Tonight we take part in our first ever motor race. James tests the new Fiat 500 near some youths on bicycles, and the Ascari A10: just how fast is this thing?

Hello! Hello and welcome. (Tonight the set is dotted with blue painted 55 gallon drums.) Thanks very much. Last year, you may remember, we borrowed some tractors and we planted 25 acres of oilseed rape. The idea was that we were gonna harvest it and then turn the seeds into a juicy, eco-friendly petrol, full of natural, dew-picked, farm-fresh goodness. Unfortunately, James bought the wrong seeds. We ended up with 500 gallons of–and there is no other way of saying this–diesel. 500 gallons of hemmeroid cream would have been much more useful, honestly.

Hammond, with his hair looking much less silly than in early episodes this season: We hate diesel. So we decided to burn it, even though the three of us have no racing experience, we entered the Britcar 24 hour race at Silverstone with a diesel car. All we needed was a car, so we got one, and while James was moonlighting on his wine program, Jeremy and I went down to the Top Gear Technology Centre.

We hear some cheesy music as we home in on the TG Technology Centre, which is situated in a rather trashy industrial wasteland. Hammond, in voice-over: Here it is. The crucible of all our great inventions. This is the car we bought. (Shot inside the garage of a black car.) It’s a BMW 330D, four years old, done 40 000 miles. We paid 11 grand for it. Now we must turn it into a racing car. By…bolting lots of racing car…bits to it.

The director of the TG Technology Centre, Steve, would do all the trivial jobs, like the brakes, the engine, the suspension, and the electronics, while we did the big stuff. I had to do the race seat; Jeremy, meanwhile, had to install a long-range fuel tank.

Neither of them can get their object into the car and bash them around a bit.

Hammond, wedging himself inside: Yes! The office. (Grins and grasps the wheel.) That feels businesslike.  Clarkson: Hammond. Hammond: What? Clarkson: Do you understand endurance racing? Hammond: Yeah. Clarkson: 24 hour race, three drivers. Do you want to hop out? So let’s just say you do the first stint, here’s the driver change, you get out, and the car’s being refueled, it’s my turn to get in. (He attempts to stuff himeslf into the Hammond-sized space) Clarkson: It won’t be a bit of a squeeze, mate. It will be–(Clarkson demonstrates, clasping his ankle, trying to draw it into the car.) Hammond: There you go. You’re in! Clarkson: vrooms several times. All the other cars–those are the noises–vroom! Meanwhile, back in the Top Gear pit, (Clarkson hasn’t managed to get his leg in yet) you’d have to get a saw. Hammond: Well. Yeah? After a brief, unseen interlude, Hammond: Right. I’ll put the seat on runners so it will be more…boring!

Clarkson: To make it look like a race car, we needed sponsors’ names. But sadly, because of BBC rules, we couldn’t get real ones. So we just sort of…made them up. He applies a transfer to the left-hand door; Hammond has the drivers’ side. Clarkson: Look at that! It looks like a racing car already! He’s unveiled “Peniston Oils”. Hammond has finished with “Larsons’ Biscuits” and is similarly enthused: It needed that, didn’t it.

In a more serious vein, Clarkson in voiceover: With the car almost ready (it has no windshield!) our thoughts turned to the race itself.  He and Hammond are fiddling around by and in the car: You know I said, “How hard can it be?” when we started this? Hammond, cautiously: Yes. Clarkson: I think it’s going to be really hard. Hammond: I’m quite glad you said that, ’cause it’s crossed my mind. I’m getting a bit nervous. I don’t want to win, but I do want people to take us seriously. Clarkson: I just think we’re going to look ridiculous.

We cut to the track itself on that happy note. Clarkson in voiceover: We arrived at Silverstone (closeup of the logo on the BMW: Prepared by: Top Gear Technology Centre) assuming the Britcar 24 would be an amateur event, for beginners like us. We were badly wrong.

