The Man in the White Suit: The Stig, Le Mans, the Fast Lane and Me (35 page)

Ahem.

I wasn’t comfortable with scratching the immaculate Aygo and laboured under the pretence that I could score the most goals without putting a mark on it. After al , the competition was just a bunch of touring car biffs, two TV presenters and one old man.

We formed two semicircles around the bal for the kick-off. I punted it over the other side and slipped through a gap, caught up with the bal and dribbled it beautiful y towards the goal at 30mph. Suddenly Hammond shot across me, hit the bal away and stopped dead. I jammed the brakes to avoid him and saw red.

‘I’m on
your
team, you lunatic.’

‘Hahaaa,
sorreee
…’

Off he went.

A couple of cars crowded the bal , nudging it and then reversing but going nowhere. Nobody would cede ground. I joined from the left and bounced it into the air. As it landed, my car was rocked to the right as Russ Swift drove into my front left wheel arch and punted the bal away. My space had been invaded. It was First Blood, and the rest of the sharks tasted it in the water.

After that first dent, the tempo wound right up. Minor scrapes at first, then ful -on wheel banging. No one cared to look behind before reversing flat out to reposition, and it was OK to tap another car into a spin to steal the bal . It was mass road rage.

I found myself in a remote part of the airfield with my opponent Matt Neal, the tal est racing driver in the world. Blue smoke bil owed from his front wheel arches as I dumped the clutch on mine and we surged towards the bal . In a game of chicken, someone had to have the brains to back off first.

The bal exploded with a mighty pop and we col ided nose on nose. My bonnet crumpled and snapped up, headlights smashed and the gril embedded into the steel radiator. I was rocking in the seat with laughter and saw Matt hanging off his wheel, grinning at me through his windscreen.

‘Drivers, we only have three bal s left; please try to preserve them.’

The carnage continued unabated. James May kept reversing into people by mistake. They would have monstrous accidents in his wake attempting to avoid him.

I chased Hammond as wingman when another player drove into his path, forcing him to stop. I jammed the brakes and skidded sideways to miss him just as Chilton, the spiky blond from
Baywatch
, tail-ended me. He flew over my rear wheel and landed alongside, al neatly captured on my rear-facing camera.

Shortly afterwards I was speeding across the middle of the pitch when another car reversed into my path, probably May, and speared into the driver’s side just behind the door. Bang went the rear window, and the rear wheel didn’t fare much better.

I was glad to see my Aygo stretchered off. Judging by the temperature gauge she’d been running without radiator fluid for the past ten minutes. I hopped into a spare that had been vacated by an absolute animal who had been riding the clutch. The left pedal was on the floor and the stench of burning clutch plates hung in the cabin.

A few goals were scored, usual y by hoofing the bal over the top of the opposition, chasing around and banging it into the net.

At the end of the game, the tarmac was littered with broken glass, door handles, wing mirrors, bumpers and fluids. I kicked my crumpled door open to climb out. Matt Neal’s vehicle was comical y pigeon-toed. The rest of the fleet were KIA or walking wounded. We’d completely ruined ten new cars and there were a few stiff necks.

I’d also formed an intimate knowledge of the Aygo. It was superbly agile and resilient. The gearbox was quick and easy and the ABS had patiently accepted al the abuse I hurled at it. Sweet runabout.

I also began to see cars in a new light when manufacturers started tinkering with the format. BMW

brought an ordinary looking 330i to
TG
, which they claimed could learn the track and drive it by itself.

Over the years the Bavarian coneheads had pioneered slick automatic gearboxes, fly-by-wire throttle backed with traction control, servo-assisted brakes control ed by anti-locking software, and active power steering that hardened and softened as you steered. These became
standard
systems fitted to al BMWs and unbelievably could operate al the functions of the car without the need for a driver. Al it needed was a tweak to the software …

Men in blue coats plugged computers with fat glowing cables into the car’s brain and asked me to drive three laps of Dunsfold, one slow, one fairly quick and one fast. The onboard GPS tracking system logged the lines I was using around the circuit along with the lateral G-forces, speeds and steering angles.

