The Man in the White Suit. Ben Collins
the Ford’s body lean heavily on to its wheel arches as the weight swung across the suspension. The wing mirrors were scraping the floor as I ran out wide towards the grass. Her ass wiggled as she dipped in and out of a small gully and I breathed again as we rejoined the tarmac.
I approached the Chicago tyre wall for the second time, remembering to hold it flat for the left, rather than braking to turn right. The level horizon made it hard to read the ground coming fast through the dashboard but I could see a seam where the taxiway joined the main runway. I aimed for the angular join, clobbered a storm drain and flew out the other side. A flurry of spray squirted out of the brimmed windscreen washer reservoir as the impact weakened its bladder. The citrus taste in my mouth made me swallow for the first time since I started the lap.
The big challenge lay in the final two corners, which I couldn’t even see because the runway was so wide and stretched so far into the distance.
I would be approaching ‘Bacharach’ at the car’s terminal velocity. After my Hammerhead experience, I opted for a sensible approach and scoured the runway for signs of a corner. Suddenly, 100 feet to my left, an opening in the grass appeared.
The brakes groaned. The car pointed clumsily in the correct direction and travelled the breadth of the runway to finally join the corner, which abruptly tightened. The road quickly ran out and I dropped two wheels on the turf. Now I knew why this was skid mark central.
There was a short shoot to the final corner and I wondered if I could take it without braking. I dabbed the pedal anyway and was glad for it as the front broke away and the grass verge to the outside loomed into view, with Andy standing on it.
His trousers were bunching at the ankle again as he bent and fixed me with his stony gaze. He snapped down hard on his stopwatch as I crossed the line.
I pulled up alongside him and rolled down the window.
‘What do you think?’ he asked.
‘I think I know which way the track goes now. What am I trying to beat?’
‘We don’t tell you the times.’
‘What? Not even my times?’
‘Nope. The old Stig’s pretty fast round here though. He knew this place like the back of his glove. Can you go any quicker?’
‘Absolutely. That’s just my first go.’
A puff of smoke appeared from behind the wing mirror. A sniff in its direction confirmed the problem.
‘Excuse me, I think the brakes are catching fire. I’ll be back in a minute.’
I set off down the airstrip to cool the pins and assess the situation. This was unlike any qualifying session I’d done before. The rules seemed to be changing by the minute.
Without a time to beat I had to focus on maximising my personal performance. If I could put a lap together that I would struggle to repeat, I’d bet it would beat whatever benchmark time Andy had for this car. The track was simple enough, if a little hard to make out, but my peripheral vision was dialled in. Now I just needed to master the rhythm. Just one, perfect, lap.
I lined up at the start and warned Andy to stand further back this time.
My second lap was much cleaner. I punished the front tyres less by braking lighter and earlier to carry more speed into every corner. I slammed across the finish line, ran a little wide and caught a glimpse of Andy pouncing on his stopwatch.
I rolled the window down and he leant against the door.
‘How was that?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ I grinned. ‘You tell me!’
‘You’re not far off.’
That was when the adrenalin started. The early laps were just kitten play. To eke out the tiny fractions of speed in every corner, I needed one exceptional run. My mouth dried as blood surged around my body and I felt the elation of impending excellence. I was becoming quicker, stronger and more explosive with every heartbeat. I was a heartbeat away from bursting out of my shirt and turning green.
I made a perfect start. The short hairs prickled on the back of my neck. At the far end of the tunnel lay the first corner. I absorbed the view. As I closed in, I allowed my vision to loosen, blur and widen into the periphery. One all-seeing eye.
I braked late, skimming the gravel on the inside and loading the front tyres just enough to prevent the ABS from gate-crashing. I squeezed the throttle. The car remained steady, boring even. Perfect.
The process was repeated through Chicago and then Hammerhead, staying just within the tolerance of the front tyres, controlling every movement, stealing every ounce of throttle, every inch of tarmac.
I used as little steering as possible through the fast right, then the left, keeping the friction of the rubber to the bare minimum with the gas pedal welded to the floor. The tyres emitted a guttural howl as all four wheels skated at 100mph. Only two turns to go.
The speed ramped up as I shifted into top gear. The markers appeared on my right side, with the 100 first. I scanned left and found the corner. Not yet. Past the 50. Not yet. The final marker, an arrow board, was coming up fast.
I braked, the car dug in, then I immediately had to release the pressure to get the front wheels to turn. It was an impossible speed and the rear skidded away. I jammed the throttle open. The front wheels spun in third gear and I flipped a coin in my head: stick or spin. Stick, you bastard.
The car launched into the corner at an acute angle, cutting across the grass at its apex and bouncing over the concrete kerbing. I was out of control, but coping.
I slid across the narrow section of tarmac and dropped three wheels on the grass on the exit. I barely had time to get back on the black stuff to blat the brake and chuck it left for the last time.
I pitched her in a bit too quick, swiped the apex, slid wide and hit the mark where Andy had been standing. The verge projected the car sideways into the air but it no longer mattered to me. It could flip on to its roof and explode because we’d still cross the finish line just 25 feet away.
I crashed landed on the other side of the grass, the metal wheel rims ploughing first into the concrete then crunching through the gravel bed lining the edge. Rocks spewed in all directions.
‘That one felt good,’ I said.
Andy was scribbling notes in his little pad.
‘Yeah. That one was faster.’
I thought to myself, Yes, I’ve bloody got this! but made no outward sign, since he hadn’t either.
His brow furrowed. ‘Do you think you can get any more out of it?’
‘More?’ That had me worried. I didn’t think it had any, but it was worth a try.
I banged in another lap that was nearly as fast as my best, then conceded that I couldn’t go any quicker.
‘All right. Well, if you think that’s it, we’ll call it a day.’
Andy put his stopwatch back into his pocket. It seemed that our business had been concluded. He thanked me and said he would call me sometime.
I waited weeks for any suggestion that my performance was up to scratch, or that there was any work with these people that might pay the rent. Andy called and asked me to send him a commercial I’d done for Vauxhall which featured lots of precision sliding close to camera on snow and ice, just the kind of tradecraft he needed. ‘Can you send the rushes too?’
‘Sure, no problem,’ I told him, not knowing what on earth he was talking about.
Rushes, I learnt, were the raw footage. By sifting through them, Andy could determine whether the director had had to edit around my driving or if I was consistently getting it right on the first take. His attention to detail knew no bounds. Only time would tell if I had a future with Top Gear.
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