“A bloody kidney stone!” she said, with a coarse cackle. “That scrawny little get did his best dying swan impression over a smegging kidney stone! Wait till I take the piss out of him over this! What a complete and utter wet lettuce!” To which no one could disagree. “Right, I’m going for a fag,” she announced.
Dave looked at his watch. “It’s not often I say this, but I’m with Stella this time. Come on, Monty, we need to get back to the race. To think Rodney Franks nearly won his bet over a soddin’ kidney stone.”
“Now I’m in the mood for steak-and-kidney pie,” Monty mused aloud, as they both made their way out.
Up in the distance, a succession of van headlights flickered into view and then were gone again, like searchlights during the Blitz.
“Get your foot down, Monty! We’re almost there!” commanded Dave. “Assuming Guy’s still going, the poor bugger is going to be knackered! Why are we slowing down?”
Monty flicked on the car headlights to full beam. “I’m good, Dave, but I can’t drive a car through a locked gate now, can I?” he told his anxious partner. “Why the hell are the gates all locked up?”
“Shiiiiit, I forgot!” replied Dave. “It was to do with the bloody insurance! The main gates had to be locked after the Fun Day ended, probably to stop people driving onto the ruddy race course by mistake. We’ll need to leave the car for now and scale the fence, Monty,” he told his mate.
“Do we now?” replied Monty, laughing at the absurdity of Dave’s idea. “Seriously? You think we’re going to be able to scale that, Dave, the two of us? It’s got to be, what…” he said, arching his neck… “Twenty feet high? At least? The only way we’d get over that is if we’d been shot from a catapult.”
“But…” Dave began, but he knew Monty was right. Still, it seemed the only way, and he was determined.
“Wait, over there, Dave,” Monty told him. “I think I can see someone. Just there. Am I imagining things, or is there…?”
A faint light twirled against the pitch-black backdrop, like a sparkler on Guy Fawkes Night. It moved ever closer, slowly, with the light very gradually becoming increasingly brighter as it danced along. Eventually, a whistling man, slight of build, was revealed, twirling his torch like a baton as he meandered around the perimeter of the carpark. Finally, he came to a stop in front of their car, peering through a gap on the other side of the fence like an inquisitive horse.
“Guys! You can’t park there, guys!” he called over, as Monty wound his driver-side window down.
“Let us in!” shouted Monty. “We’ve got to get in!”
“No, no!” replied the suspiciously slim man, pointing his torch at the car. “You can’t park there, guys!”
“I’m not trying to park here, I’m trying to get in! We need to get in!” Monty protested.
“We don’t have time for this,” said Dave. “Crap, we don’t have time for this, seriously.”
“Hang on, Dave. Look closer. Is that not our friend Adrian?” said Monty. “Wait, is Adrian our friend?” he asked. “I can never actually remember.”
“Adrian?” replied Dave. “That bloody jobsworth we nearly ended up fighting with at the TT? Fucking hell, I think you’re right. That boy doesn’t half get around, does he? But after our two previous encounters, I don’t fancy our chances of getting through, now, with him remaining conscious.”
And with that, Dave began reaching around, feeling about for anything that might be used as a form of blunt instrument.
“You can’t hit him, Dave,” Monty reminded his overzealous comrade-in-arms. “He’s only doing his job, doing what he’s been paid to do. Plus he’s only a kid.”
“Best not to take any chances?” Dave offered, but Monty opted for words over physical violence…
“It’s Adrian, isn’t it? Remember us? Dave and Monty? We’re all friends, aren’t we?”
Adrian eyed them suspiciously through the darkness. “I’m not so certain,” he said. I seem to recall—”
“It looks like you’ve been working out, Adrian? You look well fit?” Dave offered, stepping out of the car.
“Right, stay back, you!” returned Adrian, waving his torch in an advisory fashion. “And there’s no point in trying flattery, sir, as it will have no effect on me, I can assure you. I can’t let you in, and that’s that. Rules-is-rules.”
Dave reached into his back pocket for his wallet, walking up to the fence as he did so.
“Here, no sudden moves!” Adrian shouted. “That’s far enough!”
