Top Gear goes racing with AC/DC's Brian Johnson

We are sat in a caravan drinking tea. A pack of chocolate Hobnobs is passed around. We dip our biscuits and talk about Dale Winton, whom everyone agrees is a very charming man. I stare into the mug. This isn't quite how we pictured our Saturday night working out. I was expecting strippers. Or at least some groupies and a paddling pool filled with jelly. Maybe a few litres of whisky and a mountainous supply of substances we really shouldn't talk about here.

After all, my host is a worshipful member of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and front man for one of the biggest-selling bands of all time. He's toured the world for 32 years. He is Brian Johnson from AC/DC. And he's boiling the kettle again.

Words: Dan Read
Pics: Justin Leighton

This feature first appeared in the March 2012 issue of Top Gear magazine

Let's rewind a few hours. It's 4pm, and Brian's about to be lashed into the cockpit of a racing car. He'll point it down the pit lane, sweep round a left-hander and pop out into one of the most fighty races in the world, the 24 Hours of Daytona.

Think of it as Le Mans with an American twist: twice around the clock, an assorted mix of cars, some of the planet's top drivers, all on a 3.5-mile circuit made up of a tricky infield section, plus three sides of the speedway's steep oval banking where the top cars - Daytona Prototypes like Brian's - will be doing 200mph. As you'll have figured out, the DPs are pretty much made for this place.

Brian's is a Riley-BMW, a semi-monocoque spaceframe chassis dressed in lightweight bodywork with a 550bhp, 5.0-litre V8 in the middle. It's an older design than some out there, but still about seven seconds a lap quicker than the more recognisable GT cars (Ferrari 458s, Porsche 911 GT3s, Chevy Camaros, BMW M3s).

In the corner of the garage, Brian waggles his knees. He's been racing vintage cars on and off for about 20 years and his toy box includes a Lola T70, a 1928 Bentley Blower, a Rolls Phantom and Audi R8. He was once the fastest man around the TopGear track... a highly prestigious honour that inspired him to get back in a racing car after a two-year break. In short, he's a proper paid-up petrolhead. But he's never done anything like this before. So when the people who look after his older cars, Predator Performance, decided to put a team together for Daytona, they asked Brian to drive.

He's one of five blokes sharing the car, four of whom are over 50 years old (Brian's 64). Helmet on, seat mould in hand, he jogs on the spot and puffs his cheeks. He's run through this routine thousands of times, though usually it's backstage and he's downed a bottle of something to calm the nerves. I ask how he's doing. "This is it, me old son," he shouts back in Geordie. "This is f**king it!" The car rumbles into the pit box, and co-driver Jim Pace is yanked out before Brian is shoved in.

Rewind a bit more. What he's about to do here requires real guts. To go from friendly amateur racing to the thick end of the most demanding endurance race on Earth is like going from arm wrestling a small child to 12 rounds with a stabby cage fighter. He'll be up against the likes of Dario Franchitti, Juan Pablo Montoya and Allan McNish. Almost 60 cars are crammed into the relatively short circuit, which means the faster blokes could make around 15 passes per lap.

It's busy out there. A few days ago in the practice session, Montoya joked that he'd made more overtakes in that one spell than in his entire F1 career. Yesterday, Brian had a little coaching from British legend and exemplary gentleman Derek Bell, a three-time winner at this place in the Eighties. "You've got to be very neat and tidy," said Bell. "Be immaculate, and find a rhythm." Brian smiled. Rhythm he can do. He has the album sales to prove it.

It doesn't take him long to find that groove. About 20 minutes into his first shift, he pops in a 1min 48sec lap, four seconds off most DPs but still ahead of the GTs. Four seconds. Can you imagine dropping into this sort of race for the very first time, against this sort of competition, in this sort of car, and being that close to the top? Most of us would have some kind of convulsion. But there's a problem.

There are nasty noises coming from the gearbox, and he can't find first. So it's into the pits, where the bodywork is whipped off. Brian watches as a flurry of hands perform open surgery on the car. "Please tell me I didn't break it?" he asks, rather sweetly. He's reassured by team boss David Hinton, then digs around in his race suit for a packet of tobacco. "I thought I'd be on top of the world!" he says, rolling a cigarette. "But I'll never catch those top buggers - I'm more like top bum than top gun." He draws hard on his roll-up as the mechanics install a new set of cogs. Back to the caravan. Time for a brew.

"Gentlemen, make yourselves at home!" he says, budging up the sofa. So here we are with one of the biggest rock stars in the world and his lovely wife, Brenda, sat in their silver Airstream while he does a Dale Winton impression and a fluffy grey cat chases a bottle top around the floor. "Brenda, me darlin', pass us a biscuit," he says.

