by J C Williams
“Top ten!” replied Monty. “This machine is capable of getting us a top-ten finish, alright. We just need to make sure we’re fit enough to hang onto her!”
“About that,” said Jenny. “I couldn’t help but notice, you’re both looking a lot leaner and meaner than last year. Does this help?”
“Are you flirting with us?” laughed Dave, receiving a dour death-stare in return. He cleared his throat before continuing:
“It’s kind of you to say so, Jenny. Thank you. With the help of our personal trainer, we’ve lost about three stone each, and I’ve lost a further fifty pound only a few moments ago, but that’s another story.”
“So the weight loss will help the lap time?”
Dave nodded. “Absolutely. These sidecars only have little engines, and we’re wringing the hell out of them for three laps, which, over this circuit, is unbearable stress. So it’s certainly not helping things out by being overweight.”
“It should be worth three or four miles an hour of our lap time,” suggested Monty. “What with the new engine and the weight loss an all, I’m confident we’ll be in the top ten.”
“I very much hope I’ll be reporting on you indeed finishing in the top ten. If I move to the wider field, there’s been even more speculation on the sidecar race than I’ve ever seen. We’ve got the reigning world champions, Jack Napier and Andy Thomas, competing against their closest rivals – and previous world champions – Harry and Tom McMullan. People are drooling at the prospect. What are your thoughts, Dave?”
Dave’s arm crossed his chest, with his other hand caressing his chin. “They’re all tossers,” said Dave after a moment of thought.
Jenny lost her composure for a moment, presumably wondering if the expletive would make it through editing.
“Is that you stoking up the competitive fires, Dave?” she said, once she’d righted herself.
Dave shook his head. “Not at all. It’s just me being honest. Don’t get me wrong, those boys will be racing an entirely different race to us, whereas we’re hoping to simply get into the top ten. I respect what them boys can do. They’re remarkable, they truly are. But as men, they’re all complete tools. In my opinion.”
“I thought, after saving Harry’s life last year–?”
Dave cut across her. “Okay, I suppose a better way of saying it is I dislike Harry McMullan less that I once did. I think he’s making a concerted effort to be less of a knob. But, would I go for a pint with him? Not a chance. As for the other two, Napier and Thomas, well, you must have interviewed them and know for yourself what they’re like.”
Jenny raised her eyebrow in a you’re-not-half-wrong fashion. “Okay, but if I was going to press you on who’d be taking the honours?”
“I’d have to say the McMullan brothers,” said Dave. “Yeah.”
“Agreed,” pitched Monty. “Thomas and Napier, I would say are quicker, and on a quicker machine. But you cannot underestimate course knowledge. The McMullan brothers, on the other hand, have dozens of laps around this circuit, and that’s got to be worth a few miles an hour per lap, I’d say. I wouldn’t be surprised if the McMullan brothers won both races, comfortably. Either way, excluding mechanical failure, it’s going to be between them, and with the rest of the field fighting for the third spot on the podium.”
Jenny turned back to the camera. “Well, I think it’s fair to say there’s no love lost on the starting grid this year, but what is not in question is that we’re in for a spectacular treat in the sidecar races this time around. We may see lap records tumble, and I don’t know about you but I cannot wait! Join me next week, where we’ll keep you up to speed on all the action at the greatest show on earth!”
She waited for a few seconds, until Neil’s familiar thumb was raised once more, and then her camera-ready voice gave way to a more relaxed, everyday tone.
“Hey, thanks, guys,” she said.
“I liked the up-to-speed bit,” Dave ventured. “Nice wordplay.”
“Heh. Thanks. I added that in last-minute,” she replied, pleased with herself. “You really did a good job of getting that competitive drama across, by the way. You really don’t like them?”
“No,” said Dave. “Not the least bit. You can’t tell me that you do?”
She cast a glance over her shoulder before confiding, “Complete tosspots. Glad to see it’s not just me that thinks so. Thanks, guys, and I hope you get your top-ten finish,” she said. “Bye, Monty,” she added with a cheery wave, tilting her head, covertly trying to figure out if she were, in fact, in his line of sight.
