by Ben Collins
‘A little left, go straight, little left, hold that, OK, it’s LOCKED …’
My thumb hovered over the base of the steering wheel as we screamed through the corner. Billy never lifted. Both of us knew this lap was the one.
We made a sensible approach under braking for the penultimate corner but Billy turned too much. We cut all the way across the grass and by some miracle the car didn’t spin.
One last jab of the brakes at Gambon corner, ‘TURN,’ and nothing could go wrong any more.
Billy crossed the line and I told him to stop.
I cradled the stopwatch for a moment in my hand.
‘That was a good one, it felt like a good one. How fast was it, Stig?’ Billy had become the focus of my thoughts, and for the past week his goal, his dream, had become almost as much mine as his. He had set out to drive a racing lap as well as a sighted man. But he had achieved far, far more.
‘Well, the first thing you need to know is that I never touched the steering wheel on that lap, even at the Follow Through.’
I let that hang for a moment as his chin buckled and another bullet of sweat dropped from his eyebrow. The gravity of his achievement washed through him.
‘And you didn’t just beat Wogan. You’re under the two-minute barrier. Your time was one minute and 58 seconds.’
It was all too much for Billy, but even war heroes are allowed to shed a tear now and again. I hugged him and thanked him for being such a top man.
In the background I could see the long shadow of the world’s tallest TV presenter approaching and decided to make a quick exit before my emotions got the better of me. I handed Billy over to Clarkson.
Jezza armed himself with a fifteen-second briefing from me on the terminology required to help Billy navigate the circuit, introduced himself to Billy and climbed into the car. As I walked off, Billy zig-zagged down the straight before piling off on to the grass. ‘Good luck, Jezza.’
I gripped my fist in celebration of Billy’s success. His time was faster than five sighted celebrities. It meant more to me than any lap I could have driven.
Chapter 20
Taking the Rough with the Smooth
The reason Top Gear felt so exciting and personal to me was because the camera crews gave their all to capturing every moment.
It required something special not to tear yourself away from the monocle as some lunatic headed towards your kneecaps at ramming speed. Most mortals would be running for cover or asking the director to leave the rig unmanned. TG crews stayed put, because they could pull the image into crisper focus – and the results were there for all to see. We built up a high level of trust and I never felt complacent about the risks they took to get the perfect shot.
On Series 6 of TG the presenters splashed out on three dreadful coupés for less than £1500 a throw. I went to the alpine handling track at Millbrook to test their suspension and handling flaws. The Hill Route was soaking wet, and encompassed every kind of treacherous bend. The fastest machine around a closed loop would be deemed the winner.
The three musketeers duly arrived with three old heaps. Jeremy had a Mitsubishi Starion, James a Jaguar XJS and Richard a BMW 635. I made a cursory inspection of them all. Judging by the amount of rust and gaffer tape not quite holding them together, I reckoned I had a one in six chance of spearing off. I passed this on to the crew: ‘If it sounds or looks wrong, start running.’
James’s XJS was an utter shed. It was all I could do to hold it in a gear and count the minutes as she struggled to make it up the hill. Gravity kindly guided it down the other side.
Clarkson’s clapped-out ball of metal was the fastest and boasted a vague semblance of handling. Hammond’s BMW was a mean old dog that still liked to bite. It was the most powerful of the three, but 300kg heavier and designed back in the days before ABS braking systems. Time had not been kind to it in other ways; she was inclined to turn right even when you spun the steering left.
Millbrook boasted a famous jump where you went airborne and landed at a sharp left-hander. We had a camera located directly ahead, tucked behind the barriers. The man operating it normally worked at Dunsfold, so a location shoot was new territory. He was also pushing seventeen stone.
With the presenters in eager anticipation I wiped the condensation from inside my visor, took the cue to go over the radio and sped up the hill. The BM had the sweet cocktail scent of old air fresheners and wallowed like a Cross-Channel ferry. The engine’s rattle suggested the ignition timing was counting it down to oblivion. I arrived at the presenters’ viewpoint, hit the brakes and nearly joined them when the BM wobbled into its suspension and locked a rear wheel. Clarkson yelled, ‘Run for your lives!’