After the initial laps, the BMW engineers told me I no longer needed to steer, change gear, accelerate or brake. The car would do it by itself.

From personal experience, I preferred doing the driving to leaving it to a robot with ideas above its station. For the most part safety features did what they were supposed to: make driving safer. But al machines are fal ible. I climbed aboard the BM half expecting it to wrap its auto-tightening seat belts around my throat, bind my arms and legs, then accelerate into a tree. I asked the German engineers if they wanted me to start with a slow lap to test the system first.

‘No, we make normal speed for the first run. Then we try a little faster.’

I could wrest control from the car at any time by pressing any of the pedals or grabbing the steering.

The car started the lap by flooring it and nipping through the gears. I had to hold my hands together to override the temptation to touch the wheel. It dealt with the first few corners with remarkably late braking, so much so that I could feel the ABS working to control a locking tyre.

LED lights on either side of the dashboard indicated when the car was deviating from its optimal line.

As we sped into the Fol ow Through the lights went green, yel ow, orange and quickly red before the computer let go of the steering and I had to take hold. The software was only programmed to turn the wheel a certain amount, so when the excess speed made the car understeer, it was unable to add enough steering to compensate.

I drove back to the BMW boys. They dial ed out some speed at the Fol ow Through and added a little at a few places where we felt the car could cope. It ran perfectly; not as fast as I could drive the lap, but close enough.

It was pretty spooky watching the wheel spinning around by itself, but I real y warmed to the technology. It was a snapshot of the future.

Radar technology from aviation was also being used in cars, acting as a col ision warning system and triggering the brakes when it sensed another car was too close. At low speeds it was programmed to detect pedestrians and make an emergency stop. Ford based their Radar system on the one used by the F-22 Raptor, a stealth fighter so canny that it automatical y tracked and identified people on the ground.

An integrated system that married the auto driving capability of the BMW with satel ite navigation and radar tracking would mean we could al just plug in the destination and fal asleep at the wheel. Road deaths would be a thing of the past, as would the boredom of driving on motorways littered with surveil ance cameras.

The only problem is that the government would probably make it il egal to switch the system off, so you would go to jail for enjoying yourself on a country road. But it would be worth it. Imagine swerving in and out of traffic and watching al the other cars automatical y twitching to a standstil , waking their passengers and jarring them back into the real world, forcing them to log on to Facebook al over again.

T
ime to lock and load, boys. Good luck out there tonight …’

I was just out for a late-night cruise in my car, minding my own business. The streets were derelict and poorly lit, oppressive. I turned through a warren of al eys that led to a dead end and drew a bead on a pair of badasses on motorbikes who were looking for trouble. They clocked me and started bunny-hopping towards me, laughing and sneering to one another.

Both wore filthy helmets bristling with long silver spikes, lime green tights and olive body armour. As you would. Within seconds they’d surrounded my car and started banging at the windows, invading my space, thinking they could intimidate me. Big … mistake …

I dropped the clutch and spun through 180 degrees. The skinny one fel off his bike; the bigger lad made a run for it. I drove head on at the stricken biker, missing his leg by inches as he kicked the rear of the bike clear and accelerated away in the opposite direction to join his mate. I should have left it there and then, but I didn’t. I yanked the handbrake to turn and face them. It was a Mexican stand-off, fight or flight.

I sensed movement behind me; a car crept out of a side al ey I hadn’t seen. It took up position at my five o’clock, blocking my escape. I looked ahead as a beaten old sedan covered in algae flew into view alongside the bikers. It was a trap.

A blinding flash of light pierced the darkness to my right. The explosion engulfed a fuel tanker.

To my surprise, a 30-foot monster with skin like a toad, bulging red eyes and a flame-thrower for a tongue rose from the conflagration. It gave a venomous howl and waved its claws in my direction. Time to skip town.

I dumped the clutch and made a chicken run at the renegade trio. The bikes fl inched first and split around me towards the other end of the al ey. I tugged the handbrake gently to make a quarter turn and slide right in behind them.