“Bravo!” cried Frank, clapping his hands after the camera crew were on their way. “That was first-class, and great publicity for the charity!” he said.
“Frank, what’s up with Stan?” asked Monty. “He’s got a face like a slapped ass.”
“He wanted to be on the interview, but Jenny made it abundantly clear that wasn’t happening.” Frank lowered his voice, before adding out the side of his mouth: “He’s had his eyebrows done, and a top-up of the tan, also.”
“He does look more orange than usual,” remarked Dave, glancing at his watch. “Right, we need to go, lads. We’ve got another session with that ruthless little dictator you hired to get us fit.”
“It’s working!” suggested Frank. “I might need to get him to take me out for a fair bit of exercise as well. Well, maybe not a fair bit. But at least a little– hang on, are you limping, Monty?”
“Bit of a twinge, I think, Frank. Nothing serious,” Monty replied, bursting into an on-the-spot jig-like gentle jog to emphasise the point. “See?” he continued. “Fit as a fiddle, me!”
After they’d gone, Frank gazed down the length of pit lane: to the grandstand on the left, over to the fuelling stations on the right, and across Glencrutchery Road to the iconic scoreboard. He closed his eyes, allowing the gentle breeze to caress his face. In a few short days, machinery would be hurtling by where he stood, slowing desperately, applying the pit lane limiter to ensure compliance of the 60 kph pit-lane speed limit for fear of attracting an unwanted thirty-second penalty for breaching this regulation.
Legends of the sport had ridden by just there, many on their way to TT glory. He spared a moment to think of those who set out on their journey but never made it back. He was humbled; it wasn’t difficult to understand why, for many, a pilgrimage to the TT Grandstand was the first port of call for visiting bike fans, or even novice riders whose first experience of the course may begin on this very spot, in a hire car, learning the course first-hand rather than through onboard footage on the internet.
Frank pushed himself up onto the wall where Stan sat, the pair of them swinging their legs back and forth like schoolchildren at the park. “I’m sure you’ll get interviewed next time,” he told his mate with an encouraging pat on the leg.
“I’ve even had my teeth whitened. Look!” said Stan, grinning inanely. He went quiet, lowering his head. The two friends sat, listening to the sound of the passing traffic which was rather more sedate than it soon would be.
“Frank, may I ask you something?” said Stan, finally.
Frank smiled. He had an inkling what was coming. “Of course,” he said.
“This morning, in the kitchen. I pretended not to notice when you were coughing. But I saw it, Frank. I promised you I wouldn’t go on about, you know… the illness… but I saw the blood in your handkerchief.”
“I had a feeling you did,” confided Frank. “Stan, I’m on a journey and I don’t think the road is always going to be smooth.”
“Does the doctor know?”
“He does, yes.”
“You promise? You’re not just saying that to shut me up?”
Frank gripped Stan’s knee, looking him straight in the eye. “I promise,” he said.
“You know I don’t mean to pry, Frank.”
“You? Pry?” laughed Frank. “You’re just looking out for me, I know that.”
“Have I ever truly thanked you, Frank?”
“For what?”
“You know what! Frank, you’ve done more for me than any friend I could have ever wished for. I’ll never forget how you’ve had my back, all my life. Not just at school, but in business as well. All the way from when I was a child, right through to adulthood and to the present. Frank, genuinely, without you in my life I don’t think I’d be sat here now.”
“You’d be sat somewhere else, that’s all,” Frank replied with a chuckle. Despite this, Frank dabbed with his thumb the moisture near to his eye. “Don’t get all maudlin on me, you silly old bugger.”
“Frank, I mean it. I want you to know what you’ve done for me in life. You’re more to me than a friend,” Stan said, with his hands raised. “Frank, from the bottom of my heart, thank you for everything you ever did. Now you’re going through all this… this smegging unpleasantness. It may be ridiculous, but I see this, in some small way, as my chance to give you something back. I wish the circumstances were different, but, whatever you need from me now, and from here on, you just ask me. I mean it. Promise me!”
“I promise, Stan. We’ve had quite a journey together, my old friend, and I’ll be damned if this is the final chapter!”
