by Steve Reeder
I looked across at Michele. She had stripped off the team rally jacket and was waving it excitedly in the air like a battle flag, her hair blowing out behind her in the cool wind. God, I loved her. I wondered how she would react the next time I asked her to marry me? A lot of time had passed since the first proposal had backfired on me.
A badly misfiring Ducati came limping into pit-lane behind me. It wasn’t one of ours though. It was an old 888 model owned and raced by a Frenchman who crossed the Channel to race in the British championships. He did this because he didn’t want his family to know that he raced Superbikes for fun. His father was stinking rich and had threatened to cut him out of his will if Luc didn’t give up this mad passion of his.
Luc stopped close to me and was staring intently down at his left foot. He had no mechanics or even anyone to help unload and load his bike. I could see the gear change lever had come loose and one of the sparking plug leads had popped off the spark plug. Luc wasn’t known for his pre-race preparation.
Slapping him on the back to get his attention, I dashed into the garage and picked up a number twelve ring-spanner. It only took a second to fix the problem and Luc was accelerating back down the pit lane again, any chance of finishing in the points gone. Luc didn’t care. He just enjoyed racing.
The rising noise levels from the track commentators caught my attention and I crossed back to the pit wall. Bud saw me coming and grinned.
“It’s hotting up, Simon. The mad dash for the chequered flag has begun. Everyone’s dropped their times that last lap.” He showed me the stopwatch he was holding.
“Whose time is that?” I asked.
“This is Russell’s last lap.” He answered. “The leading pack was nearly a second quicker than they’ve been doing.”
From where I stood I could see the big screen, which was showing the Euro-Sport broadcast. They were closely following the leaders, catching every twist of the wrist, every subtle shift in body weight with some truly spectacular on-board camera shots.
As the camera followed the leaders down the straight it caught Luc coming back on track. The pack easily avoided him, braking hard into the right hand corner. Ryan led from Ritter with Yates third. Jimmy White squeezed his Durex Suzuki under Ricky Muir’s Virgin Yamaha leaving the lapped Frenchman rocking in their collective slipstream. Hardly had Luc exited the corner before Brett was past him. He was definitely closing down the leaders. I looked to the monitor for confirmation: Brett had just set a new lap record. The Rodber team members went wild, as did the commentators as they picked up on Brett’s lap time.
Greg dashed into our garage and returned seconds later with three radio headsets that allowed us to listen to the Euro-Sport commentary. He handed me one, put one on himself and gave the third to Bud. I slipped the headset over my ears and turned to watch the big screen.
“….Robinson will be with the leaders before you know it and we’ll have a free-for-all with only one winner.” Julian Rider was saying. “And I suspect it could be the rider who stays on when all about him lose their heads.”
“Well, it’s time to put your money on the block, Julian. Who is it going to be?” Ken asked.
“I have to go with the champion, Ken. Ritter’s proved his ability in a tight situation before and I think he will withstand the young pretenders to his throne today.”
“Well, I’ll take your ten-penny bet, Julian and I’m going with Russell Yates, who has just hit the lead. Yates under Ryan coming into Dingle Dell bend. What a brave move. The Rodber Racing Ducati leads,” He yelled excitedly.
The screen showed Russell leading from Ryan, Ritter, Muir and White bringing up the rear. Brett Robinson was now within ten bike lengths of White’s Suzuki.
I re-tuned the headset into the track commentator.
“ … Yates from Ryan with Ritter - No wait. it’s Ricky Muir around the outside of Stirling’s into third place with White dropping back a bike length or two into the clutches of Brett Robinson. Three laps to go as Yates leads the pack over the start/finish line only to be absolutely mugged by White coming right from the back on the brakes …. and he’s run wide…. the others stream past him again . . and he’s lost it to Robinson who takes fifth place.” The poor guy was getting hoarse.
It was a six-way fight now and anyone could win this. Michele and Julia were clamped on to each of my arms, fingernails practically drawing blood. Bud had fallen over his crutch in the excitement and Greg was pulling him to his feet. The pit wall was three deep with pit crew members now, all craning their necks for the first sight of the riders as they came onto the main straightaway in twenty seconds or so.
