The Stig versus the Mercedes SLS Black
There’s a squeak from the corner of the pit garage, the steady, repetitive squeak of a trolley wheel, and a chunky mechanic hoves into view bearing the car’s final component on a porter’s cart: The Stig. Man in white meets car in yellow. Nothing. Not a flicker. It’s only when the fat wheel jackets are removed and the car is lowered to the polished floor that Stig comes to life. He climbs abruptly aboard, and there’s an instant wumpf as eight cylinders pound into life. He’s off. As the long bonnet noses out into the sunshine at Paul Ricard, I swear I see a white hand stroke the black Alcantara steering wheel.