by Ben Collins
‘She thinks I’m Timothy Dalton.’ Brian slipped on some sunglasses, adding to his mystique.
He had his photo taken with the extended family Robinson and signed autographs whilst the rest of us chewed down the kind of pasta pesto the Romans would have used as building mortar.
We flew to Malaga in Spain and stayed at the opulent Ascari Resort. The circuit nestled inside a range of rugged mountains dotted with sparse Andalusian foliage. It was designed by the owner and my former team boss, Klaas Zwart, and replicated twenty-six of the most challenging corners from Grand Prix venues like Spa and Zandvoort. With sun all year round, it was the perfect setting to assess the true performance of three of the latest road cars: a BMW M3, an Audi RS4 and a Mercedes-Benz C63 AMG.
As I walked down the pit lane I passed a familiar shape peering from underneath the metal shutters to one of the garages. I stared longingly at the aggressive dive planes covering the wheel arches of Ascari’s Le Mans racing prototype. It sent me back to the time I drove it around Le Mans. The desire to race stung like a wasp, and it was all I could do to drag my focus back to the day’s objectives.
Clarkson was hunched over his laptop, sucking on a Marlboro as he rocked back in deep contemplation of the script he’d been working on with TG’s other wordsmith, Richard Porter. Jeremy was the architectural powerhouse behind all his work, so I left him to it. I needed to make a decision that would affect the rest of my day: Cappuccino or Americano.
The Ascari lair with its marble floors, manicured gardens, ‘Cortijo’ clubhouse, swimming pool and sleeping hammocks compared very favourably to the spit and sawdust of Dunsfold. The crew enjoyed it so much that we lobbied Wilman to shoot the whole series out there. Predictably enough, he refused to ‘become a shareholder in EasyJet’.
Having satiated myself at the breakfast buffet I moved back towards the presenters, who were embroiled in a mock debate about their cars in a build-up to filming their comments.
Clarkson turned to me. ‘Have you driven it?’
‘What’s that?’
‘The Merc.’
‘Not yet.’
‘You’ll love it. It’s got loads more power than the others; it’s insane.’ Big draw on his fag and back to the laptop.
The statistically correct script labelled the Merc as a winner by virtue of its 450-odd horsepower, against the Audi on 420 and the BMW a nickel short. The Audi was four-wheel drive, which might throw in a curve ball, but the BM seemed destined for third place in the performance stakes.
Whilst the presenters got to grips with their lines, the director got me on to mine. We filmed all three cars going flat out around the circuit. The crew had already dispatched instinctively and were filming Grand Vista shots of the countryside before the rest of us had even arrived.
It was no surprise to see that Iain had found a cherry picker. Ben panned artistically across the hillside, through the branches of an oak tree. Casper was shooting from on high to absorb the bleached panorama.
First up was Clarkson’s Merc. I climbed in and moved the seat forward for about five minutes until I reached the pedals. It was a big heavy unit, with a 6.2-litre engine that could power a supertanker. I shifted into gear and positioned alongside Phil, who was busy with his radio, his sunbaked forehead turning the colour of beetroot. He gave me the thumbs up and ‘Action.’
I skipped my left foot off the brake and simultaneously pinned the accelerator to the floor. A cloud of smoke billowed in my rear-view mirror as Daimler’s finest horses roared towards the first corner of the day. I braked earlier than I felt I needed to, but the Merc sopped up the margin; its lumbering weight folded into the soft suspension. Yuk.
The front of the car washed out mid-corner as the chassis lolled about, front first, followed by the rear. With so much roll and so much power, I knew that a touch of the throttle would produce a filthy slide, so I opened the floodgate. There was a screech of rubber bordering on the sociopathic and two bubbling black stains across the pristine grey road surface.
Being inch perfect was difficult as the volume of power overcame the rear differential and shoved the remaining surge through one wheel, spinning it faster than the other. Overpowered, with soggy brakes and wobbly suspension. What an old nail.