I turned down the hill and nailed the throttle. As I powered up the jump the BM lurched into the air and started to turn right before I’d even landed. The suspension made a loud groan as its groggy parts stretched out of their sockets. Before the car cleared the crest, our stocky cameraman had his Nikes on and was pegging it into the trees faster than Linford Christie, knees pumping at chest height. I couldn’t eject, I still had to land this disaster.
The BM slewed to 45 degrees in the air and pulled further right as she cannoned into the tarmac. Copious opposite lock countered the slide but the sheer weight of the machine pulled it down the slope at increasing speed towards the recently vacated Armco barrier. I broke the rules of car control and hit the brake pedal to reduce speed mid-slide. The front wheels locked abruptly and the engine spurted oil across the tyres. I wasn’t confident of braking any time soon.
I’d lost count of the steering revolutions, but with plenty of left-hand lock still on, the BM made a brutish swerve and climbed the left-hander. I was in so deep that I resigned myself to swiping the barrier. I waited … and it just missed. The tank-slapper came to an end some 50 metres further on.
Clarkson’s Starion won the contest comfortably.
The next three-way shoot was on the Isle of Man and involved three brand-new speedsters: Aston Martin’s 8 Vantage, BMW’s M6 and Porsche’s Carrera S. You have to take the rough with the smooth.
The stark landscape reminded me of the Welsh mountains, with brooding cliff faces highlighted by silver-lined clouds. The locals seemed oblivious to the scenic beauty; instead of pottering around on foot, they enjoyed the faster pace permitted by the island’s relaxed attitude to speed limits. There weren’t any.
Top Gear arrived in force at this driver’s paradise, and naturally The Stig came too. I arrived on the baggage conveyor belt at the airport.
I whetted my appetite for the Vantage by blasting it along the section of mountain road out of Douglas Harbour. Sitting in the Aston was like taking a pew in a nightclub, with red stitching on shining black leather and a gleaming metal trim. The sun was shimmering across the inky sea, and for a few minutes the barren single carriageway belonged only to me. I filled the sloping landscape of boulders and long grass with the rasping valve song of the V8, smacking it around its rev limiter in every gear and topping out at 145mph.
There was promise of power aplenty in the exhaust note, and I punished the engine for under-delivering on it by nailing the pedal to the metal and scrabbling through the open corners on the edge of adhesion. The Vantage rolled more than the DB9, squatting into the rear tyres and shooting me plenty of warning signals. Fun, but a hairdresser’s car.
I arrived at the top of the island all too quickly and hooked up with the crew. We knocked out a series of in-car camera shots, including a lively one of the heads-up display in the BMW reading 141mph across a cattle grid.
The M6 had all kinds of stability controls and traction systems. Once you turned that lot off, punched in the power elevation button and expressed the paddle shift, the V10 motor set about tearing flakes out of the black stuff to the wanton howl of 501 horsepower. It was too try-hard-techy for me. When you bent it out of shape the fly-by-wire throttle reported you to the nanny ABS system, which cut out the brakes when you tried to slow down.
/> We based ourselves out of Jeremy’s house to shoot the other pieces. He lived at a wonderful spot on the shore where you could pluck a crab or a fish right out of the sea, clearly demonstrated by the numerous photos of his children doing just that. All the more frustrating when the lobster pot that Jeremy’s wife Francie lent me came back empty after two days. ‘A first,’ she told me, clearly unimpressed.
To determine which was the fastest sports coupé, Production locked off a section of the prestigious TT bike racing course from Ramsey to the rail crossing, so that we could record a flat-out time in each one. Timing beacons would monitor my speed and time precisely.
I studied some in-car footage and noted that the roads were bordered by drops of 50 feet into rocky heather. Even with a helmet, if I went off in a standard road car without racing belts, that would hurt.
Back at Jeremy’s I sipped beers with the boys and chatted through the filming schedule with the director. I was also waiting to hear more news about a NASCAR opportunity in the US. It looked like my ship was coming in. After months of discussion, my team racing overalls were on order.