Staring vacantly seemed to be the order of the day, and the two of them were amongst the most adept.
“I could sit here for hours,” offered Frank. “Just watching the world go by.”
“One more thing,” said Stan.
“You sound like Peter Falk,” laughed Frank.
“What?”
“Columbo. Hello? Peter Falk? Falk!”
“There’s no need to swear, Frank.”
“Never mind. What’s the other thing, Stan?”
“You know how I said I don’t mean to pry?”
“Apart from earlier today?”
“Yes,” confirmed Stan. “Well, seeing as though I’m on a roll. When are you going to tell Dave?”
“About…?”
“You know what about!” exclaimed Stan. “The fact that you’re taking Jessie out for a drink. You’re taking Dave’s own mum out on a date.”
“Oh, that,” Frank replied with a laugh. “I bloody knew you were listening, you nosey old sod! Besides, it’s not a date, necessarily. It’s just two people of a certain age going out to enjoy each other’s company, that’s all.”
Stan’s eyebrows were arched skyward, which was impressive, on account of all the collagen. “I’m sure Dave will be pacified by that description, though you’ve never been a very good liar.”
“You know me too well, Stan.”
“I know you well enough!”
“That’s what I said.”
“Come on, let’s go for a stroll,” Stan suggested, jumping down from the wall.
Stan put his arm around Frank’s shoulders, escorting him down pit lane where they imagined the electric atmosphere that would soon descend upon them.
“Frank,” said Stan.
“Whaaat?” Frank replied, feigning annoyance.
“Frank and Jessie, up in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!” Stan sang like a seven-year-old.
“Bugger off!”
“Frank. Frank, can I be a fly on the wall when you tell Dave?”
“Bugger off!”
Chapter Fifteen
A re you being shot out of a cannon, Stella??” shouted Bruce from the safety of his porch.
Stella took the fag from her mouth. “I’m going to the TT, Bruce. Keep an eye on the old place, will you?” she said, pointing to her modest bungalow.
“Nobody would be stupid enough break into your house, Stella. Trust me. Are you going over on a motorbike, Stella?”
“You’re not half stupid you, are you, Bruce,” she said, as a statement, looking down at her leather trousers, jacket and helmet. “Nothing gets past you, does it?”
Stella was dressed head-to-foot in leather, which was not typically the most comfortable attire for late May. If it wasn’t for the helmet, you wouldn’t be blamed for having mistaken her for a leather couch, resting on its end, awaiting the bin men.
“I couldn’t help but notice you don’t have a bike, Stella?” Bruce put forth.
“Don’t you have somewhere to be, Bruce?” said Stella, rearing up, before taking a breath. “I’m getting picked up by my boyfr– by my friend. He’s bought a new bike for our trip to the TT.”
Now, Stella was no expert on motorbikes, and her outfit was on loan, but even her novice ear could tell that the approaching machine – negotiating the winding road of her estate – was not what one might describe as throaty. Rather, it was more high-pitched and whining – like a scalded cat. Stella looked over her shoulder, willing Bruce to retreat to his house.
“This it, Stella?” Bruce shouted. “Sounds like you could enter that thing in the races!” he said, with the slightest hint of sarcasm.
“Bruce, do I need to come up there? Because I will,” Stella threatened, but her attention returned to the noise getting closer and considerably louder. The smoke the bike left in its wake formed an impressive visual effect, like a pop star walking through dry ice, although this thing didn’t sound quite so good. The neighbours’ curtains were twitching as Lee brought the bike to a controlled stop, accompanied by a toot on the horn.
“Looking good, Stella,” said Lee with a leisurely wave.
Stella circled the bike like a dog looking for a place to sleep. “This is the bike you’ve purchased, is it?” she asked, conscious that her question was as obvious as the one asked by Bruce a moment ago.
“Sure is!” enthused Lee. “Not quite what I imagined, but, still, we’ll have a blast.”
“Lee, it may have escaped your attention that I am a woman with a fuller figure? And this backpack isn’t exactly light, either.”
“That’s just the way I like it!” replied Lee, assuming she was fishing for a compliment. “A full pack!”
