Read Online The Man in the White Suit: The Stig, Le Mans, the Fast Lane and Me by Ben Collins - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ben Collins
Tags: General, Personal Memoirs, Biography & Autobiography, Entertainment & Performing Arts, Performing Arts, Sports & Recreation, Sports, Television, Transportation, motor sports, Automotive
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standstil I nuked the gas, spooled up the turbo and began the long charge to a top speed of 202 on the approach to Indianapolis, the fastest road race corner in the world. But that smoke was too much to be a BBQ. My heart wasn’t in it any more. I coasted and turned right at Arnage towards the Porsche Curves.
There was smoke everywhere, mostly from the trees where a raging bal of fire was being tackled by the marshals. A few bits of torn bodywork lay on the grass along with something that didn’t belong there and I wished I hadn’t seen – the shocking remains of a helmet belonging to a young French knight cal ed Sebastian Enjolras, who had been kil ed at high speed moments earlier.
Our entry was withdrawn before the race and it would be four years before I could return to continue the journey.
There was never a straight line in my career. I was given a drive at Donington in an ageing Le Mans prototype, the highest category above GT. The car I wanted to be in was the Ascari piloted by South African Werner Lupberger, a silver arrow with vents like shark gil s, a razor-sharp nose and plenty of sponsors on the livery. It was reliable, fast and sexy. My machine was dayglo orange dotted with black rectangles that neatly camouf laged the tank tape holding together the bodywork.
Werner was on pole. As he led the field in this round of the FIA World Sportscar Championship, his engine cut out. My misfiring heap was barely mobile at the time and promptly died at the same corner, so I walked back to the pits with him.
Werner was as brown as a berry, with hair like a hedgehog and a thick Afrikaner accent. He looked exceptional y fit. In the course of conversation he mentioned that Ascari was running a series of shoot-out tests to find him a team-mate. He suggested I go for it.
The team was owned by Klaas Zwart, a Dutch engineering genius who made a bil ion from the oil industry. Klaas was bald and tanned and never sat stil .
‘There’s twenty guys on the phone right now, F1 drivers some of them, and none of them can match Werner’s pace in the Ascari. Tel me why I want you in my team …’
I told him I would win races, that I was the man to push Werner, that no one else would work harder.
Klaas took me at my word and arranged an evaluation test. Next stop, Barcelona.
Even at 7am the heat was making its presence felt. Ascari’s number one mechanic, Spencer, looked me over with unsmiling eyes. His work area was spotless, every spanner, every component just so. We made a fitted foam seat and I asked about adjusting the pedals.
‘That’s how Werner drives it. Should be good enough for you.’
The Circuit de Catalunya had some brutal y fast corners that went on for ever. The other turns flowed from one to the next, giving little respite. I watched Werner exit the fast corner on to the pit straight at 130mph. Within 300 metres of him stamping his foot to the floor, it was licking along at 180 and generating nearly 4G in the corners. He brought it into the pits and the belts over his chest rose and fel as he drew breath. He stripped to the waist, revealing muscles as shredded as Rocky Balboa’s, then chewed into his drinks bottle like a butcher’s dog.
I climbed aboard, tightened the straps until I could barely move and scanned the array of switches and LED lights that lined the dashboard. I began firing the engine and heard the most beautiful bark of V10
power. The Ascari LMP’s Judd F1 engine churned out 650bhp on a Lola chassis. With no power steering it demanded hand-to-hand combat.
Werner chil ed out and enjoyed the show as I spent my first laps hitting the rev limiter. The Ascari accelerated so fast that you had to pul through the gears on the sequential box as fast as your arm could snatch the lever. The power would spin the wheels in fourth gear on a dry track, so you didn’t switch off for a second. The wind at 180 blasted through the open cockpit and tried to rip your head off.
Braking from high speed
There was smoke everywhere, mostly from the trees where a raging bal of fire was being tackled by the marshals. A few bits of torn bodywork lay on the grass along with something that didn’t belong there and I wished I hadn’t seen – the shocking remains of a helmet belonging to a young French knight cal ed Sebastian Enjolras, who had been kil ed at high speed moments earlier.
Our entry was withdrawn before the race and it would be four years before I could return to continue the journey.
There was never a straight line in my career. I was given a drive at Donington in an ageing Le Mans prototype, the highest category above GT. The car I wanted to be in was the Ascari piloted by South African Werner Lupberger, a silver arrow with vents like shark gil s, a razor-sharp nose and plenty of sponsors on the livery. It was reliable, fast and sexy. My machine was dayglo orange dotted with black rectangles that neatly camouf laged the tank tape holding together the bodywork.
Werner was on pole. As he led the field in this round of the FIA World Sportscar Championship, his engine cut out. My misfiring heap was barely mobile at the time and promptly died at the same corner, so I walked back to the pits with him.
Werner was as brown as a berry, with hair like a hedgehog and a thick Afrikaner accent. He looked exceptional y fit. In the course of conversation he mentioned that Ascari was running a series of shoot-out tests to find him a team-mate. He suggested I go for it.
The team was owned by Klaas Zwart, a Dutch engineering genius who made a bil ion from the oil industry. Klaas was bald and tanned and never sat stil .
‘There’s twenty guys on the phone right now, F1 drivers some of them, and none of them can match Werner’s pace in the Ascari. Tel me why I want you in my team …’
I told him I would win races, that I was the man to push Werner, that no one else would work harder.
Klaas took me at my word and arranged an evaluation test. Next stop, Barcelona.
Even at 7am the heat was making its presence felt. Ascari’s number one mechanic, Spencer, looked me over with unsmiling eyes. His work area was spotless, every spanner, every component just so. We made a fitted foam seat and I asked about adjusting the pedals.
‘That’s how Werner drives it. Should be good enough for you.’
The Circuit de Catalunya had some brutal y fast corners that went on for ever. The other turns flowed from one to the next, giving little respite. I watched Werner exit the fast corner on to the pit straight at 130mph. Within 300 metres of him stamping his foot to the floor, it was licking along at 180 and generating nearly 4G in the corners. He brought it into the pits and the belts over his chest rose and fel as he drew breath. He stripped to the waist, revealing muscles as shredded as Rocky Balboa’s, then chewed into his drinks bottle like a butcher’s dog.
I climbed aboard, tightened the straps until I could barely move and scanned the array of switches and LED lights that lined the dashboard. I began firing the engine and heard the most beautiful bark of V10
power. The Ascari LMP’s Judd F1 engine churned out 650bhp on a Lola chassis. With no power steering it demanded hand-to-hand combat.
Werner chil ed out and enjoyed the show as I spent my first laps hitting the rev limiter. The Ascari accelerated so fast that you had to pul through the gears on the sequential box as fast as your arm could snatch the lever. The power would spin the wheels in fourth gear on a dry track, so you didn’t switch off for a second. The wind at 180 blasted through the open cockpit and tried to rip your head off.
Braking from high speed
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