Frank 'n' Stan's Bucket List #3 Isle 'Le Mans' TT: Featuring Guy Martin

by J. C. Williams

As they set off to make their way to the McMullans’ garage, Monty could still be heard seeking due recognition.

  “Dave. Dave, I said, I didn’t buy any…”

  It was a remarkable sight to behold, as it wasn’t often the sun shone in the Isle of Man in November, but the assembled spectators were appreciative, with the majority of the thousand-plus crowd casting aside the normal winter attire, bobble hats now poking out their jacket pockets. As far as race strategy was concerned, it seemed from the absence of sidecars on the starting grid that each of the teams who were employing them in the event were saving their ace-in-the-holes for later in the race. And so twenty-five vans sat idling at their respective starting positions, and with those starting positions chosen in order of their randomly-drawn starting numbers.

  Pit crew, friends, sponsors, and general gawkers wandered at will, taking in the visual spectacle that lay before them. No expense, it would appear, had been spared on the preparation of the vehicles, and the vibrant colours of the bodyworks on display were festive and exhilarating. Those in attendance knew the present event was going to be something both memorable and significant. And this was all the more remarkable given that the theme for the race had originally been proffered, admittedly, as a bit of a gimmick. And yet the array of vans lined up the starting grid today would not have looked out of place at any racing event, anywhere.

  Guy was fresh from assisting anyone who needed mechanical aid, ensuring all entrants were on the starting grid at the ready. His desire to get into the race himself was insatiable, but he’d have to hold out a bit longer as Dave had the honours of piloting the first two-hour leg. And so Guy was there at the van window, getting Dave pumped up.

  Yes, Dave Quick, Sidecar TT Winner and minor celebrity around these parts, sat focussed behind the wheel, helmet on, rattling his gloved fingers on the sports steering wheel. This was a seasoned racer, arguably on the top of his game, ready to show all those assembled that he was ready to add another accolade to his trophy shelf. This was a true professional, the envy of the other drivers, admired by women, adored by small children and farm animals, truly, a shining example of coolness personified…

  “I think I’ve soiled myself, actually,” Dave announced to those in range of hearing. “Honestly, my stomach is in knots. Here, can you smell anything? Seriously, I believe I’ve shat myself. These overalls are so rigid I can’t tell for sure, but I’m fairly certain my legs feel warmer?” He felt around, checking to see if anything was making its way out the bottom of his trouser legs. “Bloody hell, this track looks massive when I’m in the sidecar. But, sitting in a van, and along with all the other vans queued up as well, it looks tiny as hell. Fuck, fuck, fuck, I hope I don’t let you guys down,” he moaned, with Guy and Monty each taking his hand for support, with Monty from inside the van and Guy stood just outside.

  Guy leaned in closer, allowing his mesmeric eyes to augment his encouraging words. “You can do this, Dave. You’ve gone down Bray Hill at one-hundred-and-fifty miles an hour, don’t forget. You’ve done what most of these guys here can only fucking dream about, myself included. Dave, you’ve won a race at the bloody TT, yeah? It doesn’t get any bigger than that. And if you can do that, mate, then you can do this, sure as I’m standing here. Now don’t you worry. This van is running bloody mint, and remember you’ve got a team around you to make this happen as well. We’re all working towards the same goal. So go out there and have fun, and beyond that, drive it like you’ve stolen it!”

  “Yes, but what if I’ve—?” Dave started to say.

  “If you’ve shit yourself, Dave, well, it just shows you care,” Guy told him.

  “That’s… reassuring…?”

  “Engines off for final instructions over the megaphone,” said Monty, pointing to the race official stood on the start line, but Dave was currently wrestling with the Velcro on his new gloves. “Here,” said Monty, reaching over and turning the engine off. “Dave, you can do this. We can do this,” he said, looking at his teammates, but then quickly to Dave only, because Guy’s eyes were starting to have a strange effect on him and he didn’t want to fall into a trance again at such an important point in time. “Dave, it was my life’s ambition to get on a TT podium with you. That may never happen. But winning an Isle Le Mans TT would be a brilliant second best, and something I’d be pleased as punch to accomplish. Now blow the bloody doors off this thing!” he said, slapping the dashboard.

