The Man in the White Suit

by Ben Collins

  It pays to be a winner today, lads,’ the corporal smirked.

  Up until this point our training had consisted of tabbing long distances across the Welsh mountains within a designated timeframe. For one of the longer, harder routes, involving a double traverse of a killer peak, candidates were required to double their speed across the hills in a test of willpower, aggression and bloody-mindedness. It was pass or fail. The march was led by the staff, so assuming they didn’t get lost, all you had to do was run.

  Bernie was relishing the bleak forecast he’d seen on TV. ‘Gonna be fucking epic. Weather warning says there’s a force 8 gale this weekend.’

  We enjoyed the rare pleasure of a night in a bed inside Barracks. It was a welcome indulgence, even though my pillow smelled like a group of piss-heads had wiped their asses with it. Even better, the following morning we had a cooked breakfast followed by the briefing.

  ‘This is a basic test to see whether you have the physical stamina to pass this course. Anyone wearing a wristwatch will be sacked; you won’t know the magic cut-off time, so you fucking push it all the way. If you notice that your legs are spinning and your bergen has overtaken you, that means you are falling over. Try not to let your bergen pass your body when you’re running downhill. No doubt there will be a mass urination, so get your kit squared away and be ready to move at 0900.’

  We stripped down to the bare basics: DPM trousers and Helly Hansen T-shirt under a Gore-Tex outer liner. Staying warm wouldn’t be a problem.

  Kojak was a bald regular Army veteran with a mysterious past, who met every challenge by ripping its face off. He had opted for a black knee-brace contraption that was fresh out of Mad Max. He dropped his trousers in front of everyone to reveal his retro Y-front skivvies before diving in with a fistful of Vaseline. He swallowed some super-sized Ibuprofens, clapped his hands together and yelled, ‘Come on then, ladies, let’s fuckin’ do this.’

  We were issued mini flares and lined up alphabetically, which meant I started near the front.

  The training OC was a ginger whippet and led off like someone had just set off the hare from the starting gate. He must have been forty-odd, but was a mosquito on the hills. Dirck, the uber-keen South African, was glued to his shoulder, as always, but the furious pace was too much for me. My chest was wheezing and rattling ‘like a whale giving birth to triplets’ according to Ninja, our resident martial arts guru, as he sauntered past me. Next to overtake was Flash who puffed, ‘Stick with the pack.’

  I couldn’t, and sank further back.

  A DS with an unusually large head saw I needed some encouragement. ‘Bloody hell, mate, this is just the start. In through yer nose, out through yer mouth. Not exactly match fit, are yer?’

  I’d always struggled running uphill. It was utterly demoralising being unable to summon the energy to keep up. The Lord of War, a guy I disliked intensely, was the next to catch me up. He thought he was some kind of military genius, had a grade one haircut, frowned on those outside the club and blew his nose repeatedly into his sleeve.

  Our speeds were matched the way trucks are when they block motor-ways by overtaking each other with an infinitesimally small speed differential.

  I went to pass him on his right and he blocked me. I ushered him aside with my rifle and we traded a few blows, swapping places another five times on the way up the mountain. A bit of venom went a long way to helping us get within 40 metres of the lead group as fog descended on to the open ground.

  The wind kicked up, driving the cold rain hard and sideways. Fog clagged in like pea soup, engulfing the leaders and the mass of blokes behind, which meant we had no clue where we were going. The Lord of War turned right to follow the fence-line. I went straight over.

  I checked my map on the run and fell through a bog right up to my tits. Bernie came to my rescue and dragged me out. We exchanged the same look. It said, ‘Where the hell are we?’ The DS at the last checkpoint had said to follow the fence-line, but we’d crossed two of the bastards since and lost sign of the footprints in the long grass.

  We ran off in what turned out to be the right direction. Not everyone would be so lucky.

  My beanie hat had swollen to the size of a turban, so I ditched it and jogged after Bernie, stuffing frozen chocolate into my mouth. The weather pounded in, the rain slashing so hard you had to make slits of your eyes to peer through. At the top of the hill we found a tent.

