by J C Williams
“Ah, fuck ’em all. More money than sense, that lot,” said Dave. “And here he is,” he said in relation to Monty, who had successfully rooted out the breakfast sat on the table. Like a trained pig snuffling for truffles, no food-like substance escaped Monty’s au fait snout.
“That for me?” asked a drooling Monty.
Stan handed it over. “Sure is. How’s the leg?”
“You won’t get all that much from him just now,” Dave advised. “Let him eat, then he’ll be back with us. He said he was in a bit of pain, but the physio sessions have been helping.”
Frank took to his feet. “Well done, again, guys, by the way. Yesterday was a fantastic result. Top ten next Friday?”
“We’ll see,” shrugged Dave. “It’s quite nice to know those four idiots won’t be on the top step, at least. Where you off?” he added, noticing the lads were collecting themselves to go.
Frank prodded Stan. “We’re picking Lee and Stella up. I said we’d take them around the course, with it being Mad Sunday today.”
“Go easy out there,” warned Dave. “Most folks will be out to enjoy the atmosphere, but you’ll still get the odd idiot who’s got all the gear but no idea,” he told them, making a point to pronounce the invisible ‘r’ at the end of idea.
The blood in Stan’s face drained as he checked his phone. “I’ve just had a missed call from Henk?”
“So?” asked Frank.
“Well, suppose he knows about me drawing the coq au vin which ultimately got his rider chucked out?”
“Ha!” exclaimed Dave, happy to see his newly-minted expression catching on.
“Why else would he be phoning me?”
“Don’t be so bloody paranoid,” Frank answered. “He’s our neighbour, for god’s sake. Perhaps he wanted you to put his rubbish bin out? It could be anything at all. Seriously, just phone him back.”
Stan pondered that thought. “I’ll ring him later. Maybe let him calm down a bit. I imagine he’s a bit grumpy at the moment.”
“Well come on, then,” Frank told him, leading the way. “Let’s go and discover what this Mad Sunday is all about. See you soon,” he added, throwing Dave and Monty a wave.
Dave held up his hand and wiggled his fingers in cheerful reply, but there was no response from Monty as he was still immersed in his sausage bap.
Frank looked nervously in his rear-view mirror. “You’re starting to scare me, Stella,”
“I bought my very own leather trousers for the occasion,” she said sharply. “They weren’t cheap, either. You two will be reimbursing me for them.”
Stan bravely joined the fray, leaving Frank to concentrate on the exceptionally busy road. “Stella, with respect, of course. When Frank said we were going to take you around the TT circuit, at what point did you think we were going to be doing that on motorbikes? When have we ever said to you that we’ve passed our motorbike test or even that we own bikes? It was always going to be in the car.”
“What’s with this rubbish car, anyway?” she continued, still less than pleased with the current circumstance. “You pair are loaded!”
“It’s a hire car,” replied Stan. “We’re between cars. Are you okay, Stella?” asked Stan, looking around into the rear passenger seat. “Only you’re sweating a little more than usual.”
“These trousers are… a little tighter than I expected,” she offered, pulling down on them at the ankle. “Can you put the air conditioning on, please?”
“This rubbish car doesn’t have air conditioning,” said Frank, winding down the window.
“Well I think they’re just grand,” said Lee with a cheeky grin. He gently caressed the top of Stella’s thigh for good measure. “They accentuate your curves.”
As for curves, Frank approached the Ramsey Hairpin where the mountain road became one-way for the duration of the racing fortnight and those riding knew they’d not meet any traffic coming up the other way. Historically, it was just Mad Sunday that the authorities did this and attracted the name – which considering the standard of some of the riding was rather apt. The vast majority of locals and visitors rode to their capabilities, but, sadly, for a few, the enormity of the occasion often became too much of a temptation to push a little further than they should, and the TT circuit could be unforgiving as sadly many discovered too late.
“I shat myself up here, a little further on,” said Stan cheerily, turning again to the back seat as if announcing an upcoming tourist attraction.