“No, look,” Dave explained, counting out notes. “Take this,” he told Adrian. “There’s seventy pounds I’ve got here. Seventy pounds, right?”
Adrian stepped up to the fence, allowing Dave to stuff the money into his jacket pocket through the barrier.
“It’s our way of making up for the confusion and potential upset from our previous encounters,” Dave went on. “Yeah? There you go. It’s all yours. Keep it. It’s all yours,” he said, slapping Adrian on the chest through the gap in the fence, like sealing an envelope.
“Keep your hands to yourself, sir!” Adrian warned him.
Worried this could all go tits-up very quickly, and that he’d have just wasted seventy pounds, Dave did his best to calm the boy. “No offence meant!” he assured him. “We’re all friends here. All friends. Yeah?”
Adrian saluted with his torch. “Very good, sir. Now you best be on your way,” he told them. “I’ve got to return to my patrolling,” he said, and he turned as if to commence doing just that.
“What about my seventy pounds!” Dave protested.
“You mean my seventy pounds?” Adrian corrected him, patting his now well-padded pocket.
“Look, we need to get in there as we’re part of the race,” Monty pleaded, attempting to be the voice of reason. “So be a good lad and open up the gates for us? Please? Please, Adrian. I know you mean well.”
“I’m just doing my job,” Adrian answered him, softening up a bit from Monty’s gentle, kindly tone.
“I know you are,” replied Monty.
“It’s not an easy job. Not just anyone can do it,” Adrian told him.
“No it’s not. And no they can’t, can they?” Monty said. His approach seemed to be gaining traction. “Now about this gate…?”
“The thing of it is, sir,” Adrian admitted. “Is that I couldn’t open this gate even if I wanted to. I don’t have the keys for it. It’s not within my jurisdiction, I’m afraid.”
Monty’s shoulders sagged. This appeared to be the end of the road. Until Adrian provided another option…
“Really, all you’ve got to do is just go through the smaller gate further up, the one for foot traffic. It’s just there,” he said, pointing.
“The… smaller gate?” Monty said.
“Right. For foot traffic,” Adrian explained. “It’s only cars that aren’t allowed. People on foot can still go straight through.”
“Why didn’t you say so before??” an angry Dave interjected.
“You didn’t ask nicely?” Adrian offered.
“What about the seventy pounds I gave you? That’s not asking nicely??” a perturbed Dave asked.
“I didn’t like your tone,” Adrian elucidated. “But thanks for the seventy pounds,” he said, patting his pocket again.
Before Dave could explode in anger, Monty came through, defusing the situation. “Right. Seventy pounds to keep an eye on the car, Adrian? How does that sound?”
“Sure,” answered Adrian agreeably. “I still have to make my rounds. But I’ll check on it each time I come by.”
“Done,” agreed Monty.
“Seventy pounds,” grumbled Dave between heavy breaths as he and Monty sprinted across the carpark. “Seventy bloody pounds.”
“It was well worth it, Dave!” said Monty, huffing and puffing. “We’re almost there!”
With the pair of them desperately gasping for air, the racing circuit finally came into view. “There’s not many vans left
on the track,” Dave observed, panting. “I don’t think I can see our van out there. Monty? Can you see her…?”
“I can’t,” Monty came back. “At least not at the moment…?”
The two of them walked through the pit area, towards their garage, where the crew stood outside with mugs of tea in hand. Never had Monty and Dave wanted so much to see a garage empty. But, as they moved closer, they could see the outline of a van parked up within.
Dave fell to his knees, punching the tarmac, howling at the moon like a demonic werewolf. “Bastard!” he screamed, all-the-while continuing his assault on the track. Monty joined him, for he didn’t like to see his friend suffer alone, but rather than scream in anger, he placed his head on the ground in abject disappointment. The dream was over.
After much screaming and general disruption, a mechanic by the name of Mike wandered over, standing above Dave and Monty, who were both maintaining a praying-to-Mecca position on the cold surface at present.
“How’s your friend Stan getting on?” asked Mike. “Did he turn out all right?” enquired the mechanic, casually nibbling on a wholemeal biscuit.
