The Man in the White Suit: The Stig, Le Mans, the Fast Lane and Me (29 page)

At lunch on top of a mountain the fol owing day the boot was on the other foot. Clarkson had been driving the Merc and had somehow annoyed a cyclist on the way up. Jeremy arrived at the top considerably faster than the cyclist, parked up and slurped back another espresso from Heidi’s tavern. Meanwhile the cyclist pumped his pedals for another fifteen minutes and visualised ways of murdering the Mercedes driver.

I was chatting with the crew in the lay-by at the top of the hil when I clocked a goliath of a man stepping off his racing bike on the other side of the road. He looked
pissed
and he was scowling in our direction.

He was at least six five and 220 pounds, and he was solid. Once the traffic cleared he strode purposeful y across the road. He wore a mankini, like Borat’s, only his was high-vis yel ow over black leggings. He was a terrifying sight. Jeremy copped it first.

‘Who is driving the
fucking Mercedes
?’

This was the first occasion I’d seen Jeremy lost for words. And as he turned to face him, he appeared to have shrunk at least six inches.

‘Is it you, huh? You’re driving this car like a fucking idiot?’

‘No, it’s not me. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

It was a good opener, but Mankini wasn’t to be put off that easily.

‘This car is going up and down like stupid. Who is the driver?’

‘I don’t know, but I think he went that way …’ Jezza pointed randomly back down the mountain.

Good work, mate; just don’t start pointing in my direction.

Mankini was livid at being denied a righteous kil . He lectured us on the sanctity of two-wheeled travel, yel ed, ‘Fuck al of you,’ and loped back to his nut-hugging Lycra buddies.

Our visit to Switzerland was not entirely unwelcome. Brian Klein,
TG
’s studio director, was helming Clarkson’s DVD and led our convoy of supercars to another location at the base of the mountain. As Brian climbed out of the Aston Martin DBS, the female proprietor of a local restaurant came running out and refused to let go of his arm.

Brian was wearing an urban cowboy ensemble, with pointy boots, bleached jeans and a stripy top over his wel matured physique. After we ordered some food and the rest of the proprietor’s family had been assembled, the cause of the commotion became clear.

‘She thinks I’m Timothy Dalton.’ Brian slipped on some sunglasses, adding to his mystique.

He had his photo taken with the extended family Robinson and signed autographs whilst the rest of us chewed down the kind of pasta pesto the Romans would have used as building mortar.

We flew to Malaga in Spain and stayed at the opulent Ascari Resort. The circuit nestled inside a range of rugged mountains dotted with sparse Andalusian foliage. It was designed by the owner and my former team boss, Klaas Zwart, and replicated twenty-six of the most chal enging corners from Grand Prix venues like Spa and Zandvoort. With sun al year round, it was the perfect setting to assess the true performance of three of the latest road cars: a BMW M3, an Audi RS4 and a Mercedes-Benz C63 AMG.

As I walked down the pit lane I passed a familiar shape peering from underneath the metal shutters to one of the garages. I stared longingly at the aggressive dive planes covering the wheel arches of Ascari’s Le Mans racing prototype. It sent me back to the time I drove it around Le Mans. The desire to race stung like a wasp, and it was al I could do to drag my focus back to the day’s objectives.

Clarkson was hunched over his laptop, sucking on a Marlboro as he rocked back in deep contemplation of the script he’d been working on with
TG
’s other wordsmith, Richard Porter. Jeremy was the architectural powerhouse behind al his work, so I left him to it. I needed to make a decision that would affect the rest of my day: Cappuccino or Americano.

The Ascari lair with its marble floors, manicured gardens, ‘Cortijo’ clubhouse, swimming pool and sleeping hammocks compared very favourably to the spit and sawdust of Dunsfold. The crew enjoyed it so much that we lobbied Wilman to shoot the whole series out there. Predictably enough, he refused to ‘become a shareholder in EasyJet’.

Having satiated myself at the breakfast buffet I moved back towards the presenters, who were embroiled in a mock debate about their cars in a build-up to filming their comments.

Clarkson turned to me. ‘Have you driven it?’

‘What’s that?’

‘The Merc.’

‘Not yet.’

‘You’l love it. It’s got loads more power than the others; it’s insane.’ Big draw on his fag and back to the laptop.