Closeup of the car in its pit: additions to the car include the number 78, and the driver’s names listed on the window: Clarkson and Hammond, both with the Union Jack by their names, and May, with a red, orange, yellow, green, blue an purple flag next to his. The left door, which is open, reads “Penis.”

Outside, there are tons of RVs, banners, four-wheelers, carts of tires… and exotic competition.

Clarkson: In fact, our diesel Beemer would be up against 200 mile an hour supercars. (Some drivers are laughing and pointing.) The other drivers were  chisel-jawed and battle hardened. (Their cars also bear the logos: “24 Heures du Mans” and “British GT Championship 2007.) They had blue chip sponsors. Tons of equipment. They turned up with laptops and luxury motorhomes with girls in them! Our motorhome wasn’t quite as professional as that (a Top Gear semi.) Nor was our catering. (Closeup of a table of junk food and Red Bull.) Nor was our car. In fact, nothing was. (Shot of Steve’s plumber’s crack issue) And the there was the question of us three.

Clarkson: You do realize we are the only people in this field–the only people- with one of these (a yellow adhesive square with an X cut out of it on the back bumper) on the back.

Hammond: I did mean to ask: what is it?

Clarkson: That means novice. Everyone else has done at least six races.

Hammond: The sum total of our experience is you’ve done–

Clarkson: I’ve done a challenge race in a Honda Civic.

Hammond: And you’ve done five laps in this. You’ve (to May) done no racing at all. You’ve done some -not in this. I’ve done a race in a 2CB, I’ve never driven this, and I’ve never ever been around Silver–We’re not in good shape.

Walking down the pit lane only deepens the depression. Their car doesn’t have exciting paint or fun add-ons to the body, and all the cars are better than theirs. Next up: qualifying. We see the crew polishing the headlights and May faffing around with the zipper to his racing coveralls. Clarkson: This is, without a shadow of a doubt, the scariest thing I’ve ever done. (It’s worse than the Channel crossing? Just asking.) Hammond: Yes. May: I’ve broken me zip. (pause) Hammond: That’s bad.

Each team member has to do a minimum of three laps, and the quickest time of the lot would determine position on the starting grid.  Clarkson goes first and is unable to resist doing commentary as if he was on the Top Gear test track. He’s not wildly successful; his parting shot: Maybe Captain Slow would have better luck.

May goes rather slowly, as one would–and does–expect. “Oh my god! 911s everywhere! Don’t be intimidated, just keep going…” But strangely, he didn’t, pitting after two laps. Clarkson hustles up to chasitze him: How could you not count?!  Because of track rules, Hammond has to go out in the meantime and has no idea where he’s going.  Following his hapless laps, May completes his qualifying laps. Clarkson is still sore. To Hammond: As cock-ups go, I’ve watched Formula One since I was that high; I’ve never seen anybody ever ever forget to do a flying lap.

In voiceover, he continues: Qualifying was turnig into a shambles and when we tuned into CCTV, that went wrong as well. (All they see is furniture.) We were a laughingstock. (Indeed.  A red Honda has “Top Gear please miss us” on the bumper.) But we still had an ace up our sleeves. Our fourth driver. (Unsurprisingly, the Stig walks toward us down a darkened hallway. ) Yeah, they weren’t ready for that! Stig pulls out of the pit.

Hammond: Can he do 24 hours straight?

Now, because it’s a 24 hour race, each driver has to do three practice laps at night, which gives the tension in certain of the drivers a bit of a boost.  Hammond confesses: My fear’s come back badly. May: I know my fear’s come back hideously (still fiddling with the zip.) It’s looking at you is making me more scared.

Hammond goes first and is disoriented by the night, the lights, and the other cars. “People trying to get round me, there’s lights everywhere! Jesus–what? I don’t remember anything and I’ve got nobody to follow. Oh God!”