  Laughing Corporal popped out with his arms outstretched like the messiah. ‘All right there, lads, give us your numbers … crack on, boys, there’s a brew at the bottom, get your skates on.’

  We bounced off rocks, tripped over clumps of grass and shimmied in the wind under the weight of a bouncing bergen, jolting belt kit, tired legs struggling to control our trajectory. I slipped on the wet grass, my head snapped back against the top of my pack and I found myself sliding like an upended tortoise 25 metres down the hill.

  We caught one of the DSs, an officer, and followed him down a steep slope to the top of a waterfall, whereupon he produced a map … Not a good sign. The turnaround checkpoint was just 200 metres below us. I could see it. But it was five times the distance on the conventional trail. The edge of the waterfall wasn’t quite vertical and the trees either side looked like a possible route down …

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ Bernie rasped.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Fucking certain. We’ll go back up the track.’

  A grey-haired couple made their way past us, walking their dog. ‘Good morning, boys.’

  ‘Good morning,’ we replied in choirboy unison.

  Following Indiana Jones had cost us ten minutes we didn’t have. We reached the bottom and charged along the tarmac road towards the ‘twat wagon’ parked in the layby, arriving in the nick of time. I necked my milkshake and used the hot tea to help me gobble clumps of concrete chocolate. Four swigs later it was time to saddle up for the return leg.

  We headed straight back up the minging slope we had just come down, before curling round the mountain, back into the weather. You could lean 45 degrees into the wind without falling over. As the slope neared the vertical I dragged myself up by pulling on a barbed wire fence, leaning on my weapon, hands and knees, chin strap. I was flat dead. At long last the descent began, and I started to catch people again. I ran past Plissken’s basha. He flicked the ash off a cigarette and shouted, ‘Straight down the hill, son. Keep it up.’

  For the first time, I felt I was going to make it. It made the back of my head tingle. We sprinted the last kilometre. My boot lost traction for one final spectacular face plant into the muddy track.

  The finish was in sight and the lead group were cheering us in, with Kojak whipping up proceedings into a drag race with a guy who suddenly appeared behind me.

  ‘He’s catchin’ ya. C’mon, lads, he’s catchin’ ya!’

  I was the seventh man in.

  The DS stared at me over his clipboard, unable to identify the bog man standing before him.

  ‘It’s Collins, Staff.’

  His pencil ticked me off. A little over half our number made the cutoff point. Laughing Corporal described the cull as ‘carnage’.

  We shuffled towards our transports like a gang of rubbery-legged John Waynes. The pain in our bodies was far more bearable than the anguish of the guys who didn’t make it; some were lost in the fog for hours, including my old chum and navigational genius the Lord of War.

  I melted into my seat and turned on my mobile. A text from one of the Top Gear production assistants read, ‘Naughty naughty mr stig, heard you were telling people who you were in a restaurant last night …’

  ‘What?’ I said aloud. I must have missed the section of the Naafiwith white tablecloths.

  I angrily texted my reply. ‘No I didn’t, no I wasn’t. Must be someone else.’

  A couple of beeps heralded the reply. ‘Watch out. remember what happened to the last stig …’

  The brutality of the march had reduced our
group to a more manageable number. The survivors included a few surprises like Johnny, the silent but apparently deadly schoolteacher, Milo the IT technician and one born-again racing driver.

  * * *

  The RML team put their faith in me and kept my car on the track for the remainder of the Ascar season, in spite of the financial burden. It was a magical year. We led every race, winning most of them, with the help of soldiers from all regiments, some of them working on the pit wall. Colonel White, who was running the exercise, reckoned it was the most effective recruiting drive they’d ever employed.

  We had a good lead going into the last race weekend of the season. The championship title was within our grasp, so it was time for a pep talk with Phil, the team manager.

  ‘Now, I’m sure you’re aware of this Texaco Trophy they’ve thrown into the mix for this weekend …’

  I certainly was. It was a special award for the driver who scored the most points over the final weekend.