Stella pointed at Lee’s partially-rusted, somewhat-less-than-impressive red steed. “Lee, that thing couldn’t pull a tea biscuit, so how’s it going to get me and you to the Isle of Man?”
“It’ll be fine, jump on! The boat goes in a couple of hours.”
“Bruce, if you don’t sod off I’m going to crack your skull when I get back!” she shouted to a head poking from behind a rubbish bin.
She lifted one leg to mount the bike, causing the leather trousers to creak under the strain like a ship’s rigging during a heavy gale. She got her foot as far as the passenger seat, but her leg simply wasn’t flexible enough for the final hurdle.
“I think I’m stuck, Lee,” she said, currently looking like a letter ‘T’ with her leg extended. “It’s these leather trousers, is what it is. They’re not flexible enough,” she continued. “Lee, little help, please?”
“I can’t,” replied Lee. “Only you’re in the way of the sidestand, and if I get off the bike it’ll fall over.”
Bruce sauntered over. “You stuck, Stella?”
She was poised for a barbed response but in view of her precarious position and left leg shaking under the strain, she adopted a rather more conciliatory reply.
“Yes, please, Bruce. If you wouldn’t mind.”
“Happy to help,” said Bruce, and tugged at her heel. “You were nearly there, Stella. Your boot caught on the strap you need to grip on when you’re riding.”
With her foot free of constraint, Stella hopped the final few inches before collapsing in relief on the back seat. The rear suspension welcomed her arrival like a fart in a spacesuit, and with Lee rising up an inch as if on a seesaw.
“Cheers, Bruce,” Stella told her neighbour.
“All aboard!” said Lee. “It’s exciting, this! Lee and Stella, on a road trip! Next stop, the Isle of Man TT! Well, the ferry crossing first…”
Bruce gave them a smart salute to see them off.
Lee engaged first gear and let go the clutch, increasing the throttle in the process until the bike shrieked in pain. In a leisurely manner, the bike edged slowly out, like a ship leavi
ng port. Lee kept the throttle pinned and they were soon on their way – albeit sluggishly – leaving, in their wake, another impressive cloud of smoke.
The cool breeze in Stella’s face brought welcome relief from the earlier exertion, drying out the moisture on her forehead. The steady increase in velocity meant that smoking became a challenge, however, and so Stella flicked her fag to the ground and lowered the visor on her helmet. A smile spread across her face; despite being fagless, she was quite starting to enjoy this.
Progress towards the Port of Liverpool was best described as steady. Several rather more muscular bikes – likely heading to the same destination – slowed, extending an arm to offer a jovial tow. It was liberating, this bike lark; Stella eventually built up the courage to lean forward, placing her hands securely around Lee’s waist, taking a firm grip.
Lee turned his head, shouting to Stella, but his words were lost on the breeze. Stella gripped tighter, moving forward an inch, craning her neck.
Lee shouted once more. “Stella, your hands! they’re on my crotch!”
It took her a moment to translate what she was hearing. With her thick gloves and his jacket, it was an easy mistake to make. She raised her hands to the correct position just as Lee dropped down a couple of gears, negotiating the sharp right-hand turn which offered them their first view of the Isle of Man fastcraft, Manannan. She was certainly an impressive sight, framed perfectly at the end of the road beneath the famous Royal Liver Building, but it wasn’t that which took their breath away – at least not entirely.
Lee pulled the bike over to the pavement, engaged the sidestand, and offered Stella an encouraging arm. She was more flexible this time; the journey must have both loosened up her ligaments and stretched out her leathers. They both removed their helmets and stood without saying a word, jaws open like early Man must’ve done once fire was discovered.
“Jaysus,” said Lee after a while. “I mean, just, holy Jaysus. Frank has been wittering on about the Isle of Man TT all year. And to be honest, Stella, a lot of it just washed over me. Sure, I’ve seen videos and stuff, but until I turned that corner,” he said, pointing back up the road. “I didn’t really have a clue what he was on about. He told me it was like that. But even then, I still didn’t understand it. If this is what it’s like here, waiting to get there, what the hell is the actual Island going to be like?”