Clarkson is next: Holy cow! I can’t see a thing! Hammond notes: “He tried to cure the lack of visibility with speed.” The result of this is as we’d expect: he veers off the track. Oopsie. Clarkson: People behind must be thinking, “Who is this clown?”

Safely back in the pit, Clarkson continues the narration: Amazingly, the Stig went faster at night than he had in the day and put us in an astonishing 42nd  on the grid.

Back in the pit, the Stig sits on a chair. Clarkson and Hammond hop around him in some jubulation: Yeah!  First rate! Clarkson goes to give him a friendly punch on the shoulder. Hammond, hurredly: No, don’t touch him. The Stig remains inert and seemingly unmoved by the tomfoolery.

May is going around…and then…an explosion.

Hammond: James, it’s Richard, what’s happened? Tell us. May: The throttle went mad, gearbox seemed to explode. Everything–Hang on, I’m coming in.

Back in the pit, a cloud of black exhaust is emitted and fills the pit; especially unfortunate are the crew behind the exhaust. Clarkson, observently: That’s made a mess…of them.

He continues in voiceover: Our race chief reckoned we’d blown the turbo, the clutch, and the flywheel. Race chief, wearily: But we never quit.

After a welcome but over-long commercial break from the intensity of the disaster at the track, we’re back to the studio.

Clarkson on the news set: So to summarize, the car was broken, we were all rubbish, James’ zip was stuck, and we’d accidentally written “Arse Biscuits” on the drivers’ door. Kind of par for the course, really, with Top Gear; we just expected the race to be the usual fare, you know, everything would catch fire and then we’d all drown. May: We thought, if we take this seriously, maybe our BMW diesel could finish in the top ten.

Clarkson: But now it’s time for the news. And there isn’t any. Hammond: And even if there were, we haven’t got time for it because we have such a packed program. So we must move on the the 1950s. James.

May: Over the past few years, many car manufacturers have been reinventing their old models from the past. Clarkson: Where you live. May: Thank you. Now, Volkswagen have given us the new Beetle, BMW of course reinvented the Mini, and now, there’s another one.

There’s a shot of a little white car someplace in the absolute sticks, very desolate; the car immediately grabs your attention. May: And here is it. It’s called the Fiat 500 and it’s virtually a carbon copy of their legendary car from the ’50’s. Which was called, uh, the Fiat 500. There’s a pan of the nice white interior followed by nostalgic scenes from the ’50’s.

May: Now the original car was small and ruthlessly simple. You could even buy spares from your local news agents. It was the last word in cheap, utilitarian transport for the masses.

Cut to a lovely, snowy white winter scene with the 500 driving down the road. May: Let me say, straight from the off, that this is not small, cheap, utilitarian transport for the masses. Under this retro body, it’s based on the current Fiat Panda. I mean, no reason to get all “bah, humbug” about it, but the Panda is bigger, it’s more practical, and it’s about a grand cheaper. So with  your beige trousers on, that’s the one you’d buy. But the Panda is just a car, whereas this is a car and a fashion item, and you’d have to say on the style front, Fiat’s done rather a good job. (Shot of white car porn.) I mean, everything here wasn’t on the original 500. It’s got automatic air conditioning and electric windows, and buttons on the steering wheel, but the feel of it, this pseudo-metal dash and those buttons, and the big, single instrument, and so on. It even has (beep) a retro horn. Prices start at 8000 pounds, which means that although it is dearer than a Panda, it’s a good three grand less than the cheapest Mini, and although it’s about six inches shorter than a Mini, it’s actually more spacious inside. But the thing about the Mini is that under its retro skin, it drives brilliantly. So the question now is, has Fiat pulled off the same trick?