Next up was the sales rep’s wet dream. Hammond’s M3 sat firm on its suspension, with a smooth ride from shock absorbers that clamped the rubber to the tarmac. The tender brakes reacted quickly to my input. The acutely sensitive power delivery was stunning and controllable. It drifted sideways through the corners like it was on casters. Every detail, from the cross-stitched leather steering wheel to the flawless gear-change and reduced upper body weight, was bang on. It was such a gem I wanted to kiss the designer.
I hopped into James’s Audi RS4. As an Audi fan I expected to be impressed. The four-wheel drive gripped and bogged down on the fast pull away, then kangaroo hopped along the pit lane. Even with a 40/60 front to rear torque split, I never liked four-wheel-drive sports cars. They only functioned properly if the bias was substantially in favour of the rear wheels, otherwise the two axles competed for supremacy at the cost of cornering stability.
Once I was up to ramming speed, the engine torque punched the Audi nicely through every gear. Minor inputs of the wheel were met by jarring returns from the suspension and cornering became mundanely predictable. The RS4 juddered with understeer through every turn.
I donned the white suit for a time attack to determine which of these V8 bullets was the fastest. I already knew the answer. I tried to warn Jeremy that he had picked a dog.
‘Rubbish, you’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ he replied.
When it came to posting a time in front of camera, the Merc rolled over on its wheel arches and flashed its undercarriage at every opportunity. Its time was 2.43.5.
Next I pushed the Audi to the brink, flat-footed it through the kink on to the back straight and reached a top speed of 145 into a fast, tightening right-hander.
Braking and turning from high speed tested the driver’s confidence as much as the essence of the machine. I went in flat, cogged down and braked lightly to prevent the ABS activating, then gradually increased the brake pressure. The ABS triggered as I reached for the apex at about 110, resulting in a deadening of the pedal. Then the electronics gave up, no longer caring to moderate the percentage changes of fluid pressure to slow each individual wheel. That sent all the braking to the least loaded wheel, the inside rear, locking it instantly as if someone had hooliganed the handbrake. It sent the car completely sideways.
The Polaroid moment that followed saw The Stig in a flat spin, exiting stage left off the circuit towards a gravel trap and tyre barrier. And it was only 10.30 in the morning …
The gremlin in the system’s electronics had more to offer. I piled on the opposite lock, slammed the steering into the rack stop and applied 100 per cent brakes, scanning desperately for a solution to save the car either by swivelling it around or trying to accelerate away from the wall. At that critical moment the ignition switched itself off, taking with it the power steering and assisted brake. I had to push them both twice as hard to achieve the same effect, manhandling the controls like a gorilla at feeding time.
Scraping the tarmac ran my speed down another 40mph to a manageable 70 by the time I slid across the border of the gravel trap, missed the deep stuff next to the wall and brought the car to a stop on the grass. The engine and electronics were totally dead. Naughty car, but you had to laugh. These things happened.
I removed and replaced the key. She switched on and drove back to the start line as if nothing had happened – and still managed a time just 0.4 of a second slower than the Merc.
The M3 tore a ferocious pace thanks to its poise and balance in every corner, and aggressive braking. The time was a full five seconds faster than the other two.
I went out with Klaas and the presenters for tapas in the medieval town of Rhonda, overlooking the spectacular ‘El Taho’ gorge. It was a rough ex
istence.
Jeremy was so irked by the day’s events that he accused me of deliberately missing an apex to foul the lap time of his meat wagon. I told him that if I put an apple on the apex he could drive at it all day and never hit it. Jezza swallowed the bait whole.
We lined up the cameras on a sharp corner and I placed the apple at the latter part of the apex kerb. I stood right on the corner to goad the big man further.
Jeremy went at it hammer and tongs, drifting sideways into the corner on different lines and somehow managing to miss every time. He was excruciatingly close, but no strudel. I bit my lip hard, trying desperately not to laugh. After the fifth attempt he gave up and it was my turn in the BMW. If I hit the apple, Jeremy was prepared to eat it.
I flicked the M3 into the turn, lit up the rear tyres and squelched it on the first take. At Jeremy’s request we filmed it from another angle. I nailed it and the big man took a big bite of humble pie. He picked up a grubby piece of crushed apple from the kerb and guzzled it down.
