by J C Williams
“I know!” Frank chimed in happily, the subject having been successfully changed. “The thought of having our sidecar team at the TT races has been keeping me going all year! I just hope that after their crash, they’re ready for this, both mentally and physically.”
“They’ll be fine,” Stan assured him. “From what Dave’s been saying, they’re as excited as we are. He said that they’ve been working on a punishing fitness regime all winter to make sure they’re ready, no less. We’re really going to put Team Frank and Stan on the map this year, just you wait and see!”
Chapter Four
A gentle breeze carried the salty spray from the Irish Sea that lapped gently against the sea wall. Douglas Promenade was, well, a large promenade that stretched beyond two miles – from the ferry terminal at one end, over to the electric railway station off at the other end. For a small child on their new bike, the prospect of clear tarmac ahead was the stuff of dreams. (Yet a formidable challenge, as to cycle to the other side, you had to then cycle all the way back!) A diminutive girl of seven, maybe eight, had a determined expression on her face. Head buried into the handlebars, pigtails poking from under her helmet – and arse pointed skyward – her legs were going like the clappers, and she wasn’t stopping for anybody.
“Move it, fatso!” she shouted, with a timely application of the bell for good measure. She raised her head, only breaking her stare when it was no longer safe to hold it.
“Are you going to let her talk to you like that, Monty?” said Dave with a hearty chuckle.
“What?” asked Monty, distracted by the effort in his lunge. For a man of his current capacious girth, the angle he was precariously balanced was impressive – front knee bent, and with his trailing leg stretched out behind.
“I can’t hold it, Dave. Dave, I’m struggling here,” Monty pleaded. His knee was shaking like a shitting dog and he reached out for support – to which there was none on offer – from Dave, who stood, arms folded, observing his soon-to-be-fallen comrade with an amused grin.
With a pathetic whimper, Monty succumbed to the inevitabilities of gravity and collapsed unceremoniously in what could be best described as a heap, where he proceeded to flail his limbs – like a turtle on its back – in an effort to right himself.
A group of elderly joggers slowed to give Monty a wide berth, eyeing him with a mixture of alarm and dismay. “Should we–?” one asked, tentatively. “Best not to get involved,” another of the group counselled. And the pensioners renewed their pace from very slow back to their usual slow.
With no assistance forthcoming, Monty rolled over onto his rotund stomach, and, using every last ounce of strength still in his possession, pushed himself with great effort back into a vertical position. “Bloody hell, Dave. You could have at least helped me up!”
“I could have,” Dave agreed cheerily. “But where would the fun be in that?”
“Oh, I see how it is, then,” chided Monty, with a half-smile.
“Where did you get those shorts from?” inquired Dave.
“Why? What about my shorts? What’s wrong with them?” asked Monty, dusting himself down.
“They’re tight, Monty. Very tight. They’re in danger of cutting off your circulation,” Dave answered.
“Nothing wrong with these, Dave,” replied Monty, pinging the elastic waistband. “I am, perhaps, carrying a little holiday weight, is all. Otherwise, fit as a fiddle!”
“More like a cello,” Dave observed. “No, wait. What’s the biggest one? Upright bass. More like an upright bass.”
“Dave, you missed your calling,” Monty sniffed with exaggerated umbrage. “You should’ve been a–”
“You two must be Dave and Monty?” said an enthusiastic voice moving at pace toward them. Monty puffed out his chest and commenced a series of star jumps in an effort to disguise how knackered he actually was.
“I’m Sam,” said the slim, athletic owner of the voice. He reached out his hand and flashed a perfect, white smile. Dave accepted the handshake and struggled to keep his eye off Sam’s arms, which were sculptured like those of a Greek god – a look highlighted all the more by the lack of fabric in his vest top.
In that moment, Dave and Monty had never felt as emasculated as they did right then.
“I saw you when I parked the car up, Monty,” related Sam. “Impressive angle on the lunges,” he continued.
“Lunge,” Dave corrected.
“Pardon me?” asked Sam.
“Lunge,” explained Dave. “Singular, rather than plural. There was only ever the one.”