The statistical y correct script label ed the Merc as a winner by virtue of its 450-odd horsepower, against the Audi on 420 and the BMW a nickel short. The Audi was four-wheel drive, which might throw in a curve bal , but the BM seemed destined for third place in the performance stakes.

Whilst the presenters got to grips with their lines, the director got me on to mine. We filmed al three cars going flat out around the circuit. The crew had already dispatched instinctively and were filming Grand Vista shots of the countryside before the rest of us had even arrived.

It was no surprise to see that Iain had found a cherry picker. Ben panned artistical y across the hil side, through the branches of an oak tree. Casper was shooting from on high to absorb the bleached panorama.

First up was Clarkson’s Merc. I climbed in and moved the seat forward for about five minutes until I reached the pedals. It was a big heavy unit, with a 6.2-litre engine that could power a supertanker. I shifted into gear and positioned alongside Phil, who was busy with his radio, his sunbaked forehead turning the colour of beetroot. He gave me the thumbs up and ‘Action.’

I skipped my left foot off the brake and simultaneously pinned the accelerator to the floor. A cloud of smoke bil owed in my rear-view mirror as Daimler’s finest horses roared towards the first corner of the day. I braked earlier than I felt I needed to, but the Merc sopped up the margin; its lumbering weight folded into the soft suspension. Yuk.

The front of the car washed out mid-corner as the chassis lol ed about, front first, fol owed by the rear. With so much rol and so much power, I knew that a touch of the throttle would produce a filthy slide, so I opened the floodgate. There was a screech of rubber bordering on the sociopathic and two bubbling black stains across the pristine grey road surface.

Being inch perfect was difficult as the volume of power overcame the rear differential and shoved the remaining surge through one wheel, spinning it faster than the other. Overpowered, with soggy brakes and wobbly suspension. What an old nail.

Next up was the sales rep’s wet dream. Hammond’s M3 sat firm on its suspension, with a smooth ride from shock absorbers that clamped the rubber to the tarmac. The tender brakes reacted quickly to my input. The acutely sensitive power delivery was stunning and control able. It drifted sideways through the corners like it was on casters. Every detail, from the cross-stitched leather steering wheel to the flawless gear-change and reduced upper body weight, was bang on. It was such a gem I wanted to kiss the designer.

I hopped into James’s Audi RS4. As an Audi fan I expected to be impressed. The four-wheel drive gripped and bogged down on the fast pul away, then kangaroo hopped along the pit lane. Even with a 40/60

front to rear torque split, I never liked four-wheel-drive sports cars. They only functioned properly if the bias was substantial y in favour of the rear wheels, otherwise the two axles competed for supremacy at the cost of cornering stability.

Once I was up to ramming speed, the engine torque punched the Audi nicely through every gear.

Minor inputs of the wheel were met by jarring returns from the suspension and cornering became mundanely predictable. The RS4 juddered with understeer through every turn.

I donned the white suit for a time attack to determine which of these V8 bul ets was the fastest. I already knew the answer. I tried to warn Jeremy that he had picked a dog.

‘Rubbish, you’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ he replied.

When it came to posting a time in front of camera, the Merc rol ed over on its wheel arches and flashed its undercarriage at every opportunity. Its time was 2.43.5.

Next I pushed the Audi to the brink, flat-footed it through the kink on to the back straight and reached a top speed of 145 into a fast, tightening right-hander.

Braking and turning from high speed tested the driver’s confidence as much as the essence of the machine. I went in flat, cogged down and braked lightly to prevent the ABS activating, then gradual y increased the brake pressure. The ABS triggered as I reached for the apex at about 110, resulting in a deadening of the pedal. Then the electronics gave up, no longer caring to moderate the percentage changes of fluid pressure to slow each individual wheel. That sent al the braking to the least loaded wheel, the inside rear, locking it instantly as if someone had hooliganed the handbrake. It sent the car completely sideways.

The Polaroid moment that fol owed saw The Stig in a flat spin, exiting stage left off the circuit towards a gravel trap and tyre barrier. And it was only 10.30 in the morning …

The gremlin in the system’s electronics had more to offer. I piled on the opposite lock, slammed the steering into the rack stop and applied 100 per cent brakes, scanning desperately for a solution to save the car either by swivelling it around or trying to accelerate away from the wal . At that critical moment the ignition switched itself off, taking with it the power steering and assisted brake. I had to push them both twice as hard to achieve the same effect, manhandling the controls like a goril a at feeding time.

