The Man in the White Suit: The Stig, Le Mans, the Fast Lane and Me (39 page)

The pit lane opened and the racers filed out on cold tyres.

Spencer frowned. ‘You sure you don’t wanna go?’

Not yet.

Waiting for the others to get further around the course increased the risk of running out of time if someone clouted the wal , but provided space for a bal s-out attack on the tight streets. Five cars had already been smashed to pieces in this qualifying session alone.

I’d made a costly error in the morning; I slid on to the dusty marbles, clipped the wal and tore off a rear wishbone. It was doubly frustrating because there was never enough practice time on a street course.

The grip level changed al the time as the cars laid down rubber, so I lost vital set-up time when we missed the second session. I was going into qualifying blind.

In the final seconds before departure I visualised the perfect lap one last time, braking later to make the most of the new tyres, stretching them to breaking point, squeezing past the tight wal s and rol ing the dice through the tricky final corners.

The clock never stops. I signal ed Spencer to drop me on to the deck, pul ed off and lit up the waxy new tyres.

The circuit was covered with oil stains, white lines, road markings and grit. The surface was a patchwork of concrete, stone-clad bitumen and blotches of fresh asphalt. There were tight, fast chicanes, heavy downhil braking areas and bumps that shook your fil ings loose. Some downshifts under heavy braking would catch a manhole cover or a bump, causing the rear to drift. You had to ride it out. There was rarely any run-off, just concrete. Traction was equal y transient over the surface changes and dust. Big licks of oversteer were running me hard up to the wal s and it was a fight to keep on top of it.

The opening lap on new tyres was critical. They were the most significant factor in how a car handled. The bottom gripped the road, the side supported the weight as the car cornered and rol ed. When you braked or accelerated, the tyre stretched lengthwise like a bal oon.

Accelerating warmed the rears, but pushing too hard too soon overheated them and cost grip when it mattered most. If you didn’t work the front tyres it created an imbalance; they had to be pliable and tacky enough to cope with the super late braking and corner entry speeds of qualifying. The trick was to work the sidewal and surface simultaneously. If you overcooked it when they were cold, the wheels locked up. That was bad news when you were stil moving at 80mph because it burnt a flat spot that could later blister or puncture.

It was a delicate process, not to be rushed, but with other cars fast approaching on their flying laps, I couldn’t afford to hang around.

I flew past the pit board and my adrenalin surged as I saw I had slipped to 22nd, one and a half seconds off the pole with only two minutes remaining. There was no more time for reflection; this was the moment of truth.

I pul ed sixth gear and the LED rpm lights lit up like a Christmas tree. I slipped into another world –

there was no sound, no car, no me. Nothing but pure movement. The first corner was closing and I didn’t have to think. I trusted my body to know what to do.

Braking for Turn One was a last-minute showdown to slow from 170 to 90. A single error, a duff down-change, too much brake pressure whilst the tyre carcass was cold and hard, and you bashed into the wal twenty metres ahead. The first touch of the brake was everything, like a striker connecting with a footbal . It shifted inertia forward and generated G. The tyres stretched and took the load. The brain sensed the grip, synapses flickered and signal ed more or less brake pressure. You rode the tyre stretch through the seat of your pants and adjusted within nanoseconds, instinctively. When it worked perfectly, you reached the speed at which you could barely make the corner by releasing the brakes in the nick of time to turn in.

The car fired towards the apex with some new-tyre understeer. I reduced throttle, which shifted the balance back to the front, then slammed it home to drift out of the corner. I approached a tight, right-left wal ed chicane, braked late into the right and added some ambitious extra speed which sent the rear gliding

– so much so that there was no need to turn in the middle of the chicane to nose it through. With the steering straight the car made a graceful transition slide through the corner.

I kept on it and sidled up to the concrete barrier on opposite lock, straightening at the last moment to prevent slipping further to the right and to protect the front suspension if it kissed concrete. With mil imetres to spare, plumes of dirt and marbles blew through the wheel arches and into the air.

