The Man in the White Suit: The Stig, Le Mans, the Fast Lane and Me by Ben Collins
Authors: Ben Collins
Tags: General, Personal Memoirs, Biography & Autobiography, Entertainment & Performing Arts, Performing Arts, Sports & Recreation, Sports, Television, Transportation, motor sports, Automotive
Ads: Link
editor in the galaxy, then the TV executives. I did a screen test with Channel 4, had an interview with Fifth Gear and drove a Ford Focus for some bloke at Dunsfold. Nothing had come of it.
I maintained a punishing physical training regime in the expectation that everything would work out for the best. It was like flogging a dead horse. I wondered how long I could hold out in hope of a drive without a job to support me. After seven months of climbing the wal s, I knew the answer.
By March 2003 al the serious championship drives were gone, and in motor racing you were quickly forgotten. I had dedicated my life to racing, subjugated everything else that mattered and proved that I had the right stuff, but it didn’t matter.
Without a sense of purpose I had no zest for life and felt I hardly recognised my reflection in the mirror. I couldn’t bear sitting around watching life pass me by. It was time for a new direction.
I used to read about the lives of British soldiers like General de la Bil ière, Sir Ranulph Fiennes and Andy McNab, and I drew inspiration from their daring adventures. Even the titles of their books struck a chord: Looking for Trouble,Living Dangerously and Immediate Action . The more I read, the more I understood that military service had more to do with protecting life than taking it.
After school I’d passed the Regular Commissions Board to attend Sandhurst and become an army officer. I took part in an exercise that simulated warfare in built-up areas, with the Royal Irish Regiment and Marine Commandos being attacked by Paratroopers.
In the midst of the smoke, gunfire and camouflage paint, someone mistook me for a serving officer and handed me an assault rifle, so I made myself useful. There were bouts of furious activity and aggression, diving through windows, crashing down staircases and constantly coming under fire as the enemy came at us from al sides. Amidst the confusion, my fel ow soldiers looked after one another like brothers. Covered in grime and sweat, they remained alert, orderly and intel igent. I admired their self-discipline and sharp humour, but above al the gleam in their eyes.
I rang the recruiting office of an elite Army Reserve Regiment, an Airborne Unit that recruited civilians, and left a message that I wanted to join. Unlike most of the cal s I made that month, these guys actual y rang back.
Chapter 7
The New Stig
F inal y I heard back from Andy Wilman. It seemed that I did have a future with Top Gear , but I was to speak to no one about it. My first tasking was something cal ed a ‘powertest’. I packed my gear and made my way to the airfield.
I pul ed up a few hundred metres short of the security gate and ran a mental checklist: No names, no personal info … No unnecessary introductions … Look the part, act the part.
I pul ed a black balaclava over my melon and admired the view in the head mirror. Yep, you look like a terrorist.
The security guard approached me more cautiously this time, noting the registration plates in case these were his final steps on mother earth. I wound down the window and hailed him.
‘Morning. I’m with Top Gear .’
He broke into a relieved smile, waved me through and returned to his cheese and pickle.
I drove on to the concrete staging area. Tripods and cameras and black travel boxes ful of kit were strewn everywhere, and the place was seething with camera crew. I had no idea what any of them were doing, but they seemed very busy doing it.
Several had noticed the suicide bomber who had just drawn up beside them. I was bringing unnecessary attention to myself, so I climbed out and made my way as anonymously as possible towards the toxic cabin.
I loitered near the cardboard cut-out of John Prescott, waiting for some sign of Andy Wilman. Under his leadership, Top Gear had been through a successful revamp fol owing its demise in the Nineties, but it remained essential y a car review programme. As I joined in the second year of the new
I maintained a punishing physical training regime in the expectation that everything would work out for the best. It was like flogging a dead horse. I wondered how long I could hold out in hope of a drive without a job to support me. After seven months of climbing the wal s, I knew the answer.
By March 2003 al the serious championship drives were gone, and in motor racing you were quickly forgotten. I had dedicated my life to racing, subjugated everything else that mattered and proved that I had the right stuff, but it didn’t matter.
Without a sense of purpose I had no zest for life and felt I hardly recognised my reflection in the mirror. I couldn’t bear sitting around watching life pass me by. It was time for a new direction.
I used to read about the lives of British soldiers like General de la Bil ière, Sir Ranulph Fiennes and Andy McNab, and I drew inspiration from their daring adventures. Even the titles of their books struck a chord: Looking for Trouble,Living Dangerously and Immediate Action . The more I read, the more I understood that military service had more to do with protecting life than taking it.
After school I’d passed the Regular Commissions Board to attend Sandhurst and become an army officer. I took part in an exercise that simulated warfare in built-up areas, with the Royal Irish Regiment and Marine Commandos being attacked by Paratroopers.
In the midst of the smoke, gunfire and camouflage paint, someone mistook me for a serving officer and handed me an assault rifle, so I made myself useful. There were bouts of furious activity and aggression, diving through windows, crashing down staircases and constantly coming under fire as the enemy came at us from al sides. Amidst the confusion, my fel ow soldiers looked after one another like brothers. Covered in grime and sweat, they remained alert, orderly and intel igent. I admired their self-discipline and sharp humour, but above al the gleam in their eyes.
I rang the recruiting office of an elite Army Reserve Regiment, an Airborne Unit that recruited civilians, and left a message that I wanted to join. Unlike most of the cal s I made that month, these guys actual y rang back.
Chapter 7
The New Stig
F inal y I heard back from Andy Wilman. It seemed that I did have a future with Top Gear , but I was to speak to no one about it. My first tasking was something cal ed a ‘powertest’. I packed my gear and made my way to the airfield.
I pul ed up a few hundred metres short of the security gate and ran a mental checklist: No names, no personal info … No unnecessary introductions … Look the part, act the part.
I pul ed a black balaclava over my melon and admired the view in the head mirror. Yep, you look like a terrorist.
The security guard approached me more cautiously this time, noting the registration plates in case these were his final steps on mother earth. I wound down the window and hailed him.
‘Morning. I’m with Top Gear .’
He broke into a relieved smile, waved me through and returned to his cheese and pickle.
I drove on to the concrete staging area. Tripods and cameras and black travel boxes ful of kit were strewn everywhere, and the place was seething with camera crew. I had no idea what any of them were doing, but they seemed very busy doing it.
Several had noticed the suicide bomber who had just drawn up beside them. I was bringing unnecessary attention to myself, so I climbed out and made my way as anonymously as possible towards the toxic cabin.
I loitered near the cardboard cut-out of John Prescott, waiting for some sign of Andy Wilman. Under his leadership, Top Gear had been through a successful revamp fol owing its demise in the Nineties, but it remained essential y a car review programme. As I joined in the second year of the new
Similar Books