Scraping the tarmac ran my speed down another 40mph to a manageable 70 by the time I slid across the border of the gravel trap, missed the deep stuff next to the wal and brought the car to a stop on the grass. The engine and electronics were total y dead.
Naughty car
, but you had to laugh. These things happened.

I removed and replaced the key. She switched on and drove back to the start line as if nothing had happened – and stil managed a time just 0.4 of a second slower than the Merc.

The M3 tore a ferocious pace thanks to its poise and balance in every corner, and aggressive braking. The time was a ful five seconds faster than the other two.

I went out with Klaas and the presenters for tapas in the medieval town of Rhonda, overlooking the spectacular ‘El Taho’ gorge. It was a rough existence.

Jeremy was so irked by the day’s events that he accused me of deliberately missing an apex to foul the lap time of his meat wagon. I told him that if I put an apple on the apex he could drive at it al day and never hit it. Jezza swal owed the bait whole.

We lined up the cameras on a sharp corner and I placed the apple at the latter part of the apex kerb.

I stood right on the corner to goad the big man further.

Jeremy went at it hammer and tongs, drifting sideways into the corner on different lines and somehow managing to miss every time. He was excruciatingly close, but no strudel. I bit my lip hard, trying desperately not to laugh. After the fifth attempt he gave up and it was my turn in the BMW. If I hit the apple, Jeremy was prepared to eat it.

I flicked the M3 into the turn, lit up the rear tyres and squelched it on the first take. At Jeremy’s request we filmed it from another angle. I nailed it and the big man took a big bite of humble pie. He picked up a grubby piece of crushed apple from the kerb and guzzled it down.

Nothing daunted, Jeremy handed me the keys to a Lamborghini Gal ardo 560-4 Spyder, issued himself a Ford Focus and demanded a race down the Rhonda mountain pass to the port of Marbel a. The winner of course was a foregone conclusion; he must have figured The Stig needed a night out. So we decamped to the harbourside to film some atmosphere.

Marbel a was everything that
TG
’s home turf was not. It was loaded with minted Russian oligarchs and country-sized yachts crewed by orange people wearing Gucci goggles. The only cleavage we saw at Dunsfold was the ‘mighty sarlacc’ of Steve Howard’s rump as he put his back into salvaging another scrapheap chal enge. The army of party poppers gracing the bars and clubs of Puerto Banus were al slinky-hipped underwear models staring at their own reflections in the Cartier and Bulgari windows.

I made a lightning change of clothes inside the phone booth of a petrol station, boarded the lime green Gal ardo as The Stig and put the roof down. Locals and beachcombers alike whipped out their cameras and I felt like a movie star. I snapped the throttle and kicked up the notes of the V10 motor to clear a path through the crowd fil ing the main drag. People darted left and right, oversized heels stumbled, mouths ful of gold bul ion rattled.

My directions, ‘eighth bar on the left’, seemed vague at night as I strained to see even the neon lights through my visor. The helmet had to stay shut. Some of the friendlier oranges were slapping my shoulder and taking flash photos through the open cabin. Amidst the sea of people I recognised Dan De Castro the Spanish yeti, biceps burning as he legged it with his camera.

With the cameras rol ing I cracked the throttle a final time, switched off and marched towards the nearest bar.

‘Not that one, the other one,’ Iain shouted from camera 2.

A few minutes later I made myself at home in the Ten Bar with a cocktail. It wouldn’t be long before The Stig’s sex appeal attracted plenty of attention, and sure enough as Jeremy made his entrance I was suitably dripping with fans getting their pictures taken.

Jeremy clocked me at the candle-lit table and doubled up laughing.

‘We’re in Puerto Banus, in a bar heaving with fanny, and you’ve managed to pul four blokes …’ He raised both palms to the heavens and then waved at the scousers I’d met in the course of their stag do.

‘No, honestly, before you came in there were girls here, I swear.’

Thanks to the magic of TV, The Stig’s honour was soon restored. A group of scantily clad chicks were waiting upstairs with the other cameras, and we filmed the kind of shots footbal ers’ wives see of their husbands every week: champagne, bling and boobs.