The Man in the White Suit: The Stig, Le Mans, the Fast Lane and Me Read Online Free PDF Page B

went flying, the horn was beeping, and before I knew what had happened we were sailing backwards.
    Brian pressed a button on the control panel in his lap and calmly pul ed the handbrake. The car came to a rest in a cloud of burnt rubber and I relaxed.
    ‘Oversteer, right !’ he barked.
    ‘OK. What does that mean?’
    ‘Wel in that case it means the fooking car spun around, yeah. You lost the back end, so it feels like the car is turning too much. Over. Steer.’ His words sank in.
    ‘When it ’appens, feed the steerin’ into the slide as fast as you can. None o’ that DSA shuffling bol ocks. You’ve quick reactions, just spin that wheel across a bit further.’
    ‘OK, Brian.’
    Off we went again. My psychotic instructor pressed more buttons as we approached a tunnel of orange cones with an inflatable obstacle at the far end. I turned the steering left to dodge the obstacle and nothing happened, so I turned more.
    ‘Stop turning,’ ordered Nature Boy.
    ‘Sod that.’ I turned more. Nothing.
    Whumpf.
    ‘Shit.’
    ‘You can say that again.’
    ‘What happened then, Brian?’
    ‘ Understeer, right. When you turn nothin’ happens. The car goes straight on, yeah?’
    ‘What should I do?’
    ‘Not much you can do, but turning more only makes it worse. Just get the speed off then the grip comes back.’
    We upped the speed to 60. After several gut-wrenching 360-degree spins, Nature Boy taught me to flick my head around like a bal erina to see where I was going and control it. It was incredible. We would enter a corner at pace and the car would start rotating. Wherever I looked, my hands would fol ow and the car pointed back in the right direction.
    I started to complete lap after lap of the circuit, drifting from one gate through to the next. I forgot I was even carrying a passenger until the sound of Nature Boy clapping brought me back to my senses. I realised that Brian could no longer unseat me.
    ‘Excel ent. You’ve got it. When’s your first race?’
    ‘Next week, at Brands Hatch.’
    ‘What you driving?’
    ‘Formula First, at the Festival.’
    ‘Oh Christ,’ he said, biting his top lip. ‘ Good luck. Just try and remember what I’ve taught ya. If you can tel your mechanic what the car’s real y doing, you’l go far.’
    Formula First was a series for ‘beginners’. The grid for my first event boasted a karting world champion, two national champions and race winners from the previous season. Most had been racing karts since they swapped nappies for Nomex. After several days of learning to drive the car at labyrinthine circuits like Oulton Park, I arrived at Brands for my first motor race.
    Brands Hatch being a former Grand Prix circuit, even I had heard of this place. Formula First was supporting the Formula Ford Festival that was host to over a hundred of the best aspiring drivers in the world.
    I approached my first qualifying session with the intention of re-enacting my best driving at every corner. As an inexperienced driver, just recreating a way of driving through a corner time after time was a big chal enge. It was key to posting consistent lap times. To the surprise of everyone in the championship, I qualified third on the grid.
    After a short lunch break it was time for the race. I stumbled out of the Kentagon Restaurant with a bel yful of nerves and beef casserole. I was immediately accosted by a race official with a breathalyser.
    I breathed gingerly into the machine. ‘Do you actual y catch anyone drunk on race day?’
    ‘Five so far.’
    I didn’t even drink, but I was apprehensive.
    ‘You’re al clear.’
    I hurried to the pits and climbed into the car. My young mechanic straddled the top cover and heaved down on the shoulder straps with al his weight, strawberry-faced with the exertion.
    After confirming that I could stil breathe, he shot me a knowing smile that said, ‘One lamb, ready for slaughter.’

    ‘Good luck,’ he said.
    I gave him a gobsmacked thumbs up. My