“Are we quite ready?” asked Jenny. “Only there’s a penalty payment if we overstay our allotted time. And can someone tell me again why the heck we’re paying one-hundred-pound-an-hour for an ambulance?”
“It’s part of the race regulations to have them always present,” Stan chimed in. “No ambulance, no racing, I’m afraid. Section Six, Safety, subsection—”
“I, er… I think the ambulance might be warranted, actually,” Neil offered, interrupting Stan’s impressive recitation of code, as he continued watching Monty, who’d lost his balance presently and was back down on the ground — this time like a turtle on its back, his arms and legs working furiously in the air without gaining any sort of purchase whatsoever. “Best to keep the ambulance round just to be on the safe side anyway,” Neil suggested.
“Jenny, I meant to ask,” said Frank. “You think people will be interested in Dave’s story? I mean, I assume you must. Otherwise you wouldn’t have gone to the trouble and expense of agreeing to meet us here for a follow-up interview?”
“Oh, yes, absolutely,” Jenny replied. “When we last interviewed them, before the previous year’s TT, the pair were hoping for a top-ten finish. Since then,” she recapped for an imagined audience, “Monty, because of injuries sustained, stepped down, however, to graciously allow his friend a shot at victory, allowing Dave to carry on and in actual fact win the big time. And yet this year, despite Dave’s last-year TT win with brilliant, if somewhat irascible, fill-in teammate Harry McMullan, Dave decides to forego another fair shot at an assured win, and, instead, insists upon racing this year with Monty Montgomery, reuniting with his dear, longtime friend once again, and racing only with Monty, having it no other way.” She paused, taking a breath and admiring her own summary, before continuing: “Yes. Oh, yes. This is TV gold. Honestly, people love the whole rags-to-riches theme. Trust me, if this was a plot in a book it would be snapped up and made into a film. What we’ll do, Neil,” she instructed, “is let them ride around for a few laps and we’ll meet them near the start line. Let them build up a bit of a sweat. It’ll look more authentic. Okay?”
“Sure. You got it,” agreed the cameraman.
Frank and Stan grinned like children in a toy shop as Dave and Monty’s sidecar roared back to life.
“I can’t tell you how much I love that noise, Stan,” Frank told his partner reflectively. “You know how you smell something, and it reminds you of a time in your life? Like freshly-cut grass— That always brings me back to playing in the school field when I was a boy. Well, similarly, hearing that engine spring to life does the same— I’m instantly transported to warm summer evenings watching the racing, a few drinks at the Bushy’s beer tent, and surrounded by wonderful friends.”
Stan leaned his head forward, over the wall partition, nostrils flaring, several pulses in a row. “You’ll get that smell-recognition you were talking about as well, Frank, in just a moment,” Stan told him, wafting the acrid odour — or, to a racing fan, tantalising aroma — of burnt fuel in Frank’s general direction with a fluttering motion of his hand.
Frank took in a lungful of cold, fresh Manx air. He closed his eyes to appreciate the sound of the engine accelerating up through the gearbox.
“Monty doesn’t look overly comfortable, Frank,” Stan observed.
Monty tucked his head in but his left leg, which should have been doing the same thing as his head, dangled out of the sidecar precariously, appearing to forget its destination entirely.
“He doesn’t, Stan,” Frank agreed, opening his eyes back up to take a confirmatory glance. “Hopefully it’s an issue with his leathers, rather than an instance of his previous injuries in protest? Oh, wait, there we go. It’s back where it should be. The leg, that is. Maybe he was just stretching it?”
“Probably best not to speculate in the case of Monty,” Stan observed. “As it could be any number of things to which we’re not privy, and to which we likely wouldn’t wish to be privy.”
“Well-spotted,” Frank agreed with a laugh.
Jenny attached a discreet microphone to her jacket, giving her teeth a run-over with her tongue to remove any excess lipstick that might be taking up residence there. “Have you got enough for the intro, Neil?” she asked of her inveterate cameraman.
“I will in a moment,” he replied, one eye still trained into the camera lens. “Juuuuust let me get them going round that last corner, aaaand… Ah. There. There we go. Brilliant.”
