The Man in the White Suit: The Stig, Le Mans, the Fast Lane and Me (32 page)

Eyes wide, I flicked my left foot out of the way and stamped on the pedal. In a dead straight line the rear stayed put and the front wheels flickered under my feet as they bled the speed.

Made it. On the exit the throttle balanced the car into a satisfying four-wheel drift whilst I changed gear and whistled Dixie. I played the steering wheel like a flute but it was too much for the motor. As the power assistance failed, the steering switched from feather light to arm wrestling with a silverback goril a, with equal y dire consequences if I lost.

Jim had enough shots for his film, but I knew I could shave a few tenths off my best time of 1.20.4. I was going fast enough at the Fol ow Through to produce some downforce, and with a bit more effort it might just take some extra mph.

It didn’t seem right to stop yet. I visualised the perfect lap and dropped the clutch one more time.

I kept the tail neat and tidy, held my breath through the kink and squared the car up for Chicago. I was dial ed in. I took another big risk at Hammerhead. The pedal went soft but the brakes worked. She scorched her way out, twitching and snatching and forcing me to brawl with the heavy steering as the power assistance faded.

As I sped towards the Fol ow Through I knew I was on a mega lap. If I could carry a tad more speed through the fast section, I would surely post a 1.19. I turned in with a few extra mph, wil ing the car to hold it and stay neutral.

Before I reached the painted chevrons at the apex the rear slipped big time. I steered into it but only just enough to halt a spin. The longer it travel ed sideways the more speed the tyres would bleed off and the better my chances of recovering. I kept my sights fixed on the tarmac I wanted to stay on.

As I went to pul the steering straight, an invisible hand pul ed the wheel in the opposite direction.

The assisted steering had completely gone. With the wheels pointing left just at the point of grip return, that’s exactly where it sent me.

I adjusted to the new scenery. Green, concrete building, tyre wal . I had always wondered what that wal was there for. Now I knew and my interest in it was growing exponential y. At 130mph on wet grass the Swedish tonne had a snowbal ’s chance in hel of missing it.

I squeezed the brakes and waved the wheel about, but the rate of closing with this immovable object was unchanged. I hit the wal square on. Luckily it kind of exploded, tyres went skywards and the metal frame was flattened. The £500K supercar jumped slightly into the air and eventual y staggered to a halt.

Shit
. I’d get the sack for this.

I climbed out to inspect the damage. It was relatively light, given the circumstances. The most striking feature was a whacking great tyre that had wedged itself into the front air scoop, as though the Koenigsegg was biting a giant doughnut.

Christian von K arrived on the scene and wanted to know what had happened. I apologised profusely. My most earnest expression was total y lost on him behind the visor. As the car was mopped up I prepared for the walk of shame into the production office to face Andy Wilman. He was talking to Clarkson, and as I opened the door he whipped around to face me.

This was the first time I had even dented a car with
TG
. I had no idea how much of a big deal it was to them. A racing team would understand, but a TV show that borrowed cars from manufacturers based on goodwill was completely different.

‘I am so, so sorry, Andy.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about it.’ Jeremy treated me to the mother of al smiles. ‘I told you it’s bloody awful, didn’t I? I’m surprised you held on to it that long.’

You had to love this bloke. A lesser man could have hung me out to dry.

‘Did you get a good time out of it?’ Andy asked.

‘Reasonable. If they stuck a rear wing on it and sorted the brakes it would go about three seconds faster round here.’

‘
Three seconds
? Bol ocks.’

‘Seriously. It’s massively short of downforce; you can feel the body rol ing and walking on the straights. If they nail it down with a proper wing and sort the other problems, three seconds.’

Andy shrugged and exchanged glances with Clarkson. These two had known each other since school. Thick as thieves. Andy went straight to Christian von K and booked another run. Several weeks later.

They were determined to beat the fastest time set by the Pagani Zonda.

I’d be sad to see the Zonda defeated. It was possibly the most beautiful supercar in the world, from the stunning carbon-weave body to the leather-bound steering wheel.

Mr Pagani took a personal interest in every detail of every car he designed. The Zonda was relentlessly polished and primed prior to filming.

‘Oi, mate, what car’s that, then?’ a besuited spectator had shouted to the man with the duster from behind the track barrier.

The Italian politely upturned his hands.
‘Mi dispiace, che io non parlano Inglese
…
’

‘What, no speaky English?’ The suit looked left and right for an audience that failed to materialise.

The laugh was on him anyway. He was insulting Mr Pagani himself, a gentleman wealthy enough to leave a platinum horse’s head on his pil ow.

I made my way to the Koenigsegg, now fitted with its rear wing and some brake fluid. I thought the mechanic would look daggers at the white-suited hooligan pacing towards his baby, but he welcomed me with a smile and a vigorous handshake.

The wing stabilised the car so much under braking that I could carry lots more speed into al the corners. The power steering worked and the brakes were faultless. The car was no less dramatic to drive and had me sweating profusely. As I chipped away at the times I was always relieved to cross the finish line.

