RICHARD Hammond has become a prominent name round these parts, after his spectacular crash at Elvington in a jet-powered car.

Until last week, he was known for being the small, cheerful one on BBC2's Top Gear, the object of lofty, but mostly affectionate, teasing from Jeremy Clarkson. Now he is the driver who defied death while driving at speeds approaching 300mph.

Latest reports describe Hammond as stable at Leeds General Infirmary, where he will have plenty of time to ponder what went wrong. Will he regret taking part in such a high-speed stunt for the amusement of four to six million viewers of Top Gear?

On past form, he is unlikely to do so. If he recovers well enough, he's sure to have an emotional on-screen reunion with Clarkson and fellow presenter James May, possibly before showing footage of the ill-fated sprint.

The producer of the series, Andy Wilman, has said that the show will not return until Hammond is well enough to rejoin his petrol-head pals.

Clarkson has already been in the papers, mouthing off in that colourful way he has, saying that he would defy critics who "don't like Top Gear and would love to see it off the screens".

Getting further exercised, and building up a characteristic steam-cloud of political incorrectness, he was reported as saying: "You just hear this constant background chatter of lesbian women running around saying that men should be in prison, not driving fast cars."

Oh Jeremy, do pipe down. There you go again, constructing imaginary foes in order to make yourself appear more put-upon than you really are. It's a good trick and one that makes you seem valiant in the face of a po-faced world, but it soon wears thin.

Jeremy Clarkson thrives on such mock-heroics, agitating people so that he becomes the eccentric uncle everyone loves to hate, or hates to love, which is almost the same thing. Richard Hammond appears to be regarded with more straightforward affection, while James May fits the final piece into this tyre-shredding trio.

Because this space has been used before to disparage Clarkson, you might assume I am among those who hate Top Gear. Not so at all, in fact I have a sneaking regard for the programme, which is lively and inventive, occasionally bloody annoying, sometimes brilliantly inspired. You don't even have to be nuts about cars to enjoy the juvenile antics.

At a time when much television is too safe or too boring, Top Gear at least stirs up a reaction. The plainly idiotic item when Clarkson drove a Land Rover to the top of a Scottish mountain, crushing ancient flora on the way, still makes me cross, but I can't help returning to see what amiable mischief the boys have been up to.

In these days of environmental angst, it may seem hard to justify a show that flagrantly burns so much precious unleaded in a weekly celebration of speed.

Yet for all such concerns, the risk-taking side of Top Gear should be celebrated. However stupid the antics occasionally are, risk has always been a part of human life. Trying to drive at 300mph is insane, but sometimes we need to be heroically unwise in order to help define our capabilities, to show what man and machine can achieve.

Personally, I would never drive that fast. Too much of a coward. I'll stick to scaring myself half to death by going downhill on a bike in the Yorkshire Dales. Last weekend, during our annual trip to Littondale, our cycling party hit speeds of 30 to 35mph on the steepest slopes, which is easily fast enough for me.

Good luck to Hammond, who flirted with great peril in the name of light entertainment. It may not seem much of a cause, but many people do dangerous things in their leisure time.

A blow-out on my trusty Marin bike could have put me in the bed next to Richard, but I'm still exhilarated to have shot down those Dales hills.