The Man in the White Suit: The Stig, Le Mans, the Fast Lane and Me (21 page)

The boys cleared through the final position and took off up a re-entrant, a smal cutting that covered their movement. It was our turn to run.

Our charred fingers gathered up al the bits and bobs. Ken rushed us along, piling on the pressure.

Gun over the shoulder, start running.
The burning first gasps of air rushed through the backs of our throats.

By the time we reached the blokes, Johnny was waddling like a pregnant duck. In between bursts of fire at an imaginary enemy, I cradled the Gimpy like a newborn baby, with arms jacked too ful of lactic acid for my hands to hold it.

Geordie beasted us through fire positions al the way up the re-entrant. Everyone was bal -bagged. It felt like having bench pressed one too many and not even being able to get the bar back into the rack. Do you cry for help, or just slow down a little?

‘I’m gonna start FACKIN’ PUNCHING CUNTS. Fackin’
MOOOVE
,’ Ken screeched.

A gnat’s fart could have blown me over.

‘Stop.’

I quietly puked some baked beans.

‘Wel done, lads,’ Geordie said. ‘Sometimes a breakaway like that goes on for hours. You stop pushin’ and you die, it’s that simple. Have a ten-minute break, sort yer shit out, everyone ready to leave in five minutes.’

We tabbed into the night and returned to our base in the woods. ‘Stagging on’ was never a popular part of field routine and involved fighting to stay conscious during the smal hours to provide security for the patrol, whilst every fibre of your being begged for sleep. Sleep deprivation, the stress of constant evaluation, cold, hunger and arduous exercise made your eyes welt.

My head barely had time to sink into my gonk bag before I was thumped in the ribs by the sentry I was replacing. Wild horses wouldn’t drag me out of bed at home when I was feeling this tired.

My face screwed up like a walnut. I double-checked there was a round in my weapon, peeled off the warm bag and re-attached my webbing. I slipped on my cold wet boots and stood like an old man. My smock was next to go on; the sweat from the day had had just enough time to freeze. I moved quietly and careful y through the jungle of para cord, camp paraphernalia and prone bodies.

I found Ninja drooped over his rifle, barely awake. I had to make sure we both remained alert until he was relieved. We scanned constantly for the ‘enemy’, but the only real fight on offer was with our eyelids.

The only way to stay awake was to have deep and meaningful conversations that would inspire enough cerebral activity to stay conscious.

‘Jel y baby,’ Ninja grunted.

‘I’m out,’ I replied.

I pushed a grubby hand into my smock pocket and careful y extracted a paper packet. I tipped half the coffee powder on to my tongue before passing the rest to him.

The stil ness of night went unbroken for twenty minutes. Nothing pulsed in the green glow of our thermal imager. Skeletal branches broke up the low moonlit sky like cracks in a pane of glass.

Something caught my attention to our right. One, then two dark figures loomed into view 200 metres away, at the edge of our line of sight.

I kicked Ninja and signal ed that we had company. As they came closer we could see more men trudging in line, fifteen at least. It was probably best to let them walk by, but what if it was a test by the DS to see if we were awake? The leading men pinged on their head torches and that clinched it.

I took up a firing position and, as the leader reached us, Ninja nodded and chal enged them. ‘Halt.

Advance one and be recognised.’

I took a step forward from the trees and aimed at the point man’s face. He froze as his torch beam told him the good news. It took a few seconds for him to clock the 40mm grenade launcher slung underneath the barrel of a foreign rifle. Unlike his SA80, ours were not fitted with adapters for firing blanks.

‘Identify yourself!’

Point man’s feet left the ground as he performed a jumping jack, thrusting his arms into the crucifix position, legs akimbo.
Not
the DS then.

He didn’t know our password and began desperately pleading for someone cal ed Stu to help him. In a real battle, these would have been his last words. Lieutenant Stu duly appeared and we decided to let his platoon of Royal Marines go this time.

T
he Army had a way of making you feel invincible. So I decided to run the London Marathon.