  The orange army who were so pivotal to the very existence of motorsport on the Island had done the organisers proud. Unpaid marshals had volunteered en masse to support the event and, once again, they showed what a spectacular, committed, and selfless group of folks they were. Their vibrant orange tabards could be seen peppered around the track, and this lot were as eager as those racing to see the action start. And speaking of the Orange Army, or at least one member thereof…

  “Clear the grid, please!” yelled the race official, producing a firm burst on his air horn to reinforce the request.

  Monty now stood outside Dave’s window. Dave was holding his hand tightly. He broke his steely focus away from the track ahead, just for a moment, looking through the open window to his ever-present friend. “Monty,” he whispered, before repeating it louder. “Monty… I’m feeling a bit emotional,” he said. “You’re my best friend, Monty. I love you, you know that?”

  “I do,” replied Monty, patting Dave’s hand. “Now get this beauty…” he said, slapping the side of the van… “out there and show them how it’s bloody done. Give them a good thrashing, mate!”

  Monty wiped a rogue tear from his cheek and quickly made his way off the track, before realising something perhaps of some small degree of importance…

  “Oh, bollocks!” he screamed to the nearest steward, just about the same time as Dave started gesticulating wildly from inside the vehicle. “Excuse me!” shouted Monty. “I’ve taken the bloody keys to the van! Can you give them back to Number Three, please? Otherwise, that bugger’s going nowhere fast!”

  With mere seconds to spare, Dave was reunited with his ignition key and the van’s engine burst into glorious, combustive life. Team Frank & Stan watched on with childlike exuberance, wide-eyed and excitable, jumping and waving support, along with the ever-expanding crowd which swelled by the minute. Guy Martin put his arms around his crew, smiling at them each in turn like a proud papa. As rubber screeched on the start line, it never was clear if Dave Quirk, TT Winner, had in fact shat himself on the start line.

  Isle Le Mans TT was a Go, Go, Go…

  Chapter

  Seventeen

  T he cheery melody of a traditional fun fair mixed well with the alluring aroma from hotdogs and candyfloss. Throw in a backdrop of screaming engines, and with a smattering of warm sunshine on offer, you had all the ingredients you required for smiling faces, Manx and non-Manx alike.

  One lone face was not smiling, however — that belonging to Stella, who sat perched on a stack of four car tyres about ten metres away from the track, watching the vans hurtling by with a casual sort of indifference. Frank had been keeping a watchful, fatherly eye on her, thinking she perhaps simply needed a little bit of time by herself for whatever reason. But when he noticed she’d not been smoking for a good half hour or so, he knew something must be terribly wrong, and felt the need to intervene. He approached from the front, in clear line of sight, to avoid startling her. Startling her was never a wise course of action, as that tended to provoke an attack of some kind be it physical or verbal. He waved as he approached, signalling he meant no harm and came in peace.

  “Heya, Stella. Why are you sat on a stack of tyres by yourself? Are you all right?”

  She gave out a protracted sigh. “It’s good for my piles, sitting on tyres, as it spreads out your cheeks,” she said, pointing in the general vicinity of her arse’s enlarged blood vessels. “I’ve got a cushion ring I sit on at home, but I left in a bit of a rush.”

  This was entirely more information than Frank either neede
d or wanted, but he said nothing, allowing her, without complaint, to continue.

  Stella indicated towards the distant figure of Monty, perched as he was over the crash barrier, his attention unwavering, glued to the racing action, and clicking what appeared to be a hand counter every time the team’s van went by. “Right now, I’m trying to figure out why Monty is counting the laps,” she remarked.

  “I think Dave was yanking his chain earlier,” Frank told her. “I overheard him saying to Monty that it was his job to count them manually, explaining that ordinarily it was all done automatically with some sort of computer system and a tracker on the van. A transgender, Dave told him.”

  “A transponder?” asked Stella.

  “Of course,” Frank replied. “I think he just wanted to say, Now you’ll be the transgender today, to poor Monty. Which he did.”

  “Simple minds,” observed Stella.