Cut to a lovely river shot of Buda and Pest. May: Well, its home turf will be the city, so we brought it to one. Budapest. In Hungary. May stands by the railing in a black coat and white ziptup pullover with jeans. Good contrast. “I’ve come here because, a couple of years ago, I raced some parkour jumpers through Liverpool in a Peugeot 207. And lost. And now some blokes have been in touch and said how do you fancy losing again? The difference this time is that they’re not big, tough parkour jumpers. They’re actually just scallywags on BMX bikes. These wasters just ride around aimlessly, like those kids in the ET film. So to borrow the phrase of the ancient philosopher, Clarksonius, 4th century BC, how hard can it be? The race covers eight miles and starts in the old part of the city, Buda. Then we go down the hill, across the bridge, into Pest, onto the edge of the city into a giant industrial area, where we will finish in the biggest bicycle factory of the Soviet era.

They’re off. The cyclists get the early lead, but May is confident and chuckles as he passes them. He loses sight of them when they cut down a staircase on the railings and across the road in front of him. He toots the retro horn admonishingly. They ignore him. He goes on the hairpin turns of the hill; they cut straight down the grass and through the tunnel: as May exits, they jump the 500. “Bloody hell.” On the traffic jam on the bridge, he loses his lead. He catches up on the other side, only to be defeated by red lights, which the cyclists blow through. “No!” As May winds through the streets, the cyclists cut through some dreary pedestrian arcade and back onto the streets. The cyclists beat May in, but he forces them to jump a truck, thinking that this will take them out long enough, but what he’s done is to give them the lead into the finish. “No! Oh, cock. In Hungarian.” He pulls up and slides down the window. “You lost,” the cyclists politely inform him. May is a dutiful, courteous loser: Congratulations (shakes their hands.)  Well done. Now go and get a proper bike. The cyclists laugh. “You get a proper car.” “Yeah, yeah.”

Back in the studio, Hammond: Now. Bad news. Jeremy was summoned to the producer’s office this week and told no more supercars on our test track for this series. No, he was most insistant that we’d had too many, and it was time Jeremy went out and reviewed a proper family car. So. Here we go.

On the test track is a silver family car, a Daihatsu Materia, “a small, easy to park five door hatchback.” It is boxy and, I’m sorry, pretty ugly. Clarkson plans to test it against another car, something comparable, a rival of some sort, which plan has the blessing of the producer. The rival is revealed to be–wait for it– a black-striped, bright yellow Ascari A10, “a carbon-fiber powerhouse with a V10 from an old BMW M5 in the back. I think it’s better-looking than the Daihatsu, and with 625 horsepower on tap, it’s also much louder.” Well, duh. It does 0-60 in 2.8 seconds, has a top speed of 215 mph, and “you’ll be doing sign language for the rest of your life because you’ll be deaf.”  Cut to some car porn with long, fluttering strips of fabric around the car. We get closeups of the tires, spoiler, and interior. In action, we see it drifting around corners and flat out. It just rips up the track. Clarkson is overcome by the overpowering manliness of it all. But how does it compare to the Daihatsu?

“Well, in a number of critical areas, not well. The Daihatsu has a CD autochanger, an airbag, five seats, and a big boot. The Ascari has none of these things. You can’t even understand the dashboard.” Indeed, the instrument display is quite arcane. “What’s more, the Daihatsu is 339 000 pounds cheaper than the A10, and much more economical. And there’s the steering…no anti-lock brakes, no traction control; the only thing keeping it pointed in the right direction is me.” It ends up sideways. “Now, look at this. Note how the Daihatsu (at a safe, sensible speed) gets around the same corner without crashing once.  And what’s more, in a straight line at 85 mph, it’ll easily overtake the Ascri when it’s doing 70.” Forced to make a choice, even  though the Daihatsu is very good, he’s going to go with the supercar. Surprise!

Back in the studio, May admonishes Clarkson: You were supposed to test a family car. Clarkson: I did! May: Yes, and look at this chart.  The chart shows the Daihatsu beat the A10 in terms of cost, insurance, mpg, doors, and seats. “Look at this. The Ascari, it doesn’t even have inertial reel seatbelts.” Clarkson: Yeah. No, I hear what you say, but the Ascari is much faster.” It is now time to turn the A10 over to their tame racing driver.