Monty slapped Dave and scowled like he’d just been shown up in front of his new girlfriend.
“Well,” offered Sam, full of encouragement. “One is better than none. We all need to start somewhere!” he said, in a kind of sing-song fashion.
Monty sneered back at Dave, with a that’ll-tell-you expression.
“So,” said Sam, looking Dave and Monty up and down, though not in an overly-critical fashion – rather, like an artist eyeing up two slabs of clay. “Just so I’m clear, you two didn’t hire me directly, is that right? Your friends Frank and Stan did, correct?”
Dave agreed with the enthusiasm of a child told to clean his room. “Yeah, you’ve got it right, alright,” said Dave, looking down to the ground.
“Well, that’s a different sort of arrangement,” chirped Sam. “Still, we’ll have fun working together!”
This Sam was perhaps a little too eager and cheerful for Dave’s comfort. He found himself exhausted already, just from Sam’s excessively lively demeanour.
Sam continued: “Do you mind if I ask why Frank and Stan are–?”
“We’re professional sportsmen,” said Monty proudly, shoulders flexing (and bones cracking in protest). “You’ve been hired to fine-tune us.”
Sam laughed, waiting for the punchline. But Monty appeared deadly serious. It was difficult for Sam to get the measure of Monty, what with Monty’s crossed eyes and everything. Sam’s gaze darted back and forth, unsure which of Monty’s eyes he should focus on, all time he was conscious about offending his new clients.
“Ah. You’re sportsmen,” declared Sam, trying to make it sound like a statement rather than a sincere question. “What, eh, sport, are you guys involved with? Bowls or darts, or – oh, I bet it’s darts,” said Sam, chucking an imaginary arrow for further impact. Sam busied himself, while he waited for an answer, taking a tube of something from his compact backpack and rubbing it into the back of his legs in a practised, automatic fashion, without thought – like someone else might absently scratch an itch.
“Why would we need to be fine-tuned to play darts?” asked Dave, with a deadpan expression. “Darts is not exactly an energetic sport where you’re required to be at the peak of physical prowess. Is that what you’re saying, Sam? Are you saying Monty and I are not what you’d call athletes?”
Sam’s cheeks flushed. “I… em… didn’t mean…”
“I’m pulling your chain, Sam,” said Dave, allowing Sam time to remove the shovel from the hole he’d been digging himself.
“Ah,” Sam replied, looking slightly relieved.
“Of course we’re not athletes, that should be obvious,” Dave continued. “Here, look at this,” he said, jumping on the spot. “Look at my boobs! I should be wearing a bra with these bad boys, yeah? Whaddaya reckon?” he said, laughing. And, then, “Hey, what’s that cream you’re rubbing in there?”
“Cream?” Sam asked, suddenly becoming aware of the tube in his hand. “Ah. It’s Deep Heat. I’ve had a twinge in my hamstrings. It’s great for warming the legs up. Want to try some?”
“I’m good, but thanks,” Dave answered him. “That quick bit of exercise I just had will warm my legs up soon enough, I expect.”
Monty didn’t break his gaze at Dave’s ample bosom, which was still wobbling, hypnotically, not yet come to rest. “Dave,” said Monty, entranced, eyes unwavering. “I think I’m getting a little aroused over here, and don’t forget I’ve got
tight shorts on.”
Dave briefly provided a further moment of titillation (as it were) but sensing Sam was on the verge of running, he quickly brought things back to order.
“We’re sidecar racers, Sam,” he explained. “I drive, and this chunky monkey is my passenger. The problem with two full-figured gentlemen such as ourselves in a sidecar, as you can imagine, is that the extra weight means loss of speed. We want to go quicker – as do our sponsors – which is why you’ve been hired. To help us lose weight.”
“Lose weight,” repeated Monty for no discernible reason.
Sam had a flicker of recollection. “Ah! You’re the two fellows who crashed last TT, but saved the other outfit from–”
“That’s us!” Monty interjected. “If it wasn’t for us slowing the other outfit down, they’d be…” he said, trailing off and pointing skywards to the heavens.
“We weren’t exactly what you’d call svelte, even then,” admitted Dave. “But the recovery from the crash has taken its time. And without too much physical activity, of course, the pounds have just piled on.”