* * *
Nothing daunted, Jeremy handed me the keys to a Lamborghini Gallardo 560-4 Spyder, issued himself a Ford Focus and demanded a race down the Rhonda mountain pass to the port of Marbella. The winner of course was a foregone conclusion; he must have figured The Stig needed a night out. So we decamped to the harbourside to film some atmosphere.
Marbella was everything that TG’s home turf was not. It was loaded with minted Russian oligarchs and country-sized yachts crewed by orange people wearing Gucci goggles. The only cleavage we saw at Duns-fold was the ‘mighty sarlacc’ of Steve Howard’s rump as he put his back into salvaging another scrapheap challenge. The army of party poppers gracing the bars and clubs of Puerto Banus were all slinky-hipped underwear models staring at their own reflections in the Cartier and Bulgari windows.
I made a lightning change of clothes inside the phone booth of a petrol station, boarded the lime green Gallardo as The Stig and put the roof down. Locals and beachcombers alike whipped out their cameras and I felt like a movie star. I snapped the throttle and kicked up the notes of the V10 motor to clear a path through the crowd filling the main drag. People darted left and right, oversized heels stumbled, mouths full of gold bullion rattled.
My directions, ‘eighth bar on the left’, seemed vague at night as I strained to see even the neon lights through my visor. The helmet had to stay shut. Some of the friendlier oranges were slapping my shoulder and taking flash photos through the open cabin. Amidst the sea of people I recognised Dan De Castro the Spanish yeti, biceps burning as he legged it with his camera.
With the cameras rolling I cracked the throttle a final time, switched off and marched towards the nearest bar.
‘Not that one, the other one,’ Iain shouted from camera 2.
A few minutes later I made myself at home in the Ten Bar with a cocktail. It wouldn’t be long before The Stig’s sex appeal attracted plenty of attention, and sure enough as Jeremy made his entrance I was suitably dripping with fans getting their pictures taken.
Jeremy clocked me at the candle-lit table and doubled up laughing.
‘We’re in Puerto Banus, in a bar heaving with fanny, and you’ve managed to pull four blokes …’ He raised both palms to the heavens and then waved at the scousers I’d met in the course of their stag do.
‘No, honestly, before you came in there were girls here, I swear.’
Thanks to the magic of TV, The Stig’s honour was soon restored. A group of scantily clad chicks were waiting upstairs with the other cameras, and we filmed the kind of shots footballers’ wives see of their husbands every week: champagne, bling and boobs.
With the filming over, I made the transition from Superman back to Clark Kent in the urinals and joined the lads in the open-deck bar. The boys switched their heavy cameras for lager and melted into the leather sofas. Brian Klein was grinning from ear to ear.
‘Did you see him with those blokes? I mean, honestly, Ben, you’re like the Pied Piper for Sun readers.’
‘Well, I saw something tonight I would never have dreamt possible,’ Jezza gasped. ‘A Spaniard running, actually running. Welcome to the English way of life, De Castro.’
‘Fuck you, Jeremy, at least our government isn’t run by a bunch of Scots gits.’
Jeremy laughed so hard he choked on his beer.
To make good our departure without giving my game away, Jeremy drove off stealthily in the lime green Lambo. I ran through the back alleys, caught him up and swapped seats for the journey up the mountain.
Weirdly, it was the first time I’d ever driven with Uncle J on the open road. The ribbon of polished tarmac that led up to Rhonda from the coast is one of the most breathtaking in Europe. It was a clear night, and the soft moonlight showed just enough of the rock face lining the road to see ahead without drowning out the stars. I didn’t worry about the drop into oblivion to my left because the Lambo was sensational at following precisely the path I ordered. The V10 bellowed at the moon and we just flowed up the winding road on a magic carpet.
Jeremy called his wife and held his phone into the air. ‘Can you hear that? Ben’s driving us up the mountain. It’s just epic.’
Epic or not, as soon as we got into town he started busting my balls about the route, insisting we take his one.
‘So which way now, Sherlock?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know, you’ve come in the wrong way, man, turn left. No. Right.’
