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

was littered with posters of fighter planes and books detailing every conceivable weapons system and their theatre of operation. I memorised payloads, thrust-to-weight ratios and the minutiae of flight. One hundred per cent nerd alert.
    Repeated high scores on the Star Wars Arcade game proved to me that my acceptance into the RAF was a mere formality. ‘Waive the vetting process, fel as, send this one straight up to splash Migs.’
    Mum recommended I go for an eye test just to be sure.
    I perched on a leather stool and after considerable winding it was high enough for me to view the testing screen. I stared at a sequence of glowing shapes inside a hooded computer, listening to the optician’s breathing as he tapped his keyboard. His swivel chair clattered across the floor and he whispered a string of impatient instructions.
    The test was over after a few minutes. My stomach tightened with a flush of excitement. I had taken the first step on a greater path.
    ‘How did I do?’
    The optician glanced briefly in my direction. ‘They wouldn’t even let you load the bombs, son, let alone fly one.’
    If he had only known how close his crown jewels were to extinction, he might have shown some respect. In Han Solo’s vernacular, I had jumped out of warp speed straight into an asteroid belt. My hopes and dreams evaporated. I was grounded.
    I hated being told what I couldn’t do, but it was a powerful tonic. The harder they push you down, the harder you come back up, overcome and overwhelm. Mind you, there was no overcoming my eyesight.
    Mum tried to console me by suggesting other possible careers – the forestry commission perhaps? I sat in my room for hours surrounded by pictures of machines that I would never fly.
    My competitive instinct discovered another outlet for my emotions. My introduction to swimming was not exactly of my own volition, but it was the best thing that could have happened.
    The Col ins family moved to California when I was five; my father had been hired to turn around a haulage firm. My parents took me to the local swimming club. The coach was a tanned surfer dude with sun-bleached locks and a ripped torso. I shivered at the side of the pool, looked at the other kids pounding lengths, and decided against it.
    Dad had a temper that was even quicker than his wit and I went to great lengths to avoid it.
    ‘Ben, get in.’ He didn’t look pleased.
    ‘No,’ I replied anxiously.
    He went for the grab and I dived for cover. I managed to hook my arm through a sun-lounger, which came with me as Dad lassoed my kicking legs and pul ed them towards him. I knew I was safe as long as I could hold on to that lounger. Dad upped the ante. He picked up the lounger with me attached and threw the job lot into the pool. I was in at the deep end and it was a case of sink or swim or come up with an alternative cliché.
    I was furious and puny and grew angrier stil as Dad looked down at me, failing to restrain his laughter. I set off at a rate of knots to the other end of the pool. Reluctantly, I discovered I was quite a fast swimmer.
    After my turbulent initiation, I enjoyed training with the club and began competing. The whole family turned out for my first appearance at a regional gala and my grandma wished me good luck. ‘Go and win al your races,’ she told me. To my astonishment, I did. Winning felt good; it gave me a sense of purpose.
    The Ojai Val ey swim team punched wel above its regional weight and I was soon competing at Junior Olympic standard. Our coach wrote training exercises on a blackboard during our daily sessions and I learnt never to read too far down. If the top read ‘600m’, that was al that mattered, even if the next line read
    ‘1,000m through crocodile infested swamp’. Focusing on anything but the present only made life harder.
    The techniques were chal enging, sliding your arms in a control ed arc around your body to propel yourself through the water. Mastery over breathing was essential