Two tough corners were in the bag and there was no traffic in sight. I was buzzing. For the rest of the lap I played an aggressive game of point and squirt, bounced on to two wheels over high kerbs and slithered across bumpy side roads. I even had time to contemplate the final corner. The undulations in the road there were playing havoc with the brakes, making the pedal soft and treacherous and prone to locking the rear wheels. I could play safe and drop a few tenths to bank a lap that would stil be good for the top five, or go for it. A split-second decision and an easy one.

The last corner bent round to the left then doubled back on itself, which meant there was no run-off whatsoever. I improved the pedal pressure by pumping it and took the plunge on the brakes outrageously deep into the corner, right on top of the nastiest bumps. The back wheels locked before I had a chance to shift down. The engine note dropped and the gearbox clattered. I popped the clutch, modulated the brake and heard the revs spin up again. Then the inside front locked.

I was running out of road, but no more than I had expected. I released the pedal pressure a fraction and extended the speed into the left-hander. It stuck. I whipped by the wal , braked some more and plucked second gear to change direction. I cracked the throttle a few times to hustle the rear as the pit straight opened up ahead and then nailed it, short-shifting to third for traction and bolting past my dent in the wal from the earlier session. I searched for the pit board and waited to hear the result.

The pit to car radio crackled into life: ‘That’s it, Ben,’ Neil stammered. ‘You have pole position.’

It was the best feeling, bringing home the bacon for the crew. With no time left on the clock I could relax a little, but you never switched off on a street circuit. I drove through the first corner and was joined by another car leaving the pit lane. I sped uphil towards the next horizon and saw yel ow flags waving beside a stricken Lamborghini Gal ardo. I took the edge off the throttle. That was when the car behind hit me.

I was slammed back hard into the seat. My metal cocoon was propel ed forwards and violently to the right, giving me a bird’s-eye view of the stationary car I was approaching driver side first.

130 to 0 in one second. A searing pain exploded in my spine. The impact was sledgehammer brutal.

As the Lambo’s solid gearbox met the door of my Ascari, the energy passed through me like a wrecking bal .

In spite of the harness binding me to the seat, my head and shoulder managed to smash through the Perspex window and split the door open.

The air stopped moving through the cabin and the heat from the engine was stifling. My spine was gripped by an intense burning cramp, a spasm of muscle contracting around a white-hot core. My lungs seemed no longer to exist and air could only be swal owed, not breathed. A great weight clamped my chest shut, but the pain was so overwhelming that the breathing issue paled into insignificance. I wanted to pass out, but the sadistic survival instinct kept me wildly alert. I gathered my strength to gesticulate urgently to the nearest track marshal, but then realised I couldn’t move my arms. My right hand just bobbed limply in my lap.

The world was foggy. Sweat poured from my throbbing head as the blood continued to crash around my system. The visor on my helmet was bent shut by the impact and I couldn’t open it for the tiny amount of air it might let in. I stil couldn’t breathe. I’d been winded badly before, but this was different; this felt like I was paralysed.

I slipped into delirium, but fear forced me to focus and seize on the slightest encouraging sign. I managed a squeak of air but no more. Panic would only make things worse, so I kept trying.

An orange-clad marshal opened the passenger door and slowly made his way inside. I couldn’t bring his face into focus or understand him, but his presence was reassuring. It meant the car probably wasn’t on fire.

My door was wrapped around someone’s gearbox and the racing seat extended around my head in a horseshoe, curved forward of my chest and up from my hips. That meant I’d have to be dragged forwards then sideways across the centre console.

Another marshal appeared brandishing a large orange rescue board, big enough to go surfing on.

They couldn’t seriously be aiming that into this little space. They were. He peeled away my belts and rustled his fingers inside my race suit. I couldn’t stop him even if I’d wanted to. I was slowly suffocating. Someone pul ed my legs to the right and it tore a hole in my spine. My left shoulder was nudged gently forward, ripping open a cavern in my back. Train tracks were being pul ed out of their sleepers, bent, twisted and wrenched away. The pain was medieval and I wanted to vomit.

I never saw how they solved the conundrum of getting me over the gearstick. As my head was drawn forward I passed out. The heroes in the orange suits somehow got me on to the tarmac, where a new thought invaded my mind:
Stupid selfish fool if I can’t walk when my baby is born
…

‘Hel o, can you hear me? My name is Anika. You wil feel something in your arm, OK?’

