The Man in the White Suit: The Stig, Le Mans, the Fast Lane and Me (24 page)

We didn’t real y seem to hit it off. Maybe he was nervous, or I wasn’t getting the message across very wel . Or perhaps he was suffering the after-effects of a bad vindaloo. But I didn’t give up on him.

Wal iams put the hammer down, but whereas Jimmy Carr would disappear off the circuit without a prayer of making the corner, this lad would nearly make it, then just lose it at the last moment. It was agonising to watch; he was so close to getting it right, but his excursions were denting his confidence.

I tried to help him fight fire with fire by recommending that he brake even later for the corners where he was spinning; I thought it would force him to brake harder and therefore make the corner.

The camera crew were set up ten metres to one side to capture him going across the line. I stood between them and the final corner.

Wal iams piled into the second to last bend, braked late and skidded sideways and on to the verge, kicking up a plume of dust as he regained the track. Beautiful. I dared to think that my plan had worked.

Then he completely missed the turning-in point for the final corner. He was going way too fast and heading straight across the grass toward us.

He just needed to lift off the accelerator. I jogged backwards as he closed in and tried explaining this with hand signals.

The brain can only process so much new information. Once it reaches overload in a crisis situation, logic leaves the building. In this scenario, Wal iams wanted to brake and avoid kil ing us, but his body was too scared to move its own foot. In fact, al the time he was thinking about braking, his foot was pushing harder on the accelerator, a common cause of accidents on the road.

Within seconds the Liana had chewed up the grass run-off and we were out of time.

With a wire fence behind us and a wide-eyed Wal iams inbound, I turned to Wiseman and shouted

‘
RUN
’. Jim grabbed the soundman, I yanked the camera operator and we darted for cover.

The Liana lurched over the grass rise, al four wheels left the ground, and it landed roughly where I’d been standing. The tyre marks were just an inch wide of the tripod.

Wiseman burst out laughing, apparently entertained by my wildly inventive sign language.

The car came to a rest 40 metres past us. I caught my breath and opened his door. ‘It’s OK –

everyone’s OK. Are
you
al right, David?’

His belts were already off and he climbed out of the car looking deeply shocked. It was his final lap anyway so we aimed David in the direction of the tea urn and cal ed it a day.

The cars took a royal pounding over the years. They were invariably launched into the air over the verge at the final corner, landed on the wheel rims and then bounced through the gravel gul y. If you weren’t using the gul y you weren’t trying hard enough. We had to keep a watchful eye on the hubs and the suspension.

When Lionel Richie was in the driving seat we heard a strange clanking noise at the first corner. I could just make out his car veering on to the grass. As he hit the brakes, the front wheel fel off, stayed upright and then overtook him. The Liana slumped on to its brake disc, lost al front grip and scraped along the tarmac in a shower of sparks.

There was mild panic at our HQ. The Pop God who had fronted over 100 mil ion records appeared to be bent on giving us the
Top Gear
version of ‘Dancing on the Ceiling’.

Jim and I hurtled into the ambulance with the rescue crew, with visions of Lionel’s ‘people’ suing us into oblivion if his French tickler moustache was even fractional y out of shape.

The great man was standing in the middle of the field he had so recently ploughed, his leather jacket stil immaculate, staring, mystified, at a car he could buy with his loose change. To our relief, he started to laugh. ‘The damn wheel fel off!’ We swapped him into the spare Liana and he squeezed out a great time –

given that he only used third gear. He had serious issues adjusting to the ‘stick shift’.

Lionel may only have driven automatics but he had a major advantage over one guest. Johnny Vegas had yet to pass his driving test. After a few laps I noticed that he was making a silky smooth transition from the brakes to the power, so I had a look in the footwel .

I told him that he was left-foot braking, a technique used by ral y and Formula 1 drivers; rather an advanced style for a beginner.

‘I’m doin’ whaat? Sorry, maaate …’ He had no idea what he was doing.

I handed the husky-voiced northerner back to his BSM driving instructor and thought, good luck mate. His test was booked the fol owing month.

After five seasons we had a list of seriously fast times set by the boys from the Big Screen. It fel on one slip of a girl to put them al in their place.

El en MacArthur listened intently to every instruction, nodded calmly and said, ‘Right’, or ‘OK’. She wasn’t a talker; she just did it. Her expression at breakneck speed was as serene as it must have been when she was watering plants.

It was hard to imagine this tiny, rose-cheeked beauty as a record-breaking loon, circumnavigating the globe single-handed on a boat the size of Lionel Richie’s limo.

I asked if she had ever been afraid. She recal ed a night in the Southern Ocean when her little trimaran was skimming down waves the size of Alpine val eys at 30 knots, and she had to just rely on the sureness of her touch to prevent it from capsizing. A flat stretch of tarmac couldn’t pose much danger after an experience of that magnitude.