I went outside into the weather to get some reception and discovered that the financial backing for the new team had fallen apart.
I went back inside and Hammond asked what was up, so I told him. He badgered Wilman all night about finding a way to help me out, which was a kind gesture, but I festered inside until the following morning, when I lined up for blast-off.
Minutes before I was sent up the hill in the BMW the heavens opened and the fog swooped in. With two slow recce runs under my belt I could have done with a bit of vision, but to hell with it. Fuelled with anger and frustration, I disconnected brain and kicked the M6 in the guts. The dazzling fog lights were useless in the white-out. I just barrelled up at the corners and reacted on arrival with a stab of the brake and in. The M6 relied on stiff suspension for support, which cost it dearly in traction and grip in the wet. I forced the throttle open and dared it to fly off the road.
The silver Porsche 911 went through next. Its powerful brakes and chassis developed over generations of racing at inclement venues like Le Mans saw it revel in the wet conditions, mullering the time set by the M6 by six seconds at an average speed of 84mph. Doesn’t sound much, but when I tipped into the fast left at ‘Black Hut’ and ran wide towards the verge it felt plenty quick. I could have had an excellent crash there. Part of me wanted to.
I rounded off with the Aston and maxed it to an identical time to the BMW. Wilman, the wily fox, eyed each timed run carefully and refused to let me do any more. I got changed and joined the presenters. They were borderline hypothermic by that point, each of them quivering like a dog crapping a peach stone. They carried on filming all day and night with the longest discussion of cars I had ever witnessed. The crew were on their chin straps by the end.
I was getting into TG. The cameras felt less intrusive and more like a protective bubble. I think the show was getting me too; my direct approach worked for the producers. Most of the time.
You can walk through any security cordon and enter any building in the world if you’re carrying a bucket of water. It makes you look purposeful, like you’re there to put out a fire or water flowers. The White Suit did all this and more. It made me virtually bullet-proof, even when tangling with the Law.
The guys wanted to build a Caterham kit car in less time than it took The Stig to drive a prefab Caterham from Kent to Knockhill racing circuit in Scotland. If I arrived before they finished, I won. The distance between the two was 465 miles.
The Caterham was one of the best track cars on the market, especially the R500. You could drive endless flat-out laps without killing the brakes or blowing the engine, or spend a day driving sideways without the rear differential exploding. Doughnuts and powerslides were tea with two sugars for this bad boy. Driving it on the road was more challenging – unless you hated your wife; you wouldn’t hear a thing she said over the engine and wind noise.
I banged along the motorway north out of London behind a Range Rover full of TV crew. Ben Joiner was filming me from inside the tailgate. His Mad Max cycling mask helped him cope with the fumes. Passengers in passing cars occasionally clocked the storm trooper in the middle lane and waved.
The Caterham’s plastic door had refused to close properly since we left Kent. As I blatted up behind the Range Rover for another shot, the whole thing flew off, spun 30 feet into the air and landed on the hard shoulder.
‘Nigel, my door just blew off. Now the roof’s got the shakes.’
‘Sorry, Stiggy, you’re just going to have to hold on. We’re a bit under the whip …’
Nigel Simpkiss was the original director and one of the creators of Top Gear’s look and feel. He had a rare talent for framing cars against landscape, which made his films wonderfully fresh. I loved Nigel’s shoots because they never lacked pace, and beneath his focus lay a deep fascination with everyone and everything around him. But it paid not to forget that a flicker of his hazel eyes could send a King Cobra scuttling home to Mummy when his temper was fraying.
A minute later I detected a blue light in my wing mirror.
‘Nigel, we’ve got company …’
‘Pull over. We’ll film this.’
With me sandwiched between the Range Rover and the Law, we pulled in to the hard shoulder. The crew were out with the camera in a flash, ready to home in on the action.
Two coppers walked up alongside the Caterham.
I stayed put.
‘Is that your door that just fell off?’
‘Yes, it is. Sorry about that.’
‘Is this your car?’
‘No.’
Pause.