“Great. If you can get them pulling in? And then I’ll jump in when they stop.”
“Gotcha,” said Neil accommodatingly.
Jenny assumed a position of relative safety behind a protective tyre wall, taking a final look over her notes. “Right. Here we go, Neil,” she advised him, as the sidecar eased back into the pits. “Oh, and for the camera,” she said, “don’t forget from last time that Monty is the bloke with the…” she trailed off, placing her palm over one eye, for illustrative purposes, and circling it round in a Daniel-san wax-on, wax-off motion.
“Hang on. What…?” asked Neil, before the memory of their previous encounter with the lads made its way back to his recollection, clicking into place. “Ah. That’s right,” he said looking to Frank and Stan for help. “Now, which one of your friend’s eyes is his good eye, again?”
Frank went to speak first. “It’s… ehm… That’s a good question, actually… Stan? It’s the left… I think? Wait, or is it the right?” He closed each of his own eyes, in turn, as he said this, trying to work out which was Monty’s wonky one, and which the good one. “Stan?” he said again, looking for assistance.
“It’s the left, Frank,” Stan replied with an assured confidence, before. “Or… wait…” he went on, a wave of doubt kicking in. He turned to face the other way, and then forward again, and then back. “Now I think on it… is it the left eye when I’m looking at him, so it’s actually the right, or… You know, Frank, I’m really not so sure now…”
Jenny shook her head, as one might do when evaluating career choices, which by curious coincidence was precisely what she was in fact currently doing. “Guys,” she said. “Forget about the eye for now, okay? I don’t want to become fixated on them when I’m on-camera. The eyes, I mean. Not Dave and Monty. Fixated, I mean. Not— Ah! Okay, right, Neil, this is us,” she said, changing tack, and like the flick of a switch, going from a pained impatience to adopting the persona of the consummate professional as Dave and Monty pulled in.
“Jenny Seagrave here, folks,” she said to the camera. “And I’m back in the beautiful Isle of Man. Now, some of you may recall, when I was covering the Isle of Man TT races over the summer, our feature we did on back-of-the-van racers who really encompass what the great event is all about. Way back in June, we caught up with Dave Quirk and Shaun ‘Monty’ Montgomery. You may recollect that Dave and Monty were optimistically eying a top-ten finish. Well, things didn’t quite work out to the original plan. I’m delighted to be here at Jurby Road & Race Track in the north of the Island, where I’m thrilled to be joined once again by our intrepid pair. I’ll just give them a moment to get out of their sidecar.”
Dave jumped out, sprightly-as-you-like for a larger fellow, and stood obediently next to Jenny as indicated. He looked to his left, and then to his right, fully expecting to be joined by co-pilot Monty, who was at present suddenly conspicuous in his absence.
“Is your friend… okay?” asked Jenny, spotting the source of the delay. Monty, as it happened, had managed to change position, somehow, from frontwards-facing to backwards-facing in his seat in the sidecar, with his legs dangling out the back, like a very large crab whose legs wouldn’t fit in the boiling pot.
Monty looked over to Jenny and the camera with a friendly wave, but with little give in either his leathers or his joints, it didn’t appear as if he had the leverage to stand up. And, indeed, he gave them a twirling motion with his finger like he was mixing a drink, directing them to carry on without him.
“Look at this, fol
ks!” resumed a high-energy Jenny. “As a reminder of how physically taxing this type of racing is, a few laps in the sidecar really takes it out of these guys, and our Monty here can barely stand up!” She said this cheerfully, rolling with the development as only a seasoned pro could do.
“It’s probably more to do with the Guinness,” Dave shot back over his shoulder, running to help his friend. And with no small degree of effort — and a mental note to visit his GP for possible hernia — Dave extricated Monty from their machine, and in record time had Monty standing beside him, pretty-as-you-please, before Jenny.
“Dave, if I can come to you first?” said Jenny, now that was all sorted, conjuring a microphone for him from thin air, like a bouquet of flowers, and handing it over. “I had the pleasure of interviewing you in TT week the year previous, and—”
“It was all my pleasure then, and is most certainly again,” returned Dave, for which, just as he did in the referenced TT week, he received a death-stare in response for both interrupting and for his being overly familiar.
