by Steve Reeder
Five minutes later I was driving back towards Brands Hatch.
By the time I parked the old Granada at the back of the new pit complex, the team was almost ready to start the unofficial practice session.
Large tool chests lined the wall, with tyre warmers and other odds and ends stacked neatly alongside. All four bikes were parked in front of the garage, two with BR on the fairing, for Brett Robinson. The other two had RY for Russell Yates. Numbers would be allocated by the controlling body for both riders to carry till the end of the season. Until then, we were happy with the initials.
I had had very little time to speak to Yates, what with everything going on, but he seemed confident and competent. Certainly, he came with a good reputation behind him. He stood not more that five foot eight, but was extremely fit and positively radiated energy.
In all the time that I was to know him, I don’t think I heard Russell say more than ten words at a time in conversation. Even getting him to talk about the bike was not easy, and that turned out to be a problem. The race engineers need to know what’s happening on the track with the bike. The only feedback they get is from the computer data loggers, and the rider. Without fail, all engineers preferred the reports of the man on the machine when trying for the best set-up for race conditions, and a rider who can’t tell them what’s actually happening is no help at all.
Both Brett and Russell were suited up when I walked into the pit entrance. They wore almost identical leathers, with ‘Rodber Racing’ emblazoned across the back, along with a few smaller sponsor logos, such as Michelin, Shell and NGK spark plugs. Built into the racing suit was body armour, including a back protector, to protect the spine from impact in a fall.
Brett pulled the zip up the front of the leathers, and secured it with the Velcro strap at his throat. Giving me a nervous smile he climbed on one of the two Ducatis prepared for him. I could understand his nervousness. Apart from the daunting prospect of riding a works superbike around the full Grand Prix track for the first time, he would naturally be conscious of doing it in front of a new team, and new teammate that came from a country renowned for producing world champions.
Both Brett’s and Russell’s bikes had been carefully warmed up by the race engineers, and were at full working temperature as the two riders took to the track for the first time. Brett led his teammate down towards the Paddock Hill bend, a right hand sweep that dropped away quite steeply as you were leant over in the corner.
As the throaty howl of the bikes disappeared from sight, I looked over at Michele. She grinned apprehensively at me.
“Don’t worry, my love,” I said, “he’ll be fine. I told both of them to spend ten or twelve laps just getting used to the bikes, as well as the track. I wouldn’t expect anything other than a mild pace until we’ve got the bikes well set up. I’m not even bothering about lap times just yet.”
Michele moved closer and stood by my side. “I always worry when he’s out on the track. You may not have heard, but we’ve had three deaths in South Africa in the last two years. One of them was a good friend of ours, who was killed at Kyalami last year. It almost lost Brett the championship. It hit us both hard, and he was close to quitting. He missed two races because of it.”
“Your brother missed two races, and still won the championship? I’m impressed. He must be good.”
Michele punched me playfully on the arm. “What have I been telling you?” she laughed. “Don’t tell me you had doubts?”
“Of course not, honey.” Well, not really.
The South African championship is a tough championship to compete in. Perhaps he would stand some chance in the Britain after all.
We all turned to watch as two red Ducatis came into sight through the right hand bend onto the start and finish straight. Russell was leading by two bike lengths as they flashed passed the pit wall where we stood. Both riders had their heads tucked under the fairing screen, to cut down of wind drag as much as possible, and Brett was riding in Russell’s slipstream, basically being sucked along by the wind rushing in behind the machine ahead of him.
Russell braked early for the first bend, and Brett slipped up his inside, out-braking him into the corner. I hoped the pair of them weren’t going to start dicing with each other just yet. The last thing I wanted was a broken machine, or worse, a broken rider. I decided that if they came past together again, I would call one of them in for a moment, just to separate them. Time enough for competitive behaviour later.
By four thirty that afternoon, there was quite a crowd in and around the pits. At least five other teams, and several privateers, had arrived to practice and work on their machine set-up. My elevation, or as some said, retirement, to team manager, had come as a surprise to many of the riders, and as good-natured as they all were, I had fun poked at me from all sides.
There was great interest shown by all in my two riders, especially Yates, who had put in some surprisingly quick lap times. Brett had struggled all day with the bike. This caused much concern and hand wringing from Michele, but I was neither surprised, nor upset by his performance. The change from a production 600cc bike, which is what is used in the South African championship, to the frighteningly fast World Superbike specification 1000cc machines is much like going from a saloon car to a group ‘C’ sports car. I knew it would take some time for him to make the transition, and I would not worry if his first race were a complete disaster. Much better that he took one or two races to adjust, than crash badly trying too hard too soon.
I had just ordered both riders into the pits, ending our day’s practice, when Dave tapped me on the arm.
“Simon, if you have a moment, I’d like to show you something?”
“Sure, Dave,” I nodded, “what is it?”
Dave motioned me back into the pit garage. Once inside he said. “Come look at what I’ve spotted.” He moved out of the back door and indicated I should follow him as he pushed his way towards the end of the pit complex. Intrigued, I hurried up to his side.
“I trust this is important, Dave, I want to get everyone back to the farm as soon as possible. We have some planning to do tonight.”
