Free The Man in the White Suit: The Stig, Le Mans, the Fast Lane and Me by Ben Collins Page A

drove away and my skin began to tingle at first, then started burning. This wasn’t imaginary. I was forced to pit again. Werner was in the crew bus attending to the blisters on his hands and caught the first glimpse of my burning buttocks.
    ‘Vok, you al right, man? That’s one hot botty.’
    Hours later it was my turn to drive again. Raindrops the size of golf bal s created eruptions in the standing water. A journalist saw me waiting my turn in the garage and said, ‘You must be absolutely dreading this. It’s your first time here, isn’t it?’
    ‘I can’t wait to get out there,’ I said, jogging on the spot. ‘This is what it’s al about.’
    He probably wrote me off as cannon fodder.
    The team manager was Ian Dawson, who cut his teeth at Lotus Formula 1 team back in the days of Colin Chapman. He stil had the retro moustache to prove it. Ian appeared at my side, lifted one of his radio cans and yel ed into the front of my helmet. ‘It’s absolutely torrential out there. Harri’s just done three complete 360 spins down the straight at 160 miles an hour. He’s coming in this lap. We’re bloody lucky to stil have a car. We’re running seventeenth. There’s plenty of time. Just take it easy.’
    The intensity in his voice spoke volumes. I was holding the baby.
    An empty space in front of the garage was surrounded by the Ascari boys. Fireproof masks covered their faces, but I could see Don the mad Kiwi itching his nose with the wheel gun, big Dave on the fuel hose flicking his ankle to loosen off, Spencer with the other gun bouncing on his quads to warm up.
    At any moment the space would be fil ed and I would have twenty seconds to climb in, strap up and switch on.
    Every one of the boys had a critical job to do and they shared the pressure of the moment. The fuel man had to ram the hose home in a single clean movement. It sounded easy, but it wasn’t. If he got it wrong he could barbecue every member of the team.
    The mechanics on the pneumatic guns had practised the dril over and over again, so they could get clear as fast as possible without cross-threading a wheel nut. If any one of us made the slightest cock-up, it would cost seconds of hard-fought track position.
    The car appeared, larger than life and shedding a heap of water. Harri Toivonen fought the belts off and leapt out. I barged past him and took his place. The seat felt wet and warm as my suit absorbed the water.
    Harri lifted his visor and helped me with my belts. His face was red, eyes bulging, chest heaving. I pul ed up both thumbs to let him know I was in OK and could finish the job myself.
    The Ascari dropped on to the deck; the signal was given. My hands were poised over the ignition and start buttons and I cranked the motor. It was already in first gear. A touch on the throttle provoked a lightning howl. The Kraken was ful y awake. I slipped the clutch and pul ed away into the night.
    I was soaked to the skin within seconds. Goblets of water fel out of the sky, whirring towards me at warp speed. As I slid under the Dunlop bridge my visor picked up the blurred lights of the Ferris wheel and intermittent bursts of flash photography. Only die-hard fans stayed out in this.
    I sped on, my headlamps carving a 50-metre tunnel through the darkness. I accelerated away from Tertre Rouge in third gear and hammered down the Mulsanne straight, scanning for other cars, searching for puddles. The glistening surface ahead gave nothing away.
    I had no idea where Harri had run into trouble. If I made the same mistake I might not be so lucky. I approached the first chicane, scanning sideways along the Armco barriers for something to reference: the marshal’s post, the tree, the gap in the wal , anything that wouldn’t move, for use as a braking point.
    I turned right a little for the chicane, then regretted it and straightened again as the car aquaplaned.
    My stomach tightened as the wheels lost contact with the road; I resisted the temptation to