“You sound quite proud of that?” remarked Frank.
“If you’re going to do it, Frank, it’s as fine a place to do it as you could ever find,” Stan replied. “Stella, do you want some water?” he added, seeing she was still in distress.
“I don’t think these trousers were the best idea I’ve had,” she conceded.
“You think?” replied Frank with a narrowing of the eyes.
The Ford Ka in which they were sat struggled away from the famous hairpin, through Waterworks Corner, and towards the Gooseneck, a sharp uphill right-bend. This combination placed strain enough on the engines of those racing through it, and for a subcompact with a small engine and Stella in the back, it’s fair to say the poor ‘rubbish’ rental struggled up the Mountain Mile.
“Oi! Did you just hit me?” asked Stan, rubbing the back of his head.
“No,” said Stella, struggling for breath. “The button just burst off these damned trousers. I think I need to take them off, I’m not sure I can feel my feet anymore.”
“What are you wearing underneath?” asked Frank.
“You filthy old sod! You’re lucky you’re driving!” she admonished Frank. “Otherwise I’d–”
Frank raised one pacifying hand. “I only meant do you have anything underneath so you can take them things off and remain decent?”
“I’ve got my black leggings on,” Stella replied, taking a quick peek to double-check.
“Oh joy,” muttered Frank.
“What was that?” asked Stella, but was drowned out by the sound of a bike leaving them for dead.
“They’re a bit quick, I’d say?” asked Lee rhetorically, peering out the window.
There were dozens of bikes behind in convoy, hugging the left side of the road, with many more passing by at breakneck speed on the right side of the road.
“Jaysus!” shouted Lee. “That one must be doing over a hundred and fifty!”
As soon as one bike overtook them, another and then another appeared. If you were not a confident driver, this was one place you’d be advised to avoid on Mad Sunday. The police were in position on several locations, ensuring those enjoying the day did so with consideration to the others on the road.
“You’re kicking the back of my seat, Stella, and considering how busy it is up here, that’s not a good idea,” said Frank without daring to remove his eyes from the road.
“Well I’ve got to get these things off, don’t I, and there’s not enough room back here in this sardine tin, is there? You’ll need to pull over.”
“Where, exactly?” asked Frank. “I’ve got about four thousand bikes up my arse and we’re on a race track.”
“You could pull over where I shat myself,” suggested Stan, as if it were the most normal thing ever.
“Right! Where Stan shat himself, it is!” Frank declared, unhappy and irritated at having to repeat the words. “And just in case you missed it, again, we’ll be stopping where Stan shat himself. Stella, you’ll need to hold on for about three more minutes.”
“It really is a lovely spot,” Stan offered, a beatific smile over his face.
Stella didn’t reply, rather, easing back into her seat like she were giving birth.
“You may want to hurry that along,” cautioned Lee, wiping Stella’s brow.
With sporadic moans of pain and explosive motorbike exhausts, it was a miracle that Frank made it to Windy Corner, a sharp right-hand bend where the elements were ready to snap at those riders unprepared for the furious winds.
>
At their arrival, Stan looked back at the others once more. “This is where I–” he began, in an animated fashion.
Frank slapped the steering wheel, cutting him off. “Yes! Stan, we know! Everyone knows! I think you even put it on your Facebook status, yes??”
Frank eased into the gravelled area, which made for a spectacular vantage point with the glorious, gorgeous Manx hillside rolling in front of you, resplendent in all its, well, resplendence. Three photographers were stationed on the corner capturing those passing, as was a St John Ambulance – on hand to offer assistance should the need arise.
“I may require a bit of help?” suggested Lee, tugging at Stella’s arms. “I don’t think this is a one-man job.”
One man became three men as Frank, Stan, and Lee extricated Stella from the car, but by now the leather had either shrank or her legs had begun to swell from the lack of circulation.
“I can’t walk,” said Stella through gritted teeth. “You’ll need to carry me.”