“Oh I think this will interest you, boss,” he replied with a wolfish grin.
We rounded the last garage as he spoke, and stopped at the corner facing the grandstand opposite. Dave stopped just out of sight of the stands, and put up his hand.
“Simon, I want you to look at the middle stands. Half way up there is a group of perhaps twenty people. Just behind them. Take a look.”
I scanned the crowd of race fans that had turned up to watch their heroes practising. It took me a second or two to make out what had grabbed Dave’s interest, but there they were. Two unmistakably Arab men dressed in jeans and Tshirts, both adorned with dark, wraparound sunglasses and huge bushy moustaches. It is possible that the two of them were motor racing fans like the rest of them, but one had his binoculars trained continually on the pit garage that housed Rodber Racing. Well, at least I now knew where they had been, while I was searching their rooms. I wondered if they knew one of their own was enjoying police hospitality.
I glanced instinctively back towards our garage, as if to reassure myself that Michele and the others were all right. Having those two here at the track could spell trouble of some sort or another.
“Thanks, Dave,” I said, motioning him back through the gathered crew members behind the garage complex, “let’s get everyone packed up, and get on home.”
By the time the bikes were safely back in the barn workshop, it was after seven thirty. The crew all crowded into the kitchen for a beer and general wrap up session. Everyone got to express ideas or opinions about the day’s practice session. Everyone seemed happy.
Consequently, it was nearer midnight when the six of us found ourselves alone at the kitchen table. Russell had gone to bed hours earlier, he had been allocated a room at the back of the house, but would be moving out as soon as he finalised a six-month lease on a property down the road.
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Brett looked bushed and I ordered him off to bed as soon as I’d told them about my visit to Trenchcoat Inn.
It was not surprising that Brett look weary, they had been at it for the better part of the day before the race engineers were satisfied that the set up of all four bikes was going well. Brett and Russell had both completed over thirty circuits of the Brands Hatch motor race track: never more than five laps at a time as they were just getting feedback for the engineers to work with. It was a tiring business for them.
We were back at the track before nine the next morning. The crew had the pit sorted and the bikes were out front on their stands. Tyre warmers were wrapped around each wheel trying to cope with the early morning cold.
Now I called a team meeting with both riders, Geoff the chief engineer, his two assistants and myself. Two other mechanics and their general assistants plus Dave were left to finish the changing of old tyres and refuelling of the spare bikes.
Geoff and I studied yesterday’s printouts from the on-board computers and agreed that we were as close as we were going to get before testing the bikes over longer distances, perhaps even a race distance of twenty five laps at speed.
“All right, Geoff are you happy with the bikes?” He nodded and grunted something sounding like ‘yes’ around a mouthful of roast beef sandwich. I looked to the riders. “Are you both happy with the machines for the moment?” Brett nodded and Russell said. “No worries Simon, let’s get some track time on the bikes.”
“Russell, that’s what we are going to do right now, but, listen to me closely chaps. This the first time either of you have been on Brands at race pace and race distance, and the first time doing it on a works Superbike. Don’t be fooled into thinking these bikes are anything remotely like the production based 600s you’ve been competing on.” I looked sternly at them both. “What I want out of you today is for you to get used to the bikes, used to UK track conditions and these tyres. Anyone throwing his bike down the road without a very good excuse will not be first on my Christmas card list. OK?”
They grinned nervously, which suited me fine. Anyone not nervous at the prospect of throwing a half million quids worth of racing machine around a race track at over a hundred miles an hour for the next fifty minutes needs his head read. And there were no marshals or ambulances either.
Geoff called to the mechanics. “Let’s have the number one bikes out and started gentlemen please.”
The quiet of the English countryside was shattered as the two Ducati 998s roared to life. The mechanics blipped the throttles as Brett and Russell zipped up their leather suits and settled their helmets on their heads. Brett had his gloves on first and his mechanic let the bike off the stand and tossed the tyre warmers into the pit garage.
Brett straddled the machine, selected first gear and sent it growling down the pit exit closely followed by his Australian teammate.
As the sound of howling thousand cc engines disappeared down the hill and around the bend, a muted silence settled back on those of us left in the pits. How I longed to be out on the track with them.
Michele slid her arms around my waist from behind and said, “I hope they’ll be all right.”
Geoff, who was leaning on the pit wall near us, replied, “Don’t you worry, miss, they are good kids. They know what they’re doing.” Michele gave me a gentle hug and sauntered back into the pit garage, leaving me alone with Geoff and the two engineers.
I hoped they were going to be OK too. This would be a difficult time for them both. New environment, new team members watching them and judging their performance, all on top of machinery that was radically faster and more powerful than anything they would have ridden before. Not to mention more expensive by tens of thousands of pounds sterling. Nerves would be wound tight.
No one said anything. Geoff had his stopwatch out, as did both the engineers. Not that lap times would mean anything at this stage, especially on the first lap out of the pits, but habit was born of many years of timing riders around tracks all over the world. At the end of the day, lap times were everything. Consistently fast lap times, that is. I shoved my hands into my pockets to keep from biting my fingernails.