El en’s innate bravery was compounded by the fact that she weighed so little, which assisted the Liana’s speed in a straight line. She shot to the top of the board, just seven tenths of a second slower than the Black Stig’s benchmark of 1.46.0. Which may have prompted Grant Wardrop’s next question, posed to me from behind his mirrored aviators. ‘Anyway, what time have
you
done in the Liana?

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 Hil 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 tel anyone.

Our next guest was World Champion Nigel Mansel .

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 ful . 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. Wel … um … you don’t have to drive it, obviously … but we were real y 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 real y great to meet you. This car is shit …’

Nigel: ‘You’re tel ing 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, actual y.’ 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 Mansel 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.

Mansel ’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 physical y 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 wel . The window slid down and the voice of Jim’s boyhood hero spoke to him from behind the helmet he had fol owed for fifteen years on TV. ‘What’s me time on that one?’

Jim looked apologetic. ‘We can’t tel you the times until the interview.’

‘Bol ocks to that, mate,’ Nige said. ‘Tel me my bloody time.’

‘Um … I can tel 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.

I gingerly suggested that Nigel braked a bit later at the penultimate turn. Tel ing a World Champion to brake later was … uncomfortable. He duly did and hooked the car in with bul ish gusto, sending up the familiar dust clouds on the apex and exit of the corner. It was his fastest lap of al – 1.44.6.

Nigel launched several equal y determined attempts, then wound down the window. ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘I’ve got no more.’

What an operator. He put everyone around him on tiptoe, delivered a mega performance and wore his heart on his sleeve. He was the most competitive person I’d ever met. You could hear it in his voice, even when he was just talking about his golf handicap.

‘Il Leone’, as the Ferrari fans cal ed him, had taken a major bite out of the track record to mark the retirement of the faithful Suzuki Liana. She was knackered. The front wheel had been jettisoned three times, with Lionel Richie, footbal er Ian Wright and actor Trevor Eve. We blew innumerable clutches (twice in one day with David Soul), cracked the gearbox casing, snapped the gear selector, broke the suspension and dented the panels.

I hoped for a more durable replacement to kick off Series 8. Instead I was handed the keys to a 119bhp Chevrolet Lacetti. It had the worst gearbox money could buy and the paintwork matched the Liana’s drab grey/blue.

Jeremy invited seven mad celebs to come along on the same day and set some times. He decided it would be a great idea to host a picnic during lapping, on the verge at the last corner. There was no point arguing; I had my work cut out.

James Hewitt, the love rat, arrived first and canoodled a time, then Alan Davies gurned a lap. Trevor Eve, with his crushing handshake, managed to destroy a clutch before lunchtime, but he was fastest. Rick Wakeman climbed aboard and casual y remarked that he had suffered several heart attacks in the past.

‘Are you sure you should be doing this?’

‘What do you think, Stig?’

‘I think you’re mad, but it’s your cal .’

Off we went.

Jeremy and Hammo were getting stuck into jam tarts and tea whilst I did my best to gather up Jimmy Carr. Rock Star Justin Hawkins joined the mêlée and flat-footed it everywhere with a perma-grin. After that he joined Clarkson in song, with Wakeman tapping out a tune on an electric keyboard. I spent the whole afternoon behind the mask, wondering why no one else found the situation utterly surreal.

Les Ferdinand arrived last. He was a pro footbal er, so he’d probably seen a few sights in his time.

He spotted the picnic and stopped 50 metres short of it, looking lost. Then he twigged that he was in the right place but it was too late to turn around. His face was a picture. Les narrowly lost out to Trevor Eve and legged it as soon as Jeremy had read out his time.

Coaching the celebs was a hoot. I cried with laughter being driven by Stavros, aka Harry Enfield, and wil never forget hearing Joanna Lumley swear. I behaved myself … most of the time.

The fol owing week I was looking forward to some one-on-one with Gordon Ramsay when, without warning, the Suzuki Liana was wheeled out and I was invited to set a time.

The Stig was hardly going to refuse the chal enge. As for me, although both car and track were familiar, there was a distinct sense of pressure. Years of tel ing other people to drive faster and brake later would come back to haunt me if, for any reason, I failed to beat Nigel Mansel ’s rather fast time.

Wilman had a mischievous look in his eye that morning. He was loving my moment in the dock; it reminded me of the first day I drove for him. Jim and Grant were wringing their hands with delight and I knew that factors like weight differential, hot weather and tyre wear wouldn’t wash. It was put up or shut up.

The Liana was dreadful to drive because it was so roly-poly and gutless. The incessant understeer made it hard to show any flair or bal s. Pressing the brakes was like standing on a dead fish. After driving a supercar it was as exciting as filing a tax return.

I climbed aboard the old girl and dragged her to the start line.

‘Right then, Stiggy,’ Jim said, ‘No pressure.
But
… it would be great tel y if you beat Mansel .’

‘Thanks, Jim.’

I had been a passenger in the Liana for so long that I’d almost forgotten how to drive it. My first lap was average; I knew it, and Jim’s expression confirmed it. He looked genuinely worried for me. Not a good sign.