  ‘Well, you can forget all about that bollocks. You’re here to become a champion and that’s all you need to focus on. All you need to do is finish tenth in both races to win it.’

  He was absolutely right. Settle for tenth. No brainer.

  I took the TA car on to the track for practise and realised we had a gift. I’d been driving the wheels off it all season, running on the edge to be faster than the other drivers. This time, we held the advantage. And with Phil’s new, faster wheel-change guns it meant we could keep the lead during our pit stops.

  I parked the car on pole position, which raised one of Phil’s eyebrows.

  We absolutely romped both races. I knew that I was safer out of reach than stuck in the pack. The only time the others came close was during a safety car with a few of the really fast boys on my tail.

  The one directly behind communicated via our spotters in the grandstands that since I needed to finish this race to win the championship, I’d better let him past, ‘or else’.

  It was a physical form of racing, so this didn’t leave a lot to my imagination. I politely asked Doug to tell him to eff off. When the flag dropped I drove the fastest, most perfect laps I could. I pulled clear and sealed the championship by passing the chequered flag in first place.

  I couldn’t wait to get back to the pits and see the boys. I flung off the belts, clambered out of the car and bear-hugged every one of them. They’d run a faultless operation all season without a single mechanical failure.

  Phil had given birth to kittens on the pit wall but did well to conceal it behind his Oakleys. He had one more race to run. ‘Do whatever you like now, mate,’ he beamed.

  We’d saved my best tyres for the second half of the final race, which meant I struggled to hold the lead in the first half on the old cheddars. When the new rubber boots went on I had a light fuel load and nothing to lose, so I could really push the envelope. I went flat out through all of the first three corners, so fast that the engine was hitting the limiter just after Number Three. I’d always braked for Four but it felt so good I just lifted off the throttle and went in. It pushed me a little wide, but I cured it with some throttle and crossed the line with a new track record. I drove that way for four laps. It was total freedom.

  We took a clean sweep: a maximum points score from two pole positions, two fastest laps and two race wins to claim the Texaco Trophy and the European Ascar title.

  Even Mum had felt it was safe to attend, and some dust from the pit lane must have blown into her eye when I saw her afterwards. Dad had secreted multiple cases of champagne inside the team’s hospitality unit, which he distributed liberally as he set about embracing the crew. In spite of his considerable experience of drinking the stuff he sank the first bottle a bit too quickly and it was fizzing out of his ears.

  The awards ceremony took place a week later at the glorious Hilton hotel in Leicester. I dressed up like a penguin and laid off the booze being quaffed liberally by the rest of the team. The curtain slid back and we watched the season highlights with all the crashes, bashes and action. It was a proud moment receiving my award, but it was getting late and I was itching to hit the road.

  I was beating a hasty exit when a hand clapped me on the back.

  ‘Not so fast.’

  Colonel White from the TA had become increasingly avuncular during the course of the season. He beamed at me. ‘Bloody marvellous this year, lad. I’m so sorry we won’t be joining you next season; our new civvie marketing wizard just doesn’t get motor sport. Remember my offer, though; you’re still young enough to enlist.’

  * * *

  I beat it away from the Hilton in the middle of the night and followed the now familiar route towards the Welsh quagmire. My headlights eventually picked out one of the DSs with a brew on the go. As I parked up, he flicked on a head torch and wandered over.

  ‘How’d you get on then?’

  ‘Good, Staff. I won.’

  ‘Let’s ’ave a look then.’

  I handed him the crystal championship trophy and was rewarded with an appreciative expletive. Then, ‘Well … better get changed and join the rest of the lads. Here’s your weapon.’

  The rain started chucking it down. I trudged through the mud and scraped my way into the shelter of the pine trees. An acrid stench began to strip the membranes off my nostrils as I curled up for the night on a bed of sheep droppings. Their erstwhile owners were clearly in dire need of medical attention. I heard a rustling sound nearby. One of the boys was moving off for a piss, hopefully not on the face of the last man in.