A lone cloud drifted by and hid the sun briefly causing me to look with wonder at the beauty of the English spring. Forget the cold wet winters, it’s days like this that made me love this adopted country of mine. That and good television of course.
My eyes were drawn to a pair of robins that swept over the grandstands and landed on the edge of the track only to take flight again as a pair of red Ducatis swept into view around the Clark Curve and onto the Brabham straight.
By God they were moving!
When you are riding at speed on a track it never seems that quick to you, but watch a thoroughbred race machine hurtling towards you and it’s frighteningly fast. Russell flashed past with Brett tight in his slipstream. Both seemed comfortable and a quick glance at the Geoff’s stopwatch showed that they were both taking it easy in spite of the image they presented coming down the track.
Geoff glanced at me enquiringly and held out the stopwatch. I nodded and he told the engineers to prepare the riders’ pit boards showing their respective lap times. This would be more to give them a feel of working with the team than any real information. That would come later in the day.
Michele had run out with Julia to watch the bikes scream past. The girls’ faces were alive with excitement and it was contagious. The crew cheered loudly and I knew the team would work well together. Bud would be pleased I thought.
My riders kept in formation for five laps before the pace started to hot up. Russell dropped his lap times by an impressive half a second on lap six, leaving Brett struggling to keep up. Lap seven and eight were more of the same. Russell was going faster and faster and Brett was responding by slightly less, leaving him two to three seconds behind the Australian.
Then, on lap nine Brett rounded the bend onto the straight by himself. We were immediately crowding the pit wall, straining our collective heads to see what had happened. Naturally we could see nothing, and Brett had made no indication as to what had occurred as he flashed past. I listened carefully to catch the sound of Russell’s bike but could hear nothing over the fading echoes of Brett’s passing. I looked at Geoff and the others but they too were staring down the track with concerned expressions.
“Call Brett in next time he comes past,” Geoff instructed Ian, the younger of the two engineers. “I hope the lad hasn’t tossed the bloody thing,” he muttered to me. I nodded my agreement. It would not be a memorable start to our season if Russell had crashed one of the bikes.
While we waited for Brett to reappear, I heard the mechanics start one of the vans and bring it through the garage in case we had to fetch Russell from out on the circuit. Ian climbed over the low pit wall and waited with a red flag for Brett to indicate he should come directly into the pits.
I heard the Ducati as it was exiting Stirling’s Bend onto Clearway’s. He would be in sight within seconds. I shouted a warning to Ian but he’d heard it too.
Brett had already passed the pit entrance by the time he caught sight of Ian, but braked sharply to a halt in the middle of the track in front of us, coming down from around a hundred and forty miles an hour to dead stop in less than three seconds.
Ian grabbed hold of the bike and the throttle to keep it running while Brett climbed off and ambled across to us removing his helmet as he came. He looked elated and flushed, with a huge grin plastered on his young face.
“What the ‘ell ‘appened to Russell?” Geoff asked.
“He ran off the track coming into Dingle Dell. When I passed him this time he was standing next to the thing looking under the fairing. I don’t know what happened though,” Brett replied. I glanced at Geoff but he seemed as much in the dark as I was.
“OK, Brett, take five, I’ll be back in two ticks. I’m just borrowing your bike,” I instructed as I clambered over the wall. I swung a leg over the Ducati and turning i
t around I headed with due caution the wrong way back up the main straight. It was a good thing we were the only team there so early in the morning.
Even at a pedestrian pace the bike felt savagely powerful.
Russell was leaning against his machine with his helmet and gloves off when I found him. He was stopped almost against the tyre barriers on the far side of the sand traps. I wondered how he’d made it all the way through the sand without falling off. I rode carefully over the sand myself and stopped next to him. I had to keep the bike running while we talked, as the Ducati has no self-starter.
“What happened, Russell?” I shouted over the noise of the bike.
“My fault, Simon,” he replied, “I was carrying too much speed into the turn and ran off the track. But I think there is problem with the brakes because I didn’t brake any deeper into the turn than the lap before.” Making excuses? Perhaps, but Geoff would have to look at it anyway. These sorts of troubles often happen during the test session.
“All right, Russell. Leave the bike up against the tyre wall and I’ll give you ride back. I’ll send out the van to bring this one back, in the mean time you can take out your number two. I want you both to get as much track time as possible. The engineers need all the feedback you can give them too.”
Back in the garage we found Brett emptying a coke down his throat. We also found Inspector Hammil, two detective Sergeants, the ex Mrs Rodber and Julia’s younger sister, who I had not known existed.
The worn and frail looking Rodber woman was in her mid-forties. I wondered how this woman had bred two such attractive looking daughters, for the young girl with her was quite something in the looks department.
Geoff already had Russell’s second bike out and the engine warmed up. The tyres had not been preheated though, and I warned him to take it easy for a couple of laps. Brett was already out on the track again when Russell stormed out onto the circuit. As the decibel count faded into the distance I looked at Julia and asked her about the two women.
“Simon, this is my mum and my little sister Tarryn. They heard what happened to Dad and drove down this morning.” Where from I didn’t find out until later.