The cheering crowd and the folks wearing the daft hats with pointed ears for the Whizz Kidz charity I was running for made the whole experience unforgettable. With 5 kilometres to go, I was handed a Lucozade by a big hero of mine, Jonny Wilkinson. Under different circumstances we might have had more than two words to say to each other, but it was an honour just being alongside the World Cup rugby legend.

The ligament in my knee was less impressed with the whole performance. Back on the military ranges I had to sprint with a limp. On the weekend before the last hurdle of battle camp, the referred strain final y tore my Achil es tendon. The Army medic thought it might rupture and was threatening to withdraw me from the course when Geordie waded into the twat wagon. ‘Let’s not be too hasty with the prognooosis, docta.’ They agreed to keep an eye on me, but if things got worse, it was game over.

There was better news at
Top Gear
: I was brought back for a second series. The second guest was Paul McKenna, the celebrity hypnotist and mind-bending wizard.

Paul’s smooth baritone voice radiated the calm and control of a reflective mind. His eyebrows converged around his nose like a hawk as he listened to me explaining the laws of speed. I imagined that Paul, being a global y renowned expert in mind management, would just hypnotise the car into running smoothly around the circuit. He took a rather different approach.

From the moment we swapped seats and McKenna put his foot down, it was like watching Mr Hyde strangling charming Dr Jekyl . McKenna’s facial expressions behind the wheel could inspire generations of Picasso impressionists.

Fists of iron clenched the wheel with such force that the blood drained from his knuckles. Every gear change was like a death-blow. The faster he cornered the more his face contorted with rage. When his mouth gaped open and his tongue started lashing his ivories, I began wondering if I had missed the giant Scorpion at Hammerhead. Paul was in a dark place.

I felt thoroughly unprofessional when he caught me laughing, but I explained that he needed to relax to drive fast. I coaxed Paul towards taking a gentler handle on the controls and he posted a very respectable time.

He later hypnotised Hammond into believing he was a baked potato that had forgotten how to drive, so I figured his mind magic might extend to fixing my Achil es. He kindly recommended a healer in North London. I’d maxed out on conventional medicine and therapeutic ultrasound, so happily steered myself in the direction of the witch doctor.

Apart from the occasional blast with
TG
, my whole life had become centred on passing the Army course, whatever it took. I prepared al my equipment for the final exercise and streamlined my webbing with fresh bungee cord that made it lighter, tighter and very Gucci darling. I loaded essential condiments such as Tabasco and olive oil to transform my ‘rat packs’ into the kind of pukka taste sensations that would make Jamie Oliver drool.

Lastly, Dr Col ins’s surgery was stocked with eight packs of synthetic ice to soothe my creaking Achil es tendon between beastings, enough oxide tape to mummify a giraffe, and elephantine doses of anti-inflammatories. For al the bravado, I was crapping myself about the prospect of failure. It would only take one misplaced step on a cold morning to put me out of action.

With my kit squared away I was ready for war, but before that I had to go and compete at Rockingham. I switched my head into racing mode. The team had been working around the clock to put the new car together. As I climbed in for the first time, Graham, the team manager, stood in front with his headcans on, arms folded. Graham was a grafter. His normal y gentle face was taut and unsmiling.

‘Radio check.’

‘Good, yeah,’ Graham replied.

‘Don’t worry, if it drives half as good as it looks they won’t stand a chance.’

I got the impression he didn’t necessarily agree.

I took her out for a spin and felt the grip hook the chassis into the track again. We were back in business.

I qualified on pole and we blitzed the first race of the day. Graham personal y worked one of the pneumatic wheel guns to guarantee a lightning pit stop; the sparks flew off the spinning metal and he kept me in front of the pack until we crossed the line. He was so ecstatic when I came into the pits that he threw his radio on the floor and picked me up off the ground and grinned the winner’s smile. It put us on pole for the second round later that afternoon and I planned on repeating the result.

I led the field into the rol ing start and wove and slammed the throttle to get as much heat into the tyres as possible. As we approached the back straight I lined up to sweep through the final corner and al owed the other cars to form around me. Colin White’s bright green machine pul ed so close we nearly col ided. A gesture of intent.