Dave looked up at Mike the Mechanic, tears filling his eyes, prompting Mike to reach into his sleeve of biscuits and hand Dave a digestive.
A digestive is not what Dave was looking for, but he accepted it anyway. Hell, a biscuit’s a biscuit, he thought. “Stan’s absolutely fine, as it turns out,” replied Dave to Mike. “But I can’t promise he will be when I get my hands on him, sending us on a wild goose chase like that.”
“At least we got some exercise, there at the end,” said Monty, trying to look on the bright side of things.
“Yes, there was that,” Dave had to admit.
“Of course it’s made me famished, that exercise,” Monty remarked, eying the sleeve of digestives in Mike’s hand and hoping for a biscuit himself. “Absolutely ravenous?”
“Where’s Guy… Is he injured?” Dave asked.
“Where’s Guy? How do you mean?” Mike answered him, unsure if Dave had received a bump on the head. “He’s out on track. Where else would he be?”
Dave jumped to his feet, grabbing the mechanic by the coveralls and pulling him close. “He’s still going? What about the van??”
“Here. Mind my biscuits there,” Mike objected, easing away from Dave’s grip. “Guy’s flying, and the van’s holding it together.”
“Ah-ha!” Monty shouted, returning to his feet and pointing towards the garage. When Mike the Mechanic looked to the garage to see what Monty was pointing at, Monty stole several biscuits from Mike’s digestives sleeve. He was, after all, no fool.
“What? That van?” asked Mike. “Yeah, that’s the parts van. Whadja think it was?” He looked back to Monty, but Monty suddenly wasn’t speaking anymore, his mouth stuffed with biscuits as it was. Mike reached for another biscuit for himself and found his cache surprisingly lighter. He looked to the ground, thinking he must have dropped some.
“Mike! Details!” Dave urged him.
“Hmm? Oh,” said Mike. “Well Guy’s due back in about twenty minutes, so whoever’s next up should think about getting ready, I expect?”
“And??” Dave pressed.
“Oh,” said Mike again, remembering Monty and Dave had missed a good deal of the action. “Right, okay, so we’re still within sniffing distance.”
“That cannot be right. Can it?” asked Dave, wide-eyed.
“It’s right alright,” Mike assured him.
Dave turned to Monty. “Monty, my old son, you’re up next, if I recall,” Dave told him. “And assuming Mike’s not having us on, there is no reason we cannot do this!”
Dave raised his eyes to the sky, offering a brief silent prayer. When he returned his eyes earthward, he loudly exclaimed, “Guy Martin, you absolute freakin’ legend!”
At which point he and Monty joined hands and danced around in circles, like a game of Ring a Ring o’ Rosy.
Chapter
Twenty-One
… You’re listening to Manx Radio here on the Isle of Man and this is Chris Kinley who is, miraculously, still awake. I’ve managed to sneak in a few minutes of sleep, but I must admit, I’m starting to feel a little punch-drunk. I felt a little radio silence might be in order, as I think most of our local audience are asleep, but we’ve had a fantastic reaction from our friends further afield who’ve been listening in to our updates from the inaugural Isle Le Mans TT and so I’m carrying on…
As I walk around the pit area, it really is a party atmosphere exhibited, I can’t help but notice. The guys are here to race, obviously, but it’s a friendly, congenial sort of sensibility predominant here at the Isle Le Mans TT that you’re not often witness to at a similar racing event…
I can see campfires burning away on the nearby fields, where family and friends of the competitors have set up camp for the evening, some of whom look like they’ve perhaps indulged in the beer tent longer than they should have, judging by the chap I can see staggering to a tent! I will confess to indulging in a few hotdogs and a couple of cold beers that were on offer myself. If you didn’t manage to get down to the event this year, and there’s a repeat of it next year, trust me, you’ll want to make it here. It’s truly been one of the best days I can remember!