  “Indeed,” agreed Frank. “Funny thing is, I suspect Monty knows the difference, and not only that but can see right through Dave’s counting ruse as well. He’s not as stupid as he sometimes appears. I think he just does it for a laugh.”

  “Hmm,” Stella replied noncommittally, having no dog in the fight one way or the other.

  “Anyway,” Frank continued, moving in a bit closer. “You look really sad over here on your own, Stella. You know how much we care for you. And I should probably tell you that Lee’s arrived. I think he wants to see you, Stella.”

  Stella kicked her heel sharply into the tyre wall at the sound of Lee’s name. “He can kiss my magnificent, splendiferous ass!” she shouted. “Well, he could if it wasn’t so sore,” she corrected herself. “All joking aside… though my arse really is sore… I have no desire to see that cheating bastard. He can sod off back to sleeping in bins for all I care.”

  “I know you’re upset, Stella,” Frank conceded. “He’s told me as much. And I’m not privy to everything that’s gone on between you two lately… But Lee has asked me to come over because he needs to show you something. It’s very, very important, according to him.”

  Stella didn’t reply, preferring instead to watch the vans as they came around again, even though she wasn’t all that interested in them at present.

  “Stella, I think you should go talk to him,” Frank went on, his tone gentle as he could make it. “You know I’d never do anything to hurt you. You know that, right? You’re like a daughter to me, Stella, so please trust me, okay?” he said, reaching out for her hand.

  “Fucksake, I’ll do it alright? If only to stop you getting all bloody maudlin on me and embarrassing yourself further,” she said. And, with that, she jumped down from her stack of tyres, throwing him an irritated glance. “As long as you shut the hell up, I’ll do it.”

  Frank escorted her away from the racetrack entirely, through the carpark, and over to an adjacent field. The field was empty aside from the trailer of an articulated lorry parked there, about twenty metres in, along with a lone velvet-upholstered chair with gold trim. Frank introduced the chair to Stella with a wave of his hand. “Take a seat,” he instructed.

  “I thought I told you to shut the hell up!” came her response. “Did I or did I not tell you to shut the hell up?” she demanded.

  “Stella, please. If you would?” he said, hand still held out to the chair, and maintaining as mild a demeanour as he could muster given that he was being shouted at.

  “What is this rubbish?” Stella barked. “I don’t like surprises! What is this rubbish? It’s rubbish!”

  “Just take a fuckin seat!” yelled Frank, but not in an unkind manner despite his language.

  Stella finally took a seat, though not liking it one bit. “I need my cushion!” she said, even though the padded chair was actually quite comfortable. She looked on with suspicion, and with those suspicions roused only further by the arrival of Molly, Jessie, Stan, and several other nosey buggers come along intrigued to see what the hell might possibly be going on here, especially as a pair of costumed performers appeared from either side of the trailer, dressed up as lions like in a pantomime show.

  Before Stella had opportunity to leave, or to question why she was sat on a regal-looking chair in the middle of a goddamn field, the seductive dulcet tones of Hugh Jackman warbled from speakers set up on the steps of a temporary staircase leading up to the base of the trailer at its middle. The warble of Hugh’s voice increased in intensity at the same time as a gaily-dressed acrobat, appearing from parts unknown, performed three back-flips up the steps, landing in position to pull down on a green cord, with the resulting action releasing a tarpaulin acting as a false wall and with the contents of the trailer finally revealed.

  Painted onto a large decorative sign in prominent lettering, and suspended from the roof of the trailer against the back wall by two gold chains, were the words:

  Right on cue, a spotlight shone onto a solitary figure in the centre of the makeshift stage. The figure turned and looked to the light, and with a flick of the arm held out a black cane with polished chrome head that flashed against the illumination. The cane was then thrust down to tap-tap-tap the floor, replicating the beat of the music. This also served to signal additional performers, apparently, as more of them appeared from behind the trailer.

  Stella looked up to Frank, who now stood with his hand resting on her shoulder. “Fucking hell, is that Lee?” she asked. “That looks an awful lot like Lee. Is that Lee?” To which she received only a wide grin from Frank in return.

