Free The Man in the White Suit: The Stig, Le Mans, the Fast Lane and Me by Ben Collins Page B
Authors: Ben Collins
over-correct the steering or brake harder and waited for the car to ‘land’. The engine note returned, tel ing me the worst was over.
I accelerated cautiously out the other side and back on to the straight, short-shifted into fifth gear and everything went deathly quiet.
The car hit a river of water on the left side of the track at a speed of 150mph. Al four wheels lost contact with the tarmac and I travel ed 100 metres in freefal . The rear of the Ascari yawed to the right, verging on a fatal high-speed spin, crossed to the right side of the track and ran fast towards the grass. Once there I had another four metres before engaging with the Armco barrier. The odds favoured a hit more than a skim. Broken suspension at the very least.
Drastic action was required.
I stopped correcting the slide and centred the steering in a supreme effort to keep off the grass. As the wheels brushed the white line bordering the circuit the puddles retreated and the car straightened up.
The Mulsanne straight had two chicanes to prevent speeds exceeding 250mph. The Rain God had bequeathed it a third but I now knew where it was – and how to drive it.
I motored on, savouring the guilty pleasure of a close shave. No need to tel the team about that one.
Sixth gear was redundant because you couldn’t hold the throttle down long enough in a straight line to engage it, unless I could locate the rest of the puddles. I chuntered along in fifth gear and counted the seconds between the big puddles, forming a mental map of the sections of track where it was safe to go faster next time round.
The first lap confirmed that Mulsanne was the worst affected straight and I began adjusting my lines accordingly. I remained cautious, but the car was revel ing in the conditions. It was giving so much feedback through the tyres.
The team were quiet on the radio and there was no chance of seeing the pit board. I was alone, but contentedly busy in the mad world of Le Mans at night in a monsoon. I developed a rhythm and took my chances, passing one car after another, straining every rod in my retinas as I searched for a hint of tail-light or a familiar silhouette in the clouds of spray that cloaked every one of them.
The racer ahead might be a prototype as fast as the one I was driving or a GT car travel ing at 100mph. The driver might be on the pace and in the zone, or half asleep, or gently urinating himself in response to the conditions.
The first he would know of my existence would be when his cockpit rocked from the blast of my jetwash as I passed his front wheels. Riskier stil was tracking down another prototype caught behind one or even two of the slower GTs.
Every sensible bone in my body urged caution. But too much caution and I could be caught in their web for eternity. It was best to take a risk, splash past them and move on. I moved to overtake one guy just as he summoned the courage to hump the car ahead of him, which I couldn’t see. He swung towards me and elbowed me on to the grass at the exit of the curves. I gathered it up and outbraked him at the fol owing chicane as two GTs col ided with each other. It was carnage.
I took my chances, like everyone else. The laps flew by, an additional puddle formed on Mulsanne and I figured a cute route through it without lifting. Before I realised it, an hour had passed. The low fuel light on the dash plinked on. I flicked a toggle to engage the reserve tank for the trip back to the pits.
I drove the in lap hard, not forgetting the pit lane might be flooded too. Earlier in the day I’d watched another driver skidding a damaged GT into the gravel pit at the pit entrance. He’d tried to push it out, but was forced to abandon it by the marshals, only metres away from his pit crew who were powerless to help him.
I snaked through the barriers, slowed and engaged the speed limiter. The Ascari’s engine popping and banging like a machinegun, I found our pit amidst the jungle of hoses, boards and crews
I accelerated cautiously out the other side and back on to the straight, short-shifted into fifth gear and everything went deathly quiet.
The car hit a river of water on the left side of the track at a speed of 150mph. Al four wheels lost contact with the tarmac and I travel ed 100 metres in freefal . The rear of the Ascari yawed to the right, verging on a fatal high-speed spin, crossed to the right side of the track and ran fast towards the grass. Once there I had another four metres before engaging with the Armco barrier. The odds favoured a hit more than a skim. Broken suspension at the very least.
Drastic action was required.
I stopped correcting the slide and centred the steering in a supreme effort to keep off the grass. As the wheels brushed the white line bordering the circuit the puddles retreated and the car straightened up.
The Mulsanne straight had two chicanes to prevent speeds exceeding 250mph. The Rain God had bequeathed it a third but I now knew where it was – and how to drive it.
I motored on, savouring the guilty pleasure of a close shave. No need to tel the team about that one.
Sixth gear was redundant because you couldn’t hold the throttle down long enough in a straight line to engage it, unless I could locate the rest of the puddles. I chuntered along in fifth gear and counted the seconds between the big puddles, forming a mental map of the sections of track where it was safe to go faster next time round.
The first lap confirmed that Mulsanne was the worst affected straight and I began adjusting my lines accordingly. I remained cautious, but the car was revel ing in the conditions. It was giving so much feedback through the tyres.
The team were quiet on the radio and there was no chance of seeing the pit board. I was alone, but contentedly busy in the mad world of Le Mans at night in a monsoon. I developed a rhythm and took my chances, passing one car after another, straining every rod in my retinas as I searched for a hint of tail-light or a familiar silhouette in the clouds of spray that cloaked every one of them.
The racer ahead might be a prototype as fast as the one I was driving or a GT car travel ing at 100mph. The driver might be on the pace and in the zone, or half asleep, or gently urinating himself in response to the conditions.
The first he would know of my existence would be when his cockpit rocked from the blast of my jetwash as I passed his front wheels. Riskier stil was tracking down another prototype caught behind one or even two of the slower GTs.
Every sensible bone in my body urged caution. But too much caution and I could be caught in their web for eternity. It was best to take a risk, splash past them and move on. I moved to overtake one guy just as he summoned the courage to hump the car ahead of him, which I couldn’t see. He swung towards me and elbowed me on to the grass at the exit of the curves. I gathered it up and outbraked him at the fol owing chicane as two GTs col ided with each other. It was carnage.
I took my chances, like everyone else. The laps flew by, an additional puddle formed on Mulsanne and I figured a cute route through it without lifting. Before I realised it, an hour had passed. The low fuel light on the dash plinked on. I flicked a toggle to engage the reserve tank for the trip back to the pits.
I drove the in lap hard, not forgetting the pit lane might be flooded too. Earlier in the day I’d watched another driver skidding a damaged GT into the gravel pit at the pit entrance. He’d tried to push it out, but was forced to abandon it by the marshals, only metres away from his pit crew who were powerless to help him.
I snaked through the barriers, slowed and engaged the speed limiter. The Ascari’s engine popping and banging like a machinegun, I found our pit amidst the jungle of hoses, boards and crews
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