‘Well, which one is it, Jeremy? Left or right?’
‘Are all racing drivers devoid of brains and sense of direction, or is it just you?’
I never argued with Jeremy, he was too bloody good at it.
‘Shut up … you … fucking talky man …’
He roared with laughter at his own expense for the second time that day, and the name has stuck with him ever since. Crucially, it bought me twenty seconds in which to figure out the way to our hotel.
I found the Bull Ring and then home.
The close of another day in paradise.
Chapter 22
Bitten by the Bug
Some days I maxed as many as fifteen different cars with no lead-in. With the time constraints of filming, I learnt to skip the foreplay and adapt quickly to all comers. The Ron Jeremy of cars.
In a racing car the belts welded your body to the chassis, and you felt the reaction to every bump or force physically. A road car was more subtle. You hung loose like a surfer harnessing the power of a wave.
Whether I raced a car for years or drove it for a few minutes, I developed a connection with its soul. The secrets poured out once you knew how to listen. Some spoke softly, others shouted from the pulpit with a loudhailer.
There was only one Tyrannosaurus Rex. The Bugatti Veyron was just as extinct the moment it rolled out of the factory, a relic of our time. Future generations, driving small gas- and electric-powered cellophane composite cubes, will look at the Veyron in museums and say, ‘Wow, those guys in the Oil Age were cray-zee, but clever.’
For once, statistics really painted the picture with the Veyron.
Its heart was a mighty 16-cylinder engine. A normal car had four cylinders, so that was like having four engines under the bonnet. Four turbochargers spun maximum power instantly from the 8-litre motor, with ten radiators cooling all the systems.
It developed a gargantuan 1,001bhp and 1250 NM of torque at the stroke of the pedal, from any speed, to bend space-time and blur the road at 253mph. The engine didn’t propel the wheels as much as shove millions of cubic litres of the earth’s atmosphere out of the way at one third of the speed of sound.
The tyres were only rated to run at top speed for fifteen minutes, but at 250 you emptied the fuel tank in twelve minutes anyway. My favourite stat: the motor consumed an estimated 45,000 litres of air per hour.
Complicated physics and supercars normally equalled frequent and catastrophic mechanical failure. Volkswagen group, owner of Audi and Lamborghini, bought Bugatti and provided the Veyron with the metronomi
c reliability of a Swiss watch in a way that only German engineers could.
There will never be another production car so dedicated to the purity of speed, so perfectly delivered, and the economics of selling a car for £850,000 that costs more like £3m to produce are unlikely to return soon, unless the Pharaohs make a comeback.
In 2005 I knew none of this bar the price tag, which failed to impress me. Racing cars were far more valuable and were built to be thrashed, not worshipped. I had to get to the basement of the NatWest Tower, locate the car and drive it, fast, from London to Milan.
The three presenters had raced across Europe from Alba in Northern Italy to determine the fastest way of transporting a fresh truffle to England. Contrary to popular belief, the Top Gear races were for real. Hammond and May flew in a small Cessna and hitched a ride on the Eurostar; Clarkson drove the Bugatti over the Alps, crossing Italy, Switzerland and France.
A tracking crew had chased Jeremy across thousands of kilometres of countryside to record his journey. My job was to recreate the trip in reverse with another crew to capture the necessary pick-up shots.
The clock approached midnight as I headed through the giant glass doors that opened into the Tower foyer. The place was deserted apart from a uniformed guard on the front desk. It felt like Bruce Willis wandering around the Nakatomi building in Die Hard. I scaled a smart escalator and took a long ride in the main elevator to reach the Vertigo bar on the 42nd floor.
The lift doors opened into the dim blue lighting of the reception area. Camera kit was strewn across the carpet, surrounded by a throng of soundmen, cameramen, producers and directors.
Iain May, beer in hand, spotted me and began singing, ‘It’s only just begun – for you …’ His shift was over.
The first objective was to get the Bugatti keys off Clarkson and go film ‘some footage of London’. I wandered around the oval room and found the presenters steadying themselves with a few bevvies with Andy Wilman and Nigel Simpkiss.