“And curry,” offered Monty.
“Yes,” agreed Dave. “Curry probably hasn’t helped matters.”
“And beer,” continued Monty. “Loads of beer. Loads and loads of beer.” He patted his belly contentedly, which, in turn, produced a rather handsome belch.
Sam raised a motivational finger. “Okay, well, no problem! You’re motivated, so–”
“We’re really not, actually,” said Dave. “Motivated, that is.”
“Motivated,” repeated Monty, again, for no particular reason.
Sam managed half a smile, unsure exactly what he was dealing with, unable to ascertain if this were, perhaps, some sort of wind-up and he was actually on one of those hidden-camera types of TV shows, for instance.
With no camera crew presenting themselves for the big reveal, assuring him it was all for a laugh and thanking him for being such a good sport, he continued on. “Anyway, we’re just going to start off with a gentle jog. Nothing too strenuous, just get the blood flowing.”
“What, right now?” Dave asked, horrified.
“Okay!” Sam said encouragingly, ignoring Dave’s protest and taking the lead and heading up the length of Douglas Promenade. “Let’s do this! You lads will be fine-tuned athletes ready to tackle the TT course before you know it!”
Precisely Twenty-three seconds later:
“Something’s snapped!” screamed Monty, clutching his hip. “I’ve overdone it. Man down!” he wailed, falling abruptly to his knees. “Man down!”
He placed the palm of one hand on the concrete surface, with the other clutching at his leg. “It’s gone,” he insisted, rolling onto his back, knees in the air, like a dog wanting its tummy tickled.
Sam ran to Monty with genuine, professional concern etched on his chiselled face. “What’s wrong?” he enquired, looking Monty over thoroughly for signs of broken bones. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m trained for this.”
“My leg,” replied Monty. “Somewhere in the hip region. I heard it snap! Bloody hell, it’s my old war wound acting up, I just know it!”
“Goodness, you were in the war?” Sam exclaimed, full of sympathy and newfound respect for the disabled man before him.
“A large scuffle at the local pub, some years back,” Dave explained.
“I still have post-dramatic stress syndrome!” Monty cried.
“Give him some of that Deep Heat,” remarked Dave, who was busying himself eating a pork pie.
Sam looked at the pie, unsure from what recess Dave had retrieved it. “No, the Deep Heat is for muscle pain,” he cautioned. “If he’s pulled something, we need to–”
“Give it here!” screamed Monty, his face wracked with agony. “I need it baaaad!”
It wasn’t worth the battle for Sam, so he immediately handed the tube of muscle relief down to Monty.
Monty was breathing like a woman in labour. “No, not that,” he said through gritted teeth. “The pie.” He pointed over to Dave. “That greedy bastard’s eating my pork pie!”
Dave took a step back, raised the meaty treat to his lips and seductively extended his tongue, leaving a trail of saliva all over the surface. “Still want it?” he taunted.
“Yeeesss,” Monty pleaded, extending his free arm skyward like the final last-gasp gesture of a dying man.
Dave, unmoved where food was concerned, dispatched the pie effortlessly, in one go, like a gannet swallowing a fish.
Monty closed his good eye; he’d seen enough. “Bastard,” he whimpered. “Bastard,” he said again in a hoarse whisper. “Goodbye, my dear friend,” he moaned in despair. It was unclear, at this last lamentation, if he was referring to Dave or the pork pie.
“You two gormless idiots are on your own,” proclaimed Sam, staring with disgust, his professionalism effectively dashed to bits. “I’m sending the cash back to Frank, or whatever his name was. Fucksake, who’d even bring a pork pie with them on a training run? I mean, why?”
“Two,” offered Dave by way of correction, wiping a crumb from his second chin. “I ate the other while we were waiting.”
Sam turned on his heels and was on the point of setting about returning to his car. Some things were more important than money. His sanity was one of those things.
Dave placed his arm across Sam’s shoulder before Sam could escape.
“Sorry, Sam. Look, we need you, we really do. Well, we need to get in shape. And, as you can see, without your help, that’s unlikely to happen, ever.”