  Chapter 14

  Cowell’s Got Talent

  I made my way to Dunsfold a couple of days later and climbed gratefully into my silky white suit. Lieutenant Nick Arkle from the Royal Navy climbed into his olive green one. We were about to see if a flyboy driving a Harrier Jump Jet could beat The Stig in a Saab 9-5 Aero.

  James May was looking eagerly across the airstrip from the shelter of the production office with a coffee in one hand and a scrunched yellow script in the other. I found James to be a thoughtful character, who looked like a motoring version of Doctor Who with his floppy hair and stripy jumpers. As I greeted him he turned and saluted. ‘Good morning, sir. How do you fancy your chances?’

  ‘Not great. But if he doesn’t win he’ll probably shoot me.’

  He gave me an indulgent smile. ‘Did you ever see the flying bedstead contraption they used to develop the Harrier back in the Fifties?’

  ‘I think so. The one that looked like an insect?’

  ‘Mmm. Marvellous technology, especially when you think that jets had only been around for a few years back then. Brave men tinkering with the extremities of physics.’

  I knew a bit about Harrier pilots from growing up in America during the Falklands confl ict. I had a poster detailing the fleet of ships that carried our troops and aircraft thousands of miles across the ocean to face an unlikely but determined enemy. As a kid in a foreign country I felt proud to be British, watching TV clips of Paras and Marines tabbing across the desolate, misty terrain, into the unknown. Ace pilots like Flight Lieutenant David Morgan became heroes to me as they flew dangerous missions to defend the fleet.

  I never imagined that twenty years on I’d be racing against a Harrier pilot at the very airfield it was first flown and developed.

  The Harrier weighed in with 21,000 pounds of jet thrust versus the Saab’s 3-litre blancmange. I asked Nick how close to the ground he wanted to fly, just in case I needed to duck.

  ‘Shouldn’t be hanging around long, Stig. Once I get a few knots under my belt I’ll be pulling angels.’

  Slick and self-assured, Nick really looked the part. I could imagine him at the bar popping out lines from Top Gun to a melting audience. The fact that he was a good bloke only made it worse.

  We’d start alongside one another on the runway and blast off together. The Harrier would get in the air and follow the course of the lap – ish – whilst I blatted round the tarmac.

  The Harrier started to
get noisy even though the director still couldn’t make up his mind whether Nick should start the race in the air or on the ground.

  I looked across the Saab’s modest felt interior and watched the Sea Harrier pull alongside me. It was a hot day and with no air conditioning the sweat was trickling from my helmet lining and stinging my eyes. The radio crackled. The director shouted instructions, one word at a time, over the screaming jet engines. ‘RIGHT … STIIIG … THE … HARRIER … IS … GOING … TO … HOVER … OVER … THE … TOP … OF … THE … CAR … AND … WE … MIGHT … START … THE … RACE … OK?’

  ‘OK.’ With zero chance of being heard, I added a thumbs up.

  A few moments later Nick cranked his engines and rose vertically some 40 feet. The noise inside the Saab was deafening.

  The Harrier moved in my direction. The 1,000mph, 400˚C exhaust announced its presence loud and clear. The right-hand side of the car lifted a little and wobbled. The director had his eyes closed and his high-visibility jacket around his ears. The crew shielded their eyes as plastic bags and other debris careered towards them, but kept their cameras pointed in our general direction.

  I could hear nothing above the sound of the jet blast, so I would miss the start unless someone waved. Then Nick must have done something, because the pressure seemed to double and the Saab sank into its suspension until the tyres topped out on the wheel arches. The wobbling stopped; there was a moment of peace, and then, all of a sudden, one side of the car flicked up.

  There was no time to phone a friend for an expert opinion on the consequences of close-range thrust, but my backside told me that we were about to be inverted.

  ‘TELL THE HARRIER TO GET LOST, NOW!’ I shrieked, making the cut-throat signal with my hand for good measure.

  Nick landed alongside for a restart. The Harrier held all the aces but I figured I could at least get one up on him off the line.

  The director counted us down, using a high-tech starting system involving three fingers.

  Nick went on ‘Go’, just after I left on ‘One’.