I sped up and found my engine’s sweet spot in second gear as we approached the start, and the instant the flag twitched I buried the long throttle pedal. As we hurtled towards Turn One I narrowly held the advantage, committed my entry speed and opened a tiny gap. Colin held close inside.

I kept enough margin to be able to take a racing line through Two, with Colin darting inside in a futile harassing move, but my tyres just weren’t gripping enough to shake him loose. The last thing I wanted was to concede the lead and get embroiled in a dogfight.

I forced the throttle wide open through Three and skidded towards the exit wal . Colin had a run on me. The back straight was four lanes wide and I was in lane four on the right-hand side. To have the lead going into the final corner, I had to get left across the track into lane one. So did Colin.

As I covered across the track the green car went with me, then he pul ed towards my inside.

According to the rules I could block his move once, and only when he was ful y behind. By the time I reached lane two, the green car was alongside my rear bumper in lane one. I had raced him hard; now I had to be fair and give him room. I stopped covering and let him pul alongside as we wound up to 175mph.

An almighty force rocked through the cabin as I was flung around into a spin. I instinctively jammed the brakes, took in a half breath and waited. As the car sped backwards it felt like I was fal ing. I stared through the windscreen at the pack of pursuers slowly blurring around me. Smoke blossomed from my tyres as the topside melted away and the canvas shredded and punctured. The wal rushed up behind me.

There was a moment of peace, then the concrete intervened. I shouted the air from my lungs on impact. My head ricocheted off the restraints and my knees wal oped the steering column, then the chassis frame.

Pain flooded my body and bright spots of light burnt into my retinas, but I knew I was al right. In fact, I was livid. I wanted to see the film footage of what had happened.

The car was toast. It had pummel ed the wal so hard that concrete dust enveloped the whole Texaco livery. The splayed wheel angles suggested the chassis was museum material.

I was sent to the medical facility for a once-over, but al I wanted to do was see Graham and apologise for kil ing his car. Things were hotting up outside the medical area. The opposition had protested to the officials about
my
driving and I was being summoned to the race stewards …

I stared, transfixed, at the footage. The camera had a bird’s-eye view of me leading Colin through Three. We were hel ish close. I gave him room; he pul ed alongside my rear wheel and then … contact. To my eyes, he steered so hard into me that I never had a chance of saving it before I hit the wal . It was a total waste of a fine machine.

The main steward eyed me nervously through his square glasses and his hands were trembling as he turned off the video. Not a good sign. Obviously, I said, he’d seen the other driver spin me off. No.

In their view, my defensive line was dangerous driving. They were docking al my series points from the weekend, which made it impossible for me to win the championship.

The racing was over for the day and my mind had already shifted on to the ranges, with Ken on my shoulder. But first I directed a vol ey of profanity at the stewards that would have made him fackin’ proud.

Realising I wasn’t improving matters, I headed for the land of the brave. In spite of the calamity, I was buzzing from the win.

By the time I reached the Army training area at one in the morning the tiredness that fol ows a hectic race weekend was kicking in, along with a hangover from my concussion. Geordie sympathetical y fed me a brew before leading me down through an abandoned camp of box-like concrete buildings. He gave me a bearing towards my new digs.

Within a few hundred metres a squadron of mosquitoes was gorging on my blood. The bearing led me to their humid HQ, a swampy wood. I squidged through the dank undergrowth.

Johnny was on stag. ‘Good race?’

‘Won one and crashed one.’

‘Welcome to Shangri-la. If the DS don’t get you the mozzies wil . Get some repel ent on you asap.’

I set my alarm for 0530 and passed out.

I woke early and used the time to prepare for the Combat Fitness Test. I dug my fingers deep into my bloated tendon to get it mobilised, feeling the fibrous tissue scrape against its outer sheath. I warmed up my calf, stretched and cloaked my ankle with the zinc oxide tape. I added a Neoprene layer of synthetic rubber for good measure.

I breakfasted with drugs and hot chocolate and walked down to the assembly area with the boys in ful combat gear, bergens and al . It felt like marching to the gal ows, but I was ready to run on a stump if I had to.

The DSs disappeared in their vehicles to line the route, and Jones craned his head around for a final look at his prey before moving off.