. I asked Nick how close to the ground he wanted to fly, just in case I needed to duck.

‘Shouldn’t be hanging around long, Stig. Once I get a few knots under my belt I’l be pul ing angels.’

Slick and self-assured, Nick real y looked the part. I could imagine him at the bar popping out lines from
Top Gun
to a melting audience. The fact that he was a good bloke only made it worse.

We’d start alongside one another on the runway and blast off together. The Harrier would get in the air and fol ow the course of the lap – ish – whilst I blatted round the tarmac.

The Harrier started to get noisy even though the director stil couldn’t make up his mind whether Nick should start the race in the air or on the ground.

I looked across the Saab’s modest felt interior and watched the Sea Harrier pul alongside me. It was a hot day and with no air conditioning the sweat was trickling from my helmet lining and stinging my eyes.

The radio crackled. The director shouted instructions, one word at a time, over the screaming jet engines.

‘RIGHT … STIIIG … THE … HARRIER … IS … GOING … TO … HOVER … OVER … THE … TOP … OF

… THE … CAR … AND … WE … MIGHT … START … THE … RACE … OK?’

‘OK.’ With zero chance of being heard, I added a thumbs up.

A few moments later Nick cranked his engines and rose vertical y some 40 feet. The noise inside the Saab was deafening.

The Harrier moved in my direction. The 1,000mph, 400˚C exhaust announced its presence loud and clear. The right-hand side of the car lifted a little and wobbled. The director had his eyes closed and his high-visibility jacket around his ears. The crew shielded their eyes as plastic bags and other debris careered towards them, but kept their cameras pointed in our general direction.

I could hear nothing above the sound of the jet blast, so I would miss the start unless someone waved. Then Nick must have done something, because the pressure seemed to double and the Saab sank into its suspension until the tyres topped out on the wheel arches. The wobbling stopped; there was a moment of peace, and then, al of a sudden, one side of the car flicked up.

There was no time to phone a friend for an expert opinion on the consequences of close-range thrust, but my backside told me that we were about to be inverted.

‘TELL THE HARRIER TO GET LOST, NOW!’ I shrieked, making the cut-throat signal with my hand for good measure.

Nick landed alongside for a restart. The Harrier held al the aces but I figured I could at least get one up on him off the line.

The director counted us down, using a high-tech starting system involving three fingers.

Nick went on ‘Go’, just after I left on ‘One’.

The Saab held the lead for about 10 metres until Nick gave it the berries. In moments he was airborne and gone.

The old Saab lol ed around in the corners and was in no hurry down the straights. To its credit, the pudding-like suspension made it entertaining to drive; the rear rol ed and slid when I jammed it into the corners. I ran out of steering lock to stop it from spinning at the penultimate corner, and by the time I gathered it up and approached the finish line, I could already see a smug looking fighter jock hovering above it.

I crossed the line in 1 minute 37.9 seconds. It had taken Nick just 31.2 seconds to set the outright track record.

I gave it my best shot, but he refused to hand me the keys …

With a few episodes under my belt I was getting used to
Top Gear
’s guerril a filming and they were getting used to my unorthodox method of training the celebrities. My goal was to beat Jodie Kidd’s celeb record of 1 minute 48.0, and that meant pushing people hard. I just needed a celeb who was willing to hang it out there.

On the morning of my fifth episode I was completing a vital experiment with a bald man in a toupé.

He sat in the passenger seat whilst I hammered three cars up and down the runway to see which one was best at keeping his wig on. The syrup stood firm at 140mph in a Mercedes SL, so we had a winner.

Jim Wiseman was standing by the luxurious Suzuki Liana, awaiting the celebrity guest. He checked the footage coming through the clamshel recorder for the Suzuki’s minicams. One was positioned right in the eye line of the driver, to pick up their reactions or pieces-to-camera.

Dennis, our minicam perfectionist, double-checked the exposure. There was no rain in sight but he was dressed in his al -in-one waterproof anorak, prepared as ever for the worst.

‘Good picture, Dennis. Are these secure?’ He nudged the clamps that held the cameras to the rol cage.

‘When have I ever let you lot down?’ Dennis moaned.

Simon Cowel strol ed down the airfield towards us. He looked momentarily bemused by the cartoon scene of me dressed like a storm trooper alongside Tintin and Mutley, standing by a cheap rental car.

His smile broadened again as he rol ed up his black shirtsleeves to shake hands with everyone, instantly sweeping his TV’s Mr Nasty persona to one side.
Pop Idol
was already a huge hit, and every TV

format and pop act he touched was turning to gold.

We fitted Simon out with a seriously unflattering helmet, an ‘egg’ as he cal ed it, and climbed aboard the Liana.

I explained that the best way to drive the lap was with his hands firmly at ‘a quarter to three’ and his thumbs just over the steering wheel’s T-bar. Most people thread the rim through their grip as they turn. Why?

Because that was the rubbish we were al taught to pass our driving tests. I urged Simon to fix his, and cross them al the way over. He’d know immediately when he’d gone into a corner too fast. When your arms run out of lock, the tyres have long since run out of grip.

We’d leave braking until the last possible moment, I said, and in some corners it would feel like making an emergency stop. Simon remained expressionless, nodding occasional y and cocking his head to one side as he thought about it.

I drove a slow lap to pinpoint the corners. It was surprisingly easy to get lost in the featureless landscape.

‘This time round I’l go flat out, so you can see it won’t tip over.’

The speed didn’t faze Simon whatsoever; he could have been signing another record deal in the Sony boardroom. I knew I could real y push him.

He got into the driver’s seat and wiggled the gearstick, which crunched in anticipation.

‘You
real y
have to hand it to Jeremy,’ he said. ‘What a piece of shit.’

I told him to rev it to three and a half thousand and just dump the clutch. ‘Don’t slip it like you would in Sainsbury’s car park.’ As if Simon hung out at Sainsbury’s.

We sped off. After a single sighting lap, he began marrying every suggestion I made with smal adjustments to his rather basic style.

Simon drove like my mum, with an upright posture and a stiff upper lip. He did shuffle the wheel through his hands to take the corners; the habit was clearly too ingrained for me to change it in the short time we had together. I focused his attention instead on taking a wide approach to the corners and gauging his speed by looking ahead.

What set him apart, made him truly sublime, was his ability to feel the level of grip the car was producing and to match that with precisely the right speed for each corner. He was a real natural.

When he cocked up, he would laugh or cal himself a wanker. When the Liana pirouetted at warp 9

through clouds of dust and grass, he remained as calm as a Hindu cow and asked, ‘What happened that time?’ in a tone that was drier than Ghandi’s flip-flop.

I explained the tiny adjustments he needed to make to his line into the corners, turning in later to give the tyres less work to do on a continuous arc, where to brake less and carry extra speed.

His improvement impressed him. After a few laps he said, ‘You’re real y good. Who are you?’

Coming from a talent scout with the world at his feet to someone looking for a way ahead in it, there was only one logical answer. But I didn’t give it. After nine laps of my backseat driving, I stayed silent for a lap and he didn’t make a single error. Simon was ready to go solo.

Dennis rol ed the in-car cameras and Jim politely asked Simon for ‘plenty of chat’. I suggested he put in a banker lap first time round, nothing too crazy.

Every lap began from a standing start, which enabled us to chat to Simon and move cameras during the re-set. He set off to the shril sound of spinning tyres and I fol owed his progress from the edge of the track.