With Dave sufficiently cowed into submission in short order, Jenny carried on…
“You may remember, Dave, that we discussed your aspirations for a top-ten finish. Well, things didn’t quite go to plan, did they? And would you mind explaining why that was, for the benefit of our viewers?”
“The bike was going well, and I was entirely confident in our prospects,” Dave began elaborating, as instructed. “But sadly, my mate Monty here…” he said, using both hands to present Monty to the audience. “Sadly, Monty’s injuries couldn’t stand up to the TT. It’s pretty savage out on that track even when you’re at a hundred-percent top physical condition, see? But with any sort of injury, well, you’ve simply got no chance. So Monty very magnanimously, of his own accord, retired.” At this, Monty took a low bow for the camera. “I thought that was curtains for my TT effort,” Dave continued. “But, with the help of my sponsors, Frank and Stan, as well as our good friend Dutch Henk, I managed to get not only a new, faster machine but a new passenger for the outfit as well. And just in time, too.”
Jenny smiled in appreciation of Dave’s summary. It wasn’t as good as hers, of course. But it would do. “Your new passenger was, of course, Harry McMullan,” she said. “Now, if I recall, in our last interview there was no love lost between yourself and the brothers McMullan. You must have made up with Harry McMullan, then, in order to achieve this beneficial arrangement?”
Dave adopted the usual crossed-arm, hand-rubbing-the-chin thing he did when thinking. “I think I called him a tosser, last time? If I’m not mistaken?”
“I think you did just that,” replied Jenny through gritted teeth, and with a forced laugh. “And I think you also promised that you wouldn’t say such a thing again on-camera.”
“Sorry, Jenny. But to be fair, didn’t you say the exact same thing about him, off-camera, when we—?”
Again, the death stare, along with pointed throat-cutting gestures, indicating to him that he should immediately cease-and-desist.
“Anyway, my opinion remained the same even with him as a passenger. Don’t get me wrong, that guy has got loads of talent, and he’s a true professional. Just, like I said, a complete toss–”
Death stare.
“Pot. Tosspot, is what I meant to say,” Dave said with a cough.
“So Dave, for those who may not be aware, with the combination of the new passenger and the new sidecar, can you tell the viewers if you managed to get your top-ten finish?”
A satisfied smile erupted across Dave’s face as he held out his hand to Monty, in an obviously rehearsed motion. Monty stared blankly at the extended hand in front of him, before producing a Cadbury Crunchie from his breast pocket that he’d been hoping very much to save for later, and handing it, hopefully, to Dave with a cheeky wink.
“Not the Cadbury Crunchie, Monty. Why would I be asking for a Cadbury Crunchie? Although I will take that, actually.”
Monty looked both pleased that he’d made Dave happy with his gift, and yet unhappy that he no longer had his Cadbury Crunchie he’d until-just-recently been saving for later.
“Remember the thingy, Monty?” Dave coaxed gently. “The thing?”
“The thing?” asked Monty.
“Yes, the thing,” said Dave.
“The thing I had to go see the doctor for? To get the antibiotics for?” Monty ventured.
“Not that thing!” Dave told him. “The other thing. The thing we talked about. For this,” he said, moving his upraised palm around in circles like he was making popcorn on the stovetop, but meant to signify the whole this that was the current circumstance at which they were presently engaged.
“Ah! A-ha! A-ha-ha-ha,” replied Monty, suddenly catching on, and disappearing from shot.
This was much to the frustration of Jenny, who was by this time ready for packing up and heading home, looking forward as she was to running a bath and treating herself to some much-needed relaxation, attending to her needs under cover of the warm water.
Monty returned momentarily, bringing with him a trophy he’d retrieved from Frank, at-the-ready for the occasion. “Here you go, Dave,” he said, making a show of presenting it to him.
Dave clutched the trophy and pressed it into the soft-cushion waiting embrace of that which was his man-boobs. “This is my replica trophy for winning the TT race,” he said to Jenny, as well as to the folks at home.
