The Man in the White Suit: The Stig, Le Mans, the Fast Lane and Me by Ben Collins Page A

format, it was as popular as ever, with over two mil ion viewers. You’d think they could have spent a few quid doing up the place. It was the pits.
    After five minutes there were signs of movement down the dim corridor. A young guy with a Tintin hairdo and Elvis sunglasses appeared, chatting to a skinny nerd in an Adidas shel suit. They walked straight past.
    ‘Hi,’ I said.
    ‘ Whooooooaaa ,’ Tintin shrieked, leaping through the air as if someone had just plugged him into the National Grid.
    Back on the ground, he started to laugh.
    ‘You must be Ben.’ He waved a hand. ‘I’m Jim Wiseman. You scared the living shit out of me. Nice balaclava, though. Bet it comes in handy on a cold day robbing banks.’
    ‘Very. Should I just wait here?’
    ‘Yeah, I think that’s best for now. We’l find you a room later. It’s great to have you on board, welcome to the A team!’
    ‘Thanks. Am I actual y on board?’
    ‘You’re kidding, right? Hasn’t Andy told you?’
    ‘No, other than turn up today and not tel anyone. I sent him the rushes he wanted and hoped I did some good times the other day.’
    ‘That’s so typical. I think you equal ed Perry’s best time on your second lap, and your best lap was over a second faster. Wilman was straight on the phone to the office and was like, “Boys, we’ve got a new Stig …”’
    The Stig was the show’s faceless racing driver who tested everything from exotic supercars to family saloons around Top Gear’ s track, setting fast lap times to gauge their performance. Dressed in black and hidden behind a blackout helmet, he looked like Darth Vader’s racing twin.
    The vital component of The Stig’s aura was anonymity. No one ever saw his face, knew his name or heard him speak. When Perry McCarthy, the chattiest racing driver on the planet, revealed that he was the driver behind the mask after Series 2, his days were numbered. Shortly after I took over, I observed the fate awaiting me if I ever broke that rule.
    Black Stig, or rather someone dressed like him, was filmed being strapped into a Jaguar XJS to attempt a speed record aboard the aircraft-carrier HMS Invincible . A dummy Stig was then sent screaming down the launch pad, aided by the pressurised steam catapult used for launching Sea Harriers.
    Stig ‘missed his braking point’. Car and driver crashed into the North Sea, never to be seen again …
    With him out of the way, it was my turn in the sandpit. But I knew that a character born of the media would inevitably die by it; that a single slip-up would lead to the catapult. Black Stig lasted a year on the show; maybe I could hold out for two. Carpe Diem. If it only lasted a day, I was determined to make it a good one.
    I vowed to take The Stig in the White Suit to a new level of secrecy and hold out for as long as possible. I made my own rules: never park in the same place twice, never talk to anyone outside the ‘circle’
    and keep a balaclava on until I was eight miles clear of the location, and certain that no one was fol owing.
    My golden rule was never to appear in the white suit without my helmet on. Conjecture was nothing without proof, and nothing short of photographic, tangible evidence could prove who I was. I sterilised my gear, left every trace of Ben Col ins – my phone, my wal et and so on – locked in the car, then hid the keys.
    When the Sunday Times raided my changing room and sifted through my gear, the only information they gleaned was that The Stig wore size 10 shoes.
    At work I hid behind a mask. At home I lied to everyone, including my friends and family, about what I was doing.
    To me, The Stig epitomised the ultimate quest: no chal enge too great, no speed too fast. He had to look cool and have attitude, so I ditched the crappy racing overal s the BBC gave me and acquired some Alpinestars gear and a Simpson helmet.
    Apart from unparal eled skil behind the wheel, The Stig was rumoured to have paranormal abilities and webbed buttocks,