He sings something bluesy, as he watches the race out of the corner of an eye. His leg bounces up and down uncontrollably. I try aiming a few questions in his direction, but he's distracted. He's due in the car again soon and wants to get back to the garage, so he fires up a golf cart and leaves. The gearbox problems cost them 10 laps, and they're running down in 45th place overall.

Allan McNish is leading in a Riley-Ford. Out on the circuit, 68-year-old Elliot Forbes-Robinson is at the wheel of the Predator car, showing the youngsters how it's done. Ten quid says you won't find anyone else with liver spots as quick as this guy. A few cars ahead, a Dempsey Racing Mazda has lost control (that's Dempsey the ‘A-List Movie and Television Star, Fragrance Creator and Family Man', according to a fan website). Elliot tries to swerve, but the spinning RX-8 whacks him square on, bending the rear axle.

The mechanics do their best to patch it up, but the car's shaking itself to pieces. Brian has to wait while they unplug the whole rear end and install a new one. The bad luck has dropped them even further down, and they'll have to make up 76 laps if they're to get near the podium. But that's not why they're here...

This team was put together from scratch in just a few months, and the only real aim is to finish this thing, then skull as many beers as possible. Regardless, our rocker has a big job on his hands. And over the next 50 minutes - roughly the amount of time it takes to get through one tank of fuel - he takes it in his stride, avoiding trouble and guiding the car into the early hours before handing over. He's even singing out there.

The night is largely uneventful. Up front, the leaders are separated by just a few seconds. As the darkness comes down, faces are lit by the odd burst of flame from an RX-8 as it burps unburnt fuel down its exhaust. The crowds settle down beside their expensive motorhomes, most of which are larger than a London flat, and nearly all have makeshift viewing platforms mounted on the roof (which explains why the grandstands are a little sparsely populated).

This is a slightly more cultured crowd than you'll find at NASCAR, though there are some ghetto campsites on the fringes of the posh RV compounds. A few hours later, the sun will rise over the speedway, mixing with the white floodlights to bathe the whole place in a pastel-pink dawn.

We head up to the spotter's tower high above the start/finish line, where men with binoculars watch over the track like it's some giant Scalextric set. They help guide the less experienced drivers through traffic and suggest when might be a good time to move over. Brian's back in the car, and his extra pair of eyes are busy. "The wing mirrors are so bad, you can't see sh*t," he says over the radio. He goes low on the banking to let fellow Brit and race-leader Justin Wilson go by.

When he finishes this stint, he's a much happier man. His eyes are almost wider than their sockets. "It's the most glorious feeling in the world, driving here as the sun comes up," he says. "All the colours come back to life. I started tearing up, and me f**king visor slipped down. Couldn't wipe it away!"

He'd been chasing another prototype, one of the better ones, and really gathering pace. "I thought I'd follow that bugger, 'cos I know I'm as quick. But as we went through the bus stop, he went straight on into the wall - thought he was gonna bounce back out."

The bus stop is the chicane half way along the back straight, there to stop the
cars building up too much speed before the next bit of banking. At anything above 200mph, there'd be too much force going through the tyres, which could then explode. This is the spot where Dale Earnhardt lost his life in a NASCAR race in 2001. And where Barry Sheene had the mother of all accidents when
he came off his bike in 1975. At nearly 180mph.

We walk out there around midday, skirting the infield lake, created when they dug out the earth to make the banking. A flock of seagulls explodes off the water, spooked by crackling downshifts. As the cars circle, empty beer cans melt in the embers of fires, surrounded by the bony remains of cheap tents. It's been
a heavy night, but there's still three-and-a-half hours to go.

Brian's in the car again, running full throttle on the banking. He's getting
a taste for it now. At the front, the leaders are still swapping places. The Predator car is too many laps down, but at least it's still going. Back in the pits, the advice is clear - don't screw it up now. Just roll the thing home. Brian swaps with Elliot and collapses in a chair, steam pouring off his sweaty head. "I was going quick, me son," he says. "Quicker than I ever was before. I had to let the leaders through, but I felt good about that."

He'll do one final stint before the day's out. He doesn't screw it up. They finish 32nd overall. Up front, Justin Wilson's MSR team takes the win, just five seconds ahead of Allan McNish's Starworks.

If it weren't for the rear-end troubles, the computer says team Predator would've finished in the top 10. Not bad for a bunch of drivers who could just as easily be enjoying free bus travel. But that's not Brian's style. Here's a man who's rounded the globe more times than a space station. He's swung across stage on giant bells in front of millions of moshing lunatics. In 1991, he accidentally pis**d on Sputnik. Did you really expect him to become some haggard old star, dribbling into a microphone?

No. So sit back, light a smoke and enjoy that Hobnob, me son. You still rock.

Click here to listen to Brian Johnson read out a few car-based chapters from his autobiography, Rockers and Rollers