  Lee was utterly immaculate, dressed in an opulent waistcoated ensemble of red velvet that matched the chair on which Stella’s sore bum was currently sat, replete with ornate gold detail. With a tap of the cane once more, one of the acrobats tossed a top hat to Lee, which he snatched up mid-air quite handily and placed on his head, completing his outfit.

  The volume of the music attracted additional spectators, who marvelled as more acrobats, a strongman, two men on stilts, and a wee little person recreated the opening credits scene from the film of the aforementioned name — The Greatest Showman, with Hugh Jackman starring, hence his recorded voice warbling over the speakers — with aplomb. Lee theatrically marched down the wooden stairs, attracting his co-stars like bees to a nectar-heavy flower in the process. Those stood behind Stella, though no wiser than Stella as to what the hell was precisely going on, nevertheless embraced the unfolding presentation, clapping and waving their hands as if they were also part of the performance. Stella, her earlier displeasure notwithstanding, found her foot to be also indulging itself, tapping itself along to the beat despite her now admittedly mild protests.

  As the song built up a crescendo, on towards its finish, the entire cast formed a semi-circle in front of Stella as they all together belted out the lyrics the film’s theme tune — not lip-syncing, actually singing — and with the actors in their lion costumes no longer stationary but now frolicking in front.

  Stella was breathless as both the music and motion came to an abrupt halt, with the performers seemingly hit with a pause button as not one of them moved a single inch.

  After several long, agonising seconds of no movement at all, Lee twirled his cane like a baton, in a fashion that would have made a seven-year-old majorette green with envy, and took two steps forward, adopting a final position resting on one knee, in front of Stella. He raised his eyes up to her, slowly, using every opportunity to draw out the tension. His left hand rested on the head of his cane, and his right hand was employed removing his top hat which was then held against his chest.

  Lee didn’t speak. At least not yet. Instead, like an auctioneer smashing down his gavel, he gave one final burst on his cane, thumping it on the ground, summonsing an acrobat to arrive in a mass of synchronised flailing limbs and coming to a controlled halt, mere inches from Lee.

  Lee didn’t look at the acrobat. Rather, he kept his eyes locked on Stella, though he lifted the end of the cane in a well-rehearsed motion to the acrobat. Then acrobat, in return, placed something onto the protruding,
polished metal tip — a small shiny object — after which Lee retracted the cane, end carefully held up, to his side once again.

  Not breaking eye contact with Stella, Lee now presented the pointed end of the cane to Stella. Stella looked up to Frank with her jaw agape, as she attended to the cane, taking in her hand and removing from it a platinum ring. Before she had chance to say a word, however, Lee swopped knees, turning his attention to a beaming Frank and Stan.

  “With your permission, Frank and Stan?” asked Lee.

  “Absolutely one hundred…” replied Stan. But his voice was breaking, and so overcome with emotion was he that he was unable to continue.

  “One hundred percent,” Frank finished for him. “Do carry on, Lee,” he said, and just in time as well because he was getting a fair bit choked up himself.

  Lee placed the top hat back on his head, cleared his throat, and took Stella’s hand in his. “Stella, would you care to…” he began, but Stan and Frank were not the only ones having trouble speaking. He cleared his throat once again before continuing… “Stella,” he offered most humbly… “That is, if you could see your way clear, would you do me the enormous pleasure of becoming my wife?”

  Stella pulled her hand away, raising both her hands, now, across her breast and placing them, each one, on top of Frank and Stan’s own hands which were sat, one apiece, on her shoulders. “I think I’d like that very much,” she told Lee, tears openly rolling down her face, flooding her cheeks like the River Mersey. “That would make me very happy. And I don’t generally do happy, mind, but… yeah. Yeah, I think that’d make me very happy,” she confirmed.

  The cast, now free of their statuesque poses, all cheered, raising their arms into the air in delight, and they were joined, additionally, by the congregated observers who offered hearty applause as well.

  Only the lion-costumed performers did not join in, since they had wandered off and were presently capering and cavorting about somewhat farther afield. In fact it appeared as if one of them was, in fact, currently engaged in the process of mounting the other.