… If I can focus my eyes on my watch… Yes, I see it’s coming up to about six a.m. on the Isle of Man, and if my sleep-deprived brain can do the maths, we’ve been going for twenty-one hours. As anticipated, the demands on the drivers and vehicles has been intense, so much so that we’re down to only eleven outfits left in the race. If you bear with me… excuse me, step aside, thank you, coming through…
Yes, here we go, I’m stood in front of the live timing board. I’ve got to hand it to the BBC’s crew, they’ve really put the hammer down and are miles ahead of the rest. In second place, and I’m seriously impressed with this, is Peter Hickman’s team. We know these guys are quick on two wheels, but they’ve surpassed themselves and currently sit, as I said, in second. Third place is Thomas and Napier, who you will recall are one of the teams that’ve opted to enter a sidecar, which they can use for a maximum of two hours, and, interestingly, have not yet taken it out. The only other team yet to use their sidecar is Guy Martin’s team, so I suspect they’ve each got one eye on the other in that regard. I’ve heard a little whisper on the grapevine that there’s no love lost between the two teams…
Guy Martin’s team are just outside of the top five at the moment, but we should remember they had mechanical problems earlier so fair play for coming back into this. In fact, as I speak, I’ve just clapped eyes on the very team, or two of the three at least, Dave Quirk and Shaun ‘Monty’ Montgomery…
Now then, boys. Having fun?
DQ:What’s not to love, Chris? Racing and hotdogs, it’s the perfect combination!
SM:Hotdogs.
CK:I understand you both had to make an emergency drive to the hospital, but Guy didn’t let you down while you were gone, did he? He was flying!
DQ:You know, Chris. You read about people, particularly those considered famous, which Guy is, but I can honestly say he’s the most down-to-earth, hardworking chaps we’ve ever met. You know we’re doing all this to raise funds for the TT Farm, and Guy can’t do enough to help. In fact he’s already threatened to come back over to tune the farm machinery for us! Which we actually wouldn’t mind at all. Overall, everyone here has been brilliant. Well, except for one lone idiot. But now’s not the time for that, Chris, and I’ll refrain from commenting any further on that.
CK:You’ve both driven through the early hours, so I imagine you’re running on pure adrenalin at this point in the game?
SM:Not really, Chris, but we’re so pumped up that it’s keeping us going!
CK:That’s what I just… Nevermind. Guy’s on his final stint at present, and then you’re right back in this, and dare I say, you may make it onto the podium yet.
DQ:Where’s Napier and Thomas, if you don’t mind me asking?
CK:They’re sat in third at the moment, but, like you, they’re due out on the sidecar for the final two hours.
DQ:How many laps are we behind Napier and Thomas?
CK:About nine at the moment, and for the benefit of those at home, it’s not about who crosses the finish line first when that horn sounds after twenty-four hours. It’s about which team is quickest overall and has managed to complete the most laps. So slow and steady may be a tactic that doesn’t guarantee victory. Presently, the BBC’s outfit have extended their lead, with Peter Hickman’s team hot on their heels. So, Dave and Monty. Guy’s out for a little under an hour still, and then it’s over to you for the final two hours, where you’ll be finishing up in the sidecar. Excited?
DQ:I can’t wait, Chris, and hopefully the sun will be coming up and it’ll be getting a bit lighter as we get to the closing stages. In fact, on that subject, Chris, I need to go and make myself a little bit lighter ahead of our next session. All those hotdogs, if you know what I mean.
CK:Thanks for the imagery, Dave. We’ll be with all the teams right up until the end, so, with that, I’ll hand back to the studio.
M onty, I’m a bit anxious about the set-up of this bike, if I’m being honest,” said Dave. “I know Henk’s mechanics are the best in the business, but not being hands-on myself from the outset on this rig is doing my head in. It was good to see the McMullan brothers on ours, earlier. But we’d have taken her around quicker than they did, I know we would have. As for this one, Monty, you’ll have to push it tighter, yeah? I can see light coming in.”
Monty brought together the fairing, as instructed. “That’s all we’ve got, Dave. Any more and it’ll crack under the pressure.”
“Looks good, mate. How are we doing for time, by the way?”
“We’ve got about thirty minutes before Guy’s due back in.”
“Great, because fine-tuning this machine is turning out to be a bigger job than I first imagined. Still, by giving it some proper attention now, it can only help us when we’re out on track, am I right?”
Frank 'n' Stan's Bucket List #3 Isle 'Le Mans' TT: Featuring Guy Martin Page 30