‘OK.’

The army medical training rotated in my subconscious.
A chest wound typical y involves air in the
lung cavity. Lightness of breath … you hear the blood rattle on the lungs … signs the lining has been
breached
…
If things start to go wrong it can happen fast, you need to act quickly to perform a lumbar
puncture
…

To my relief, no one ran at me with an eight-inch needle to punch a hole through my ribcage, yet every breath felt like a belt was being ratcheted around my chest. Anything was better than this. The stabbing in my spine refused to be ignored. I focused on staying calm. I couldn’t move my legs.

I was taken to Romanian A&E on the orange plank. My back wasn’t damaged; I’d snapped four ribs very close to my spine. Once the shock and swel ing calmed down, I could move my limbs. The Romanian medics were fantastic, especial y the doctor who al ayed my worst fears. But there were a couple of unexpected chal enges. The first was that to cal for food or any kind of help I had to reach a button on the wal two metres behind my head. The second manifested itself the fol owing morning …

Two very butch mamas bowled up, dressed like cleaning ladies. One was Rosa Klebb and her mate was an Olympic shot-putter. They were gesticulating furiously and muttering what sounded suspiciously like,

‘Il presidente, bloshloka, bretishlokkka!’

Their frenetic gesturing and vice-like grip on my arms suggested I was about to evacuate my rather posh room whether I liked it or not. Bearing in mind that the biggest movement I had managed until this point was to turn my head from one side to the other, standing up would be easier said than done.

I fended Klebb away from my left arm and begged for time from the Olympian. Perhaps I could slide off the right-hand side of the bed. I motioned to the right.

JEEEEEESSSSSS … NO WAY.

Left, then.

Gripping the sheets with my right hand, I clawed forward with a series of snail-like movements and banshee cries to bring myself upright. The mamas clicked their fingers impatiently. My feet couldn’t reach the floor and pleading my case for them to lower me down got me nowhere. I had to jump.

I exercised every mil imetre of my butt cheeks to slide as close to the floor as humanly possible.

Then a muscle I never knew existed – and I suddenly wished it didn’t – tautened across my ribs. I plummeted involuntarily off the bed and landed uncertainly on my feet. The spasm lancing through my back sent dominoes of fire tumbling around my body. My legs buckled and I managed something between a whimper and a groan. The mamas looked on unmoved as I took my first faltering steps into what I hoped might turn out to be a friendlier world.

Klebb wasn’t leaving anything to chance; she led me out of the room by my elbow. It seemed that my private room, complete with TV, was reserved for the Romanian President. She marched me along the corridor in search of more modest accommodation at triple my speed limit. One look at the wards confirmed that whatever state I was in, I was better off making a run for it and flying back to England.

I rang my old man. He’d been fol owing my progress and we had an unusual y long chat.

‘As long as you’re OK. What a shame, though. How bad’s the car?’

‘It’s FUBAR. Could you pick me up from the airport? I’ve seen enough of this place.’

‘Of course. I’l see you in the morning.’ He paused. ‘Love you, Son.’

I rang Georgie next to let her know I was coming home. A pregnant lady had enough to worry about, so I lied about my injury.

‘Are you sure you’re OK? What aren’t you tel ing me?’

‘I’m just annoyed about the busted car. See you real y soon.’

Braam, Ascari’s short-stacked South African Team Manager, swung by the hospital.

‘Ben-jamin. Grab your shit and let’s get out of ’ere.’

I pul ed myself up.

‘Jeez, boy, you ain’t gonna dance the Macarena for some time, eh?’

We boarded Romania’s most dilapidated taxi. Carpet oddments covered rusted-out holes in the floor and its shock absorbers didn’t absorb. The driver spotted the racing logos on our shirts, dropped a gear and gave us the Grand Prix treatment over every pothole in the city. His overtaking technique was novel. He rode the rear bumper of the car in front and accelerated repeatedly into oncoming traffic until they waved a white flag. Mike Tyson worked my torso for ten rounds until we made it to the airport and boarded the plane to London.