“What?” asked Frank. “I’m not a well man, and carrying you is not how I envisaged the circumstance of my demise. Why can’t you take your trousers off here?”
“I’ve already warned you about your tone, you saucy old sod!” advised Stella, hobbling forward a pace. “We’re right next to the road, and most of these riders haven’t seen an attractive woman for days,” she said by way of explanation. “So you’ll need to take me over there,” she said, pointing. “By the wall.”
Lee leaned down, placing an arm under her right leg. “I’m here for you,” he assured her, puffing out his chest. “And we’ll get these trousers off of you, we surely will!”
“Remember that sentiment,” cackled Stella. “Come on, you two useless buggers,” she said, directed at Frank and Stan. “These things are killing me!”
They took up position, as directed, but the task at hand was easier said than done.
“I think… I’m getting… a hernia…” gasped Stan. “Or perhaps… a fractured… spine… or maybe both.”
Progress was slow and painful as the three of them shuffled forward as if carrying a very heavy wardrobe up a flight of stairs.
“Everything all right, there?” called over one of the photographers.
“Marvellous!” shouted Frank. “We’re actually having a wonderful day out, thank you! Beyond that, this is just a typical day for us!”
The second Stella was out of sight of the road, those gripping her legs gave up their grasp – and possibly their will to live.
Stan put his hands on his thighs, lowering his head to catch his breath.
“What are you doing? Do you think you’re finished?” demanded Stella. “These trousers are too tight for me to remove alone. You’re going to have to help me!”
Frank removed her shoes, taking up a position by the right ankle, with Stan positioned on the left. Lee was tasked with the area further north. With Stella’s help, they all pulled on the trousers, but the leathers refused to budge.
She looked up at Lee. “Go and see if the ambulance has got something that’ll help. Maybe some scissors?”
With Lee dispatched, Frank and Stan returned to the struggle, but their hearts were no longer entirely in it. Sweat dripped off the pair of them.
“They’ve given me this,” said Lee, once returned, handing Stella a bottle.
“It’s soap,” she said, reading the label. “I don’t need a bloody wash, I need these things off.”
“They thought the soap may lubricate your skin and release the trousers,” Lee explained, and then added with a shrug, “I’m just the messenger.”
“Fine,” replied Stella, lying on the ground with hands behind her head. “On you go, then,” she said, looking up, but those looking down did what they could to avoid eye contact.
“I’ll step up,” said Lee, pulling at Stella’s waistband.
He pressed down on the nozzle several times in quick succession, releasing the contents of the bottle down into Stella’s nether regions. Lee then rubbed her thighs, from over the surface of the trousers, to try and circulate the viscous fluid.
“It’s cold,” said Stella.
“I’m not,” replied Frank, all but collapsed in a heap, and happy to be able to rest for a moment.
“Is it working?” asked Stella. “Can you tug them right off now?”
Lee redoubled his efforts, but the trousers were nothing if not resolute. “The soap’s starting to foam up,” said Lee, braving a peek. “It’s like a broken washing machine down there.”
“I think I’ve got scissors in the car,” offered Stan, with a wag of the finger.
Frank sighed. “And why are you just telling us that now? Go and get them!”
“Right-ho,” Stan answered, skipping off to the car.
“We’ll have you out of those right quick, Stella,” said Lee, still knelt down beside her.
“Here we are!” announced a well-chuffed Stan, once returned, device in hand.
“What the hell?” said Frank, moving in for a closer look. “Those are fingernail scissors!” he declared. “What good are they going to be against a pair of leather trousers that’ve already bested three grown men??”
“Give ’em here,” Stella said, motioning for the scissors, and, once in hand, setting upon the leather trousers with them.
“Are they working?” asked Stan hopefully, eager to accept the praise he felt he was due.
Stella didn’t speak, handing back the diminutive curved scissors – now bent, with the top blade hung over the bottom like a horse’s teeth.