“Some say that he once lost a canoe on a beach in the Northeast. And that he once did some time in a prison in Canterbury because his teddy is called the Baby Jesus. All we know is he’s called the Stig.”

He’s off to a nice start, great engine noise.  According to Clarkson, “it’s like Victorian Manchester is trying to escape from the exhaust.” There’s very little drift. No stereo, which means no self-help for the Stig this week. Through Hammerhead very nicely, very controlled through Gambon. Because it has a hydraulic-lifting nose, it is able to get over speedbumps and is thus a road car and eligible for inclusion on the board. It’s time is 1:17:3. It beats the Koenigsegg with Top Gear spoiler time of 1:17:6 and is now the fastest ever road car around the track.

Hammond recaps the events at Silverstone and we go back to the action. Um, back to the wreck of the BMW, at any rate.

On the day of the race, they’re in the drivers’ meeting. The Stig has fallen asleep, but Clarkson nudges him back into alertness. Following the meeting, there is a half-hour shakedown session, which Hammond had hoped to use to get to know the track, but the car is still broken.

Clarkson: We’ve just discovered, having replaced the turbo, the inlet manifold, the clutch, the fly wheel all last night, is that how there’s diesel in the sump. It turned out to be the fuel pump, which was a bit embarassing for us three. What they’re saying is that our farm-fresh, morning-dew diesel has got too much methanol in it, which is eating the fuel seals and fuel’s getting out. (Tip: natural rubber is resistant to methanol.)

In a shop, replacing the fuel pump is a six hour job. This would mean that they miss the start, so this is catastrophic news. The crew chief talks Clarkson down a bit by saying they’ve got special tools on the way. They have to be in position at 3:50 or they forfeit their place on the grid and will have to start from the back, out of the pit lane. Clarkson looks tense. The other teams are polishing their windshields. Upstairs, in the room over the pit, May walks in and tells Clarkson and Hammond: Whatever you do, don’t go downstairs and look at the car. It’s got no front end, no lights, no radiator, no bumper, no splitter, no front of the engine, no bonnet. That fuel pump thing is right in the bowels of the thing. They’ve got the whole front off.

Predictably, Clarkson and Hammond go straight downstairs. Clarkson: James will be exaggerating. James isn’t exaggerating. And it’s leaking…I watch Formula One a lot and I’ve never in the whole time I’ve watched it seen a Formula One car two hours before a race looking like that.

There’s finally some good news. The fuel pump has been replaced. To celebrate, Clarkson puts a coin down the plumber’s crack of Steve. Hammond generously tells Steve he can keep the coin.

Clarkson: We were cheering up. But honestly, our second-hand Repmobile was beginning to look like classic Top Gear–ambitious but rubbish. And so it turned out to be. Steve’s team had done the fastest rebuild in history. But it still wasn’t fast enough.

They have 30 minutes. The lads stand around in drivers’ coveralls, looking tense. The mechanics work furiously. Twenty minutes to go and the car coughs into life. But with black smoke pouring from the back, it becomes known that it’s only running on five cylinders. They have two minutes and no part. The Stig gets in the car. He’s at the pit lane just in time.

Hammond: That’s it, we’re in the race!

Clarkson: It looked a bit smoky, but it had the Stig at the wheel and this is what he does best. The lads are thrilled when his lap time is 2:16. Hammond: Look at all the people he’s faster than already! The Stig is now 13 seconds faster than the nearest diesel. Having started in 59th place, they’ve moved up to 39th place in one hour, 20 minutes.

May: I’m now worried that we’re going too hard on it.

Clarkson: Over the next 20 minutes, the Stig climbed another two places, but then James’ negative waves hit home and hit hard.   We see the BMW being pushed down the pit lane. May: That’s not a good sign.