‘Have you got your licence on you?’
‘No.’
Another pause.
‘What’s your name?’
I thought about it for a moment, then leant across to really spell it out for them.
‘THE STIG.’
That broke the ice. They very kindly returned my door. The pressure of Ben’s camera lens bearing down on them precipitated their rapid withdrawal, and Nigel thanked them for their understanding.
* * *
We once filmed one of Jeremy’s DVDs in the desert a mile from Edwards Air Force Base, the ultra-sensitive location of the US military’s experimental aircraft facility. This was where they developed and operated the Stealth Fighter, the new F-22 Raptor and other Deep Black weapons systems no one has yet seen.
The crusty surface of Rogers Lake was cracked into plates of dried mud as far as the eye could see. It was like the surface of another planet. The setting was too stunning to resist, despite the fact that we were within a restricted area.
‘Guys, we really shouldn’t be here,’ pleaded our American fixer. ‘The military don’t have a sense of humour about this kinda thing …’ He was a gentle man, mid-forties, with a career in soap operas and a closet full of Hawaiian shirts. His protests fell on deaf ears.
I slipped into character and marched out on to the very lakebed where, according to respected astronaut Gordon Cooper of NASA’s Mercury Program, an alien UFO had been filmed landing by a military research team under his command in 1957. The footage he reviewed from their cinetheodolite cameras depicted a silent saucer-shaped craft which, when approached, ‘took off at a great rate of speed’.
I slid my radio into my pocket and walked 300 metres, a satisfying crunch of mud flakes underfoot, then turned and headed back through the heat haze towards the camera. It was our homage to legendary test pilot Chuck Yeager, who first broke the sound barrier at Edwards aboard the X-1. There were no little green men running around, but I couldn’t quite shake off the eerie feeling that we were being watched.
As I reached our crew, a cluster of big 4x4s with blacked-out windows swung to a halt alongside us. The guys jumping out weren’t local rent-acops with lazy hip holsters and beer guts. These dudes were wearing assault vests and black berets, shouldering M4 carbines – with rounds i
n the chamber, judging by the way one of them was checking the breech.
To a casual observer the soldiers spilled randomly from their vehicles. In fact their patrol sergeant, a black bruiser with sharp sideburns and wrap-around shades, covered us vehicle by vehicle. Two emphatic fingers sent two men running towards our lead Ford Galaxy; another two cut off the rear.
I walked as casually as possible off the lakebed and joined the group where our American fixer was trying to pick up the pieces. There was plenty of ‘yes sir, no sir, three bags full’. It was hard to hear much inside the helmet, but judging by the body language it seemed best that everyone did exactly what they were told. I took a seat on the tailgate of our Suburban and marvelled at the process whereby this quick reaction force assessed the situation. There was no Top Gear on US TV at this point, so it took a little longer to explain that the guy in the spacesuit and helmet wasn’t a Korean fighter pilot trying to steal one of their latest aircraft.
Iain May leaned over and whispered, ‘Looks like you might be spending the night with these guys. Wanna borrow some soap?’
‘No, thanks; I know where you keep it.’
The sergeant nodded, circled a gloved finger in the air and his men saddled up. We were escorted five miles away from the base, then released and given back our identity cards.
Iain grinned. ‘Shall we nip back?’
The fixer buried his face in his hands. If we went back he wouldn’t come with us, and we ‘wouldn’t be so lucky next time’.
I spent most time around the presenters in the course of filming their escapades from various tracking vehicles. You probably never heard the one about the glamour model, the dwarf, the Spaniard and the three stooges. These six characters were the stars of the Classic Rally of Mallorca 2009.
I spent a day doing a recce of the route with the other tracking drivers to gauge time and traffic flow, and to recognise key route markers. The presenters had been paired with co-drivers that in some way parodied their persona.
For some reason Hammond was hooked up with the dwarf, and May (the beast!) got the glamour model. Clarkson was given the Spaniard who couldn’t speak English, which made two of them who were incapable of listening. The co-drivers were responsible for navigating the presenters around the perils of the Mallorcan rally stages.