We sped down the street. The sedan shot out from the right and nearly T-boned me. I counter-slid around the obstacle and continued the chase.

The muscular biker flew through the air and crashed on to my bonnet. I tasted two-stroke as his sump smashed the windscreen. He spun his wheel and rode over the roof, then the sedan smacked into me from behind.

I booted it away and went after the skinny rider who was struggling to turn in the confines of the al ey. I slapped his rear wheel with enough force to knock him through a wal . One down, four to go. The flame-breathing, bogeyed swamp creature wasn’t pleased.

The power band kicked into third gear and I surged ahead. The sedan flew out in front of me, partial y blocking the street and offering a perfect target. I accelerated towards it, took aim at his passenger window and pressed the firing toggle on my steering wheel.

A missile spewed from the bazooka above my right ear, rattling my eardrums as it scythed through the sedan. The rear section dropped away and the front spun off to my left, so I hammered through the middle. With a clear line of attack towards the big biker and Car Two, I kept on the gas and sped through the debris.

Car Two hesitated and I slammed into his rear quarter hard enough to destabilise him. The driver wrestled with the steering, then tank-slapped hard into the wal . The biker had nowhere to run. We were just a metre apart, so I dropped the clutch and lunged forward. He scrabbled around me, kicking at the ground to get away. We revolved around one another in a deadly tango until he had enough momentum to set off into the back street.

We plunged into darkness and grime, both struggling for traction, but I was gaining on him. Just inches from his rear wheel, a gentle kiss on his chain would unseat him. The rider’s leg dropped and nearly went under my wheel.

He shot a nervous glance over his shoulder before turning left towards the fuel tanker. I pul ed alongside and squeezed him straight into it. The bike thundered into solid metal, flinging the rider over the handlebars. He landed like a rag dol .

That just left the 30-foot fire-breathing monster. Its cloaked arms lashed out, fil ing the air with burning petrol.

‘Perrrfect!’ Colin purred inside my earpieces. ‘Now for the money shot, Stiggy.’

I pul ed my final handbrake turn to face the creature and fire my last missile, striking ‘Swampy’ in its evil heart. The strike was so close that the burning embers rained down through the open caged frame of my Rage Buggy.

I swatted them off my white overal s and spun around to face the 4,000-strong audience.

Richard and James strode back on to the stage as Jeremy brought another
Top Gear Live
show to an end.

‘The Stig is
victorious,
ladies and gentlemen. You’ve al seen a lot of crazy car stunts tonight, so please remember on your way home …
drive fast
. Good night!’

I tilted my visor open a fraction to make eye contact with the defeated biker, Jason Finn, lying in a heap on the side of the tanker. His chest bobbed as he fought to get his breath back without visibly moving.

He looked across and pouted at me.

The Stig’s battle to save the universe from speed cameras and like-minded forces of evil played out according to the script above, mostly. The live theatre was part of a tour that began in Earl’s Court and was taking in Europe, Australia, New Zealand, Hong Kong and South Africa.

The good burghers of Johannesburg cleared off muttering, ‘Yessus, man, some lekker cars there, hey,’ and Jason, the world’s number one freestyle trials rider from Essex, hobbled towards me backstage with Chris, his young apprentice. Jason took off his sweat-soaked helmet to reveal his pop star good looks.

His Lycra tights were bursting at the seams, evidenced by the number of golf bal s smuggled in his front pocket.

‘Awright, Benny Boy? You was right close before the tanker.’

‘I thought I could see you twitching. Must be old age.’

‘I smashed me ribs on them bars that time.’ He tugged at his vest. ‘Just as wel I’m wearing me Fisher Price pads, innit?’

Colin appeared from behind the curtain, his waist-mounted man-bag leading the charge. As the genius who choreographed our timings, he was the one independent critic we aimed to please.

‘Superb, boys. Ben, even your little missiles went off this time, the sedan fel apart on cue and Jason showed the punters his arse. Are you al right, Jason? You look out of breath.’

‘Yeaaah. Think I caught me nads, but I’l be awright.’

‘Thanks, Colin, you did an awesome job,’ I said.