Clarkson to Stig: Did it fill with smoke? Did it lose power? There’s no response. May: You’re wasting your breath. Clarkson: It would help, of course, if we could talk to the driver and find out what actually happened out there, but…it’s just stopped working. The camera focuses on Stig, not the car.

They needed a little piece for the fuel injection, and of course, they didn’t have it. Clarkson: But mysteriously, ten minutes later, we did!…Somebody in the car park is going home on five cylinders.  The breakdown had cost half an hour and because Stig had gotten out, another driver had to take the wheel. Clarkson: The Christian motorist was now in the hot seat. May: Absolutely everything’s going past…but never mind. The other lads, in dire need of a restroom, struggle until May gets a lap time, and abuse him for it. May: thank you, doing me best. Clarkson: A few minutes later, though, something amazing happened. May: I’ve overtaken someone! Hammond: Don’t need to get all daft and giddy, ok? You just did 2:24. May: I’m *bleep* loving this!

May not being quite as slow as expected, things are looking good. Due to the endurance tank, the diesel doesn’t have to pit every hour like the petrol cars. Night falls, and a car hits the barrier. May is geting tired too, and his lap times fall.

Clarkson: Normally, I’d  be on the phone to him now, being fatuous and stupid and telling him he’s Captain Slow and he’s got to hurry up, but honestly, the last thing you want is anybody clowning around on your headphones, on your radio, because there’s so much to think about…Ninety minutes into his shift, the inevitable happened. May: Bollocks, sorry, I’m off.

The car pits so they can change drivers. Clarkson is up next: Please, God, don’t let me mess this up. As he gets into his stint, “I’m coming up behind those Italians in the 1-series! Look at this–neck and neck and –no, he’s come across my nose! We saved you from the Germans, and that’s what I get! Hammond: Don’t wreck the car!

When Clarkson finishes, they’re up to 37th place, thanks to the other cars breaking down and the BMW not. Clarkson: What a truly fantastic way of spending an evening. Hammond is up next: As my first ever racing lap of Silverstone would be in the dark, I couldn’t say the same. He can’t remember the course: Christ, you’ve got to concentrate! Still, even Clarkson was tolerably encouraging: Hammond, your speed is not only good, but it’s consistant, mate. Excellent. Hammond: I settled down for the night shift.

The race wears on, just under 17 hours to go. Then disaster. A crash. Hammond: Bollocks! Guys, I’ve binned it. He pulls off the track. Someone askes if it can move on its own. Hammond” I’d say it was game over. (silence) Steve, magicians can’t get this fixed. I’m sorry, lads, I’m sorry. Have you found out yet, did I take somebody else off? Can you find out. Man: Yeah, it was a white Mosler. As Hammond is towed: Oh, bloody hell. I couldn’t have hit anything more expensive, could I?

The BMW is pushed into the pit again. Clarkson: The wishbone was broken, the disc brake was ruined, two wheels were smashed, the left headlight was shattered, the door was caved in, and the engine wouldn’t turn over.  Hammond looks as wretched as the car.

A track official bands a verdict to Clarkson and May; If the boys can mend it, and if the scrutineer says the car is safe to go out again, you may use it again. So you’re not out of the race yet.

As the mechanics work on the car, the drivers watch the onboard footage to see what happened to knock out the half-million pound Mosler, which had been fighting for the lead. The Molser had been behind another car; when that car passed Hammond, he hadn’t seen the Mosler in the blind spot and pulled into it. Clarkson reassures Hammond: It wure as hell wasn’t your fault, because I thought I’d hit the 944 doing exactly the same thing on the pit straight.

May: It took nearly three hours to get the car running again, by which time we were stone dead last. Only one man could get us back in contention. At around two am, the Stig takes over. There are 14 hours left to go. The Stig climbs eight places. May: Then when it was my turn, the fog came; I was completely blind.