Jim Wiseman gave me the thumbs up, we had al been waiting for, and confirmed that the car had

‘gone fastest’. I’m not sure there’s such a thing as a perfect lap in the CCX, but it was the closest I could get that day on 1.17.9.

I parked up whilst Jim gave Christian von K the good news. He practical y levitated with joy. His head rocked back and gazed at the sky, thrusting both fists upwards. His crew shook al our hands repeatedly. I was even given a signed copy of the
Koenigsegg Storybook
and a Koenigsegg bobble hat.

TG
had pul ed out al the stops to make the run happen, and Christian felt it personal y. I changed into civvies and found Jim Wiseman outside the greenroom looking very stressed indeed.

‘
Fuck
…’ He covered his mouth with a cocked finger.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘You just did 1.17.9, right?’

I nodded. ‘One tenth faster than the Zonda.’

‘That’s the thing. It’s one tenth
slower
than the Zonda. I just cal ed it in. And now I’ve got to go and tel him.’ I fol owed Jim’s pointed finger to where Christian von K was swapping high fives with the paramedics in the car park.

‘What the hel do I do now?’

‘Come on, I’l go with you. But you’d better do the hard part.’

The blood drained from Christian’s cherubic face. ‘I must phone my wife.’

An unprecedented third and final session was arranged. Judging by the ominous clouds, we had ten minutes to make this happen before rain removed any chance of a fast time.

I asked the mechanics to lower the suspension’s ride height. There were no cameras. It was just me, the car and Jim with his stopwatch.

I flicked on the radio. Chris Evans immediately obliged with a personal favourite: ‘Buck Rogers’ by Feeder. Wiseman got on his air guitar and after fine-tuning the tyre pressures it was time to go.

The adrenalin was flowing and I was zoned. The CCX tended to focus the mind, a bit like dancing the tango with a hammerhead shark.

I’d been running laps with this machine in my head for so long that I needed no time to settle in. I did two and knew that the second was unbeatable. 1.17.6 was two tenths faster than the Zonda – pole position at last.

The Koenigsegg shunt was the only one I ever had on
TG
. But there were times when I came mighty close.

The Ferrari factory brought two stunning new £130,000 F430s to the track, a Coupé and a convertible Spider. When Ferrari brought an automobile to the track, it was always just so. It started on the button and the V8 maelstrom fil ed the air.

The 430’s body styling was a touch more complicated than the 360 and produced more downforce, hugging the road like a hovercraft. Wilman was so excited that he took over the stopwatch to get closer to proceedings.

I took the Coupé for a blast and got into the groove. Its mid-rear-engine configuration made it perfectly balanced, a kick-ass weapon of mass destruction. You could pitch her in, tramp on the gas and

defecate sound and rubber through every curve.

Switching off the traction systems was easy. You simply turned a dial to ‘CST’, which also sped up the paddle gearshift and made the throttle more responsive.

It was the windiest day I had ever known at Dunsfold. There was a twister at the Fol ow Through and my times were a ful two seconds short of the older 360, as Wilman was first to point out. The pressure was on me to deliver.

The front of the car abjectly refused to turn into the medium speed stuff. I was certain the older 360

model had never handled like this. As the laps ticked by, Wilman’s expression grew more grim.

‘This car should be faster. What’s the problem?’

I didn’t know. The 430 was supposed to be a second faster than the 360, and I was going flat out.

‘If you think you
can’t
drive it any faster, just say the word.’

‘I can always find more – let’s give it another shot.’

Wilman clutched his stopwatch and straddled an imaginary chair. Suggesting that I couldn’t drive any faster was intended to get a rise out of me. And it worked.

I couldn’t force any more time out of the slower corners and I was braking so late that I was barely staying on the circuit. My only option was to give it rock al in the fast stuff and hope it stuck.

I was already taking a much wider line on entry to counter the effect of the wind, aiming straight at the tyre wal on the right-hand side until the last possible moment, then cutting back hard to carry speed through the left-hander. I decided not to lift off the throttle at al .

This would propel the car faster and generate more aero grip, whilst also keeping the rear differential ful y locked and more stable. I imagined how it would feel, the extra resistance to turning, how it would just clear the tyres and I would finish with an extraordinary time. It sent a fresh wash of adrenalin through my system.

I pounded around the lap in anticipation of the big moment. It suddenly arrived; the tyres were coming up fast. I mashed my foot into the carpet, aimed in and the force of the wind pushed the car into a 120mph four-wheel drift.

The Ferrari was heading inexorably for the wal on the right, the same side as my seat. My mouth tightened and I made myself as smal as possible, as if this would somehow prevent the sacrilege of smearing Ferrari red down the length of a grubby tyre wal . I pul ed in my elbows, clenched my knees together and held my breath.

I caught the wal with the front right panel and rubbed it as far back as the rear wheel arch. In racing we cal it a ‘sticker rub’ and it’s no big deal. Abusing a beautiful supercar,
a Ferrari
, was something else. But the lap wasn’t over yet.

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