“No,” said Stella, finally. “They didn’t.”
“I don’t mean to interrupt,” said a paramedic, interrupting, who’d likely seen enough. “Only I wondered if you’d fancy the use of these shears?” he asked, presenting a formidable pair that Edward Scissorhands would have been proud to call his own.
Stella looked up at Lee. “When I said to see if they had something that’d help, why did you return with soap when they’d had scissors all along??”
“I must’ve panicked? Yes, surely that’s what it was, I panicked,” Lee offered. “I don’t know what happened, the moment must have gotten on top of me?”
Several quick flashes of steel and the leather trousers were a threat no longer. Stella was able to stand with assistance as the blood promptly returned to her feet, circulation restored.
“I need a fag,” she proclaimed, with not a word of thanks offered. She stood watching the bikes banking over to their right without a care in the world, as the soapy suds ran down her black leggings. “Ah, fresh air,” she said serenely, cocking her leg, and taking in a lungful of smoke.
“Pants!” shouted Stan, pointing at his phone. “It’s Henk again. Should I answer it?”
“Fucksake, Stan, he doesn’t know about your big cock! Just answer his call!” replied Frank, to the confusion of the paramedic taking back his scissors.
The paramedic backed away very slowly, and, once clear of the group, scampered off back to the relative safety of the ambulance.
“Hello? Yes, Henk, how are you?”
After a moment, Stan offered a thumbs-up. It’s not about the cock, he mouthed, helpfully pointing toward his own crotch to emphasise the point.
While Stan was on the phone, Frank took the opportunity to step away and appreciate the view. He’d only been to Windy Corner twice now, and once was when Stan had been taken short, as it were, and the other – presently – was with Stella, well, being her own inimitable self. He promised himself he’d have to make a point of returning under perhaps more pleasant circumstances.
Frank walked back to the others a few minutes later, just as Stan was ending his call. “Everything okay?” he asked Stan.
Stan nodded but sported a troubled expression. “All good. Henk was telling me about Tom McMullan being arrested and kicked out.”
“That’s nice of him?” suggested Frank, unsure why Henk would take the trouble to call.
“It appears it’s
only Tom that’s been suspended, not his brother.”
“And the point, please? I’m not getting any younger here.”
“Well here’s the thing,” continued Stan. “If Henk can get another driver, then his outfit can still enter the next sidecar race. And the bet he had with Rodney Franks–”
“Fuckface,” offered Frank.
“Right. The bet he had with Fuckface only covered the sidecar, not who happened to be on board. So, if Henk can find another suitably equipped driver, he can still have his sidecar race, possibly do the double with both wins, stick two fingers up at Franks, and win the bet.”
“That’s all very interesting,” said Frank, in a tone of voice indicating it wasn’t all that interesting. “What’s that got to do with us?”
Stan took a moment. “Frank, as team principals, he wants our permission to approach Dave to ride his sidecar with Harry McMullan as passenger. He said the same as what Monty himself told us previously, that Dave has the ability to win a TT with the right machinery and the right passenger. Dave really is that quick.”
“He wants us to break up Dave and Monty? We can’t do that! What did you tell him??”
Stan shrugged his shoulders. “I told him that it wasn’t really our call to make. I said we’d put it to Dave and Monty. In the end, if Dave has a shot at winning a TT, who are we to stand in his way?”
Frank looked across the road wistfully, before turning back to Stan.
“You’re right, we can’t stand in the way on this. But if Dave does it, Monty will be destroyed. Hell, and what a choice for Dave – fulfil your lifetime ambition, but doing so whilst kicking your closest friend firmly in the bollocks. I’m glad I’m not the one making that decision!”
Chapter Twenty-Three
I t’s not happening! Not whilst I’ve still got a hole in my arse!” announced Dave, unconcerned by those out for an evening stroll around the paddock. “I don’t care what it means, and I don’t care who it’ll upset. It’s not happening, so get that through your thick skull!”