The fog grows so thick that the race is halted. When it resumes, it is dawn, when the drivers are punchy. Hammond: It would probably be rude to point out to him he’s pulled up in next door’s pit. Hammond to May: It’s the wrong pit garage. May: Oh well, never mind, it’s close enough. Hammond: Next door’s pit was home to the Saxondale team, who were using a diesel BMW like ours. After the calamities, they were now our main rivals. (They edge out around the encroaching Top Gear car.)

Hammond: As Jeremy G-ed up the capacity crowd– Clarkson, yelling to the specatators across the track: Do a Mexican wave! All five spectators do a wave. Hammond: The Stig made mincemeat of them. But then, 20 minutes later, disaster. The front splitter, which helps with the aerodynamics, had come off and there was a monumental fuel leak.

Clarkson: It was down on power, it’s five seconds a lap slower, then the splitter fell off that we put on. Hammond considers this: Yeah. Clarkson: Don’t tell James. Hammond: Yeah, detachable, they do that, that’s a feature. 

Clarkson: The Stig stayed at the wheel, so after the leak was fixed, he could go out again and even though the missing splitter was ruining the handling, nothing was going to stop him. Nothing. Hammond: Right now, at this very moment, computers tell us the Stig is having a wee in the car. And I’m next. Clarkson: This speeded the Stig up even more.

After the Stig came in from his last lap, he had gotten the team into third place in diesel. It’s now all up to Hammond, and then Clarkson. Clarkson to Hammond: Should feel ok, the brakes have just come off. It’s just sheared a bolt. Hammond: Nice.

Hammond’s out on the track. With the power loss and loss of the splitter, the handling’s taken a beating. An Aston spins out in front of him; Hammond’s been up for 30 hours and drives off the track, just for  a little bit. Hammond: To wake myself up, I organized a little present for Jeremy. Having a pee right now. Ah…

Clarkson: At the end of Richard’s stint, we were still third in class but I knew it would be hard to stay there. Clarkson to May: Problem is that Saxondale is thirty laps behind. We’re going to lose five laps in this next pit stop. They’ve got their quick driver in there against me. I’m telling you, in three hours driving, they’re going to be right up my back bottom.

Clarkson: So this was it. The final shift. (There’s 2.5 hours left.) I was tired out,  I was sitting in a puddle of wee, the car was sick, and we had our main rivals bearing down on us.  He begs the car to make it to the end. There’s a problem, though–again. Because the handling’s crap, the tires are wearing out very quickly. Hammond to Clarkson: Jeremy, because there’s no front splitter, there’s no downforce in the front and it’s tearing the tires to bits.

In order to prevent another pit stop, Clarkson has to drive carefully to preserve the tires. Hammond: Unfortunately, though, this was Jeremy. Clarkson: Yeah! Please don’t be cross with me if that last lap was a bit quick. Hammond: I just heard from Steve, we have a tire expert in the pit lane. He’s looked at the other tires and says yours will last about another three minutes.  In voiceover: We had to get him in. Saxondale would rack up five laps while our tires were changed, but on fresh rubber, Jeremy could now get the hammer down.

Clarkson: Happily, we got some luck. The Saxondale  team had hit problems. So now all I had to do was nurse the car home. Clarkson to car: Come on, car, please make it (40 minutes left.)  To the camera: This has been one of the best Top Gear companions of the lot. A Repmobile, transformed in ten days into a racer.

Hammond: Fifteen minutes to go. Clarkson: Starting to get a little sloppy now, we’re getting a few mistakes.

Clarkson: Five minutes to go, and for the first time, I felt this pee-stained David among Goliaths was actually going to finish, and finish well.   It wants to make the finish line, and I’m just willing it on.  The time runs out.  Clarkson crosses the line, third in class and 40th overall. Yes!  (Claps heartily.) You brilliant little car! God, this is just brilliant! (He wipes both eyes.) That’s absolutely epic. Hammond and May grin victoriously. The pit crew grins for the camera.