At this, Jenny returned a genuine smile. Though, at this stage, it was likely more in appreciation that the interview was back on-point than it was in appreciation of the trophy itself.
“Just to unpack that for a moment. I interviewed you for our back-of-the-van racer feature, and then you managed to only go and win the blooming race, Dave. That is an absolutely spectacular achievement, and one for which you must be extremely proud. It really is a tale of rags-to-riches— No offence meant, of course.”
Before Dave could respond to this, Jenny turned her attention to Monty. “Monty,” she said. “If I can come to you now,” she pressed on, hoping to soon bring the interview to a conclusion. “How did you feel when you had to pull out, and when your friend won?”
Right on cue, though certainly not planned, Monty became moderately misty-eyed. He lowered his head, wiping his eyes with the heel of his palm. “It was one of the proudest days in my life to see that man there stood on the top step,” said Monty, looking back up, his eyes shining.
“You mean that, don’t you, Monty?” asked Jenny, seeing the sincerity in his still-glistening eyes, the fact that those eyes were facing in two entirely different directions notwithstanding.
“I live for racing, Jenny. I was gutted when the injury ruled me out of the TT, but I’ve always said that Dave had the ability to get on the podium. Would I like to have won a TT with him? Absolutely I would have. But I took just as much enjoyment from being there to watch him win, regardless, and it’s something I’ll never forget.” Monty then leaned in to Dave, giving him an impromptu embrace.
Jenny dabbed at her own eyes. “Gosh, now you’ve got me welling up,” she said. “Monty, you’ve decided to come out of retirement,” she continued, soldiering on. “Can you tell us why that is?”
Monty’s eyes were briefly in agreement, and properly aligned. They did that, paradoxically, when he was deep in productive thought. This wasn’t often, mind you. It was a rare occurrence, coming round only occasionally, like Halley’s Comet.
“Racing is an unrelenting and insatiable itch that, once scratched, needs scratching again and again. I love every aspect of it, not just the racing, but cold nights rattling around a damp garage making adjustments to the suspension, or even wondering where I’m getting the money from to buy the next tyre. I get to travel all over the country to race at different tracks, and get to meet some real characters along the way. Then, to top it all, I get to spend two weeks camping at the TT, spending time with my friends at the greatest show on Earth. It really doesn’t get much better than that, tr
uth be told, and to give it up is hard. I thought I could, but I just couldn’t. And I didn’t want to get in Dave’s way, so I was going to team up with another rider. But Dave, sorry milksop that he is, well, he just wouldn’t hear of it, bless his heart.”
Jenny’s stepped in a little closer. This was a great story point for the audience, and she wanted to delve into it a bit more. “So, Monty and Dave are going to be reunited at the next TT? Just to be clear?” she asked.
But Monty was afflicted by a case of the sniffles, getting himself a little worked up emotionally over his last statement, so Jenny turned to Dave with a follow-up question:
“Dave, that must have been a big decision, all things considered, to part company with Harry McMullan and another potential place up on the coveted TT podium. Did Harry understand your rationale?”
At this, a look came over Dave’s face like he was constipated and had just sat down on the toilet desperate for relief, yet only managed to produce a small fart. He looked at Monty, and then over to Frank and Stan. “Guys. Have we actually told Harry?”
“I don’t think…” Stan began tentatively.
“… we’ve told him?” Frank finished for Stan. He giggled, and the giggle spread, contagious, throughout the four of them.
“I suppose he’ll know when he sees this interview, won’t he?” Monty said with a laugh, at which point another round of giggles ensued.
“Harry McMullan will have long forgotten about me by now anyway, I expect,” Dave offered. “He’ll drop me and team up with someone else as soon as it suits him, and probably already has. His idiot brother, most likely.”
“Yep. Idiot brother,” repeated Monty, for no particular reason.
The camera panned away from Dave and Monty, now giving Jenny its full attention. She spoke directly to camera and, not wanting things to degenerate into further name-calling, began to wrap up the interview. She couldn’t help but notice Frank and Stan, however, waving furiously in her peripheral vision.
Frank 'n' Stan's Bucket List #3 Isle 'Le Mans' TT: Featuring Guy Martin Page 13