“You’ll get no argument from me there,” replied Sam, still surreptitiously looking Dave up and down in an attempt to work out where the previously hidden food had originated.
“Don’t go,” said Monty from the concrete floor. “My leg seems to be easing up now,” he offered. “And this cream seems to be hitting the spot,” he added, his hand stuffed down his unbuttoned shorts, where he was presently applying the cream quite liberally to all areas therein, various and sundry.
Sam’s face contorted in abject consternation as Monty tried to return the tube to him. “That’s fine. Keep it,” Sam told him, without thinking twice. “But please tell me you’ve not rubbed that on your… you know–?” Sam asked. “Because, honestly, you’re not meant to–”
“Everywhere,” replied Monty with a satisfied waggle of his eyebrows. “I can feel the soothing heat, just like you said. It’s quite nice.”
“Dear god,” Sam said, shaking his head in dismay; he knew what was coming.
“I’m just sorry I never tried this stuff sooner,” Monty remarked happily.
“Monty,” asked Sam. “Did you say you felt something snap? Or heard something snap?”
“Heard,” replied Monty. “But this cream is really doing the trick. I can hardly feel a thing now.”
“Oh, you’ll be feeling something very soon, I’m afraid, I can assure you. Anyway,” Sam told him. “I’m fairly certain it was your shorts you heard,” he said, pointing.
Monty craned his neck. “What about them?” he asked.
“You didn’t pull anything. You’ve ripped your shorts,” Sam proclaimed.
Dave chuckled. “I told you they were too tight, Monty, me lad.”
Monty’s relieved expression was souring, rather abruptly, and he seemed less concerned about the torn fabric between his buttocks than...
“This, eh, cream, Sam. It’s, actually, erm… it’s pretty hot.”
“Deep Heat,” Sam stated. “Clue’s in the name,” he suggested, his patience levels waning.
Monty shuffled on the spot like he was desperate for the loo. “Something’s not right,” he said, a look of sheer panic contorting his jowly face. “I’m being serious,” he went on. “Something’s really not right. My testicles feel like they’ve been dipped in acid. Help me!” he pleaded. “It burns!”
Sam shrugged his shoulders. “There’s not an awful lot I can do,” he said. “That stuff,” he continued, in
reference to the tube. “Is meant for muscle pain. It is in no way meant to be applied anywhere near or on to your gentlemen’s area.”
“I know that now!” screamed Monty. “You could have imparted those pearls of wisdom on me two minutes ago!”
“Well, most people wouldn’t have even thought to, much less...” Sam began, but then gave up, there being little point in trying to reason with one such as Monty.
“Ow-ow-ow!” yelped Monty, with his vocalisations accompanied by an impressive-looking piss-jig. He cupped his groin over his shorts and used the fabric in an attempt to massage the pain away underneath. “This must be what it feels like to be bitten by a snake!” screeched Monty, causing concern to those passing by. “A really big snake! A really big, poisonous sake!” And, then, “I need water,” he appealed, looking at the water bottle in Dave’s hand.
Sam was now glad he stayed. “Water will make it… You know what? Never mind, crack on,” he said.
“Please,” said Monty, reaching out for Dave’s bottle.
Dave moved his arm back and flipped the lid open. “What, this?” asked Dave.
“Give me the bottle, please. The burning is spreading down my tackle.”
Dave grinned. “It won’t have far to travel, then,” he said, before placing the bottle to his lips and draining the remaining contents, washing the remnants of the pie down. “Oh, but there’s none left,” he said, with the faintest glimmer of what, from a distance, might possibly have appeared something similar to an apology. “Sorry, old son.”
For a man who didn’t often run, the speed at which Monty travelled to the ornate Victorian fountain on the promenade was impressive. He struggled through the pain to remove his shorts, and, most unfortunately, the decorative aqua-flowing apparatus was playing a role that its designer could not possibly have envisaged.
Monty placed his considerable arse cheeks on the cold surface, lapping the cooling water onto his inflamed skin. The pain initially intensified as the water reacted with the cream, but soon the look of sweet relief on Monty’s face gave a clear indication that the burning was starting to subside.