“ - Ritter fighting back now, passing Yates for second place - White follows him through …. how did he do that? There was no gap there. Yates tries to regroup from that move before the next corner but his young teammate has the run on him and … and … yes he’s through. The young South African is a man on a mission. Bobby Ryan, leader for so much of the race, is back in fifth fending off Ricky Muir who is trying go around the outside into Westfield Bend and they touch - they touch … Oh my word, how did they stay upright? They’ll be wearing each other’s paint next. Down to the fast right-hander they go …” The riders followed each other in line astern through Dingle Dell, Stirling’s and down Clearways into Clarke Curve. I found myself holding my breath. “… and they’re six abreast as they pop out of the leaders slipstream. This isn’t going to work - who will brake last? Who’s going to be the bravest on the breaks? It’s Ryan. The American has the lead again. From his team mate followed ever so closely by Robinson, White, Muir and Yates at the back of the leading pack now.”
“Oh God, I can’t look!” Michele cried, burying her face against my chest. Julia was screaming for Brett at the top of her lungs while pounding my arm. I was going to come out of this bruised and battered all over again.
“… Out of Dingle Dell one more time, White pops out of Robinson’s slipstream and slides inside going into the left-hand corner and regaining third spot … Yates does the same to Muir.. . and … the Honda Britain duo lead onto the start/finish straight to start the last lap. It’s anyone’s race, so long as you’re amongst these six riders. Seventh placed Tom Burton all alone now some thirteen seconds adrift.” He drew a much-needed breath and I realized that I was still holding my breath. “Last lap with Ritter leading from White now with Ryan coming under attack from both Rodber Ducati riders. Who’s going to be in third coming off the main straight? … it’s Yates from Robinson with Ryan slipping to fifth as White muscles him over to the outside of the track. Through the dip and up to Druids, it’s Yates inside both Hondas. Ryan runs wide and lets Robinson through, and there’s smoke pouring off his rear wheel as he struggles to find grip on a badly worn tyre.”
“Less than a lap to go. Let’s keep this together guys, please,” I muttered. Michele had decided she couldn’t not watch and had turned towards the big screen again. She was biting nervously on the knuckles of her left hand.
The riders swept around Coopers and onto the short back straight in line astern as if gathering themselves for one last mighty effort. Half a lap to go.
The commentator was practically incoherent. “… four corners to go and it’s Ritter again leading the pack… Yates past Robinson on the outside at Surtees … down Pilgrims drop and up to Hawthorn they go … with Muir and White side by side into the right-hander… Muir is down. Muir has lost it on the exit of Hawthorn bend … but he seems OK. He’s moving … White has lost some ground in that incident as the others exit Westfeld … Ritter, no it’s Ryan at Dingle Dell first and Yates going down his inside. They’re two abreast going into – oh . . Oh no … OH my gawd.”
I will remember that moment in slow motion for the rest of my life. We were staring at the big screen as the cameras caught Russell sliding sideways, front tyre followed by the rear which suddenly gripped and flung Russell Yates off his Ducati taking Bobby Ryan with him. One instant there were two superbikes side-by-side at eighty mi
le an hour and the next moment there was a horrific tangle of high-speed junk tumbling towards the barriers with two brave young men caught up in the middle of it. I felt a cold dread grip my insides; how could anyone survive that?
There was a sudden deathly silence around me. Someone down the pit lane began screaming hysterically outside the Honda Britain garage and I remembered hearing that Ryan’s new bride had arrived just this morning to watch her husband race.
On screen the marshals were quickly into action, yellow flags waving furiously at riders coming down the hill towards Dingle Dell. Four marshals had dragged huge mobile barriers in front of the fallen riders to protect them against any other bikes coming off. It also partially hid the two motionless bodies from the camera. Behind the pits I could hear the whine of a helicopter’s turbines as someone started the rescue flight ambulance just in case. I felt sure it was going to be needed.
Euro-Sport showed a small group of paramedics arriving in one of the track ambulances, dragging loads of equipment out of the back. The helicopter took off and moments later landed on the sand trap close to the crash site.
In all of this, almost no one noticed Brett Robinson cross the line to win his first superbike race in the British Championship. Mike Ritter trailed in second with James White third. Nobody did a victory lap.
Bud and Greg were standing shocked by my side. Michele was sobbing quietly and Julia had vanished into the garage.
Bud turned to me and said, “Simon, I think you should take the pit bike and go find out what’s happening. I’d go myself, but - ” He shrugged helplessly at his plaster cast leg.
“Yeah, sure. You’re right, Bud. Will you look after Brett at the podium? He’s going to need some support, OK?” Bud nodded his agreement. I gave Michele a brief hug and telling her to stay put, I went to find out if our number one rider was still alive.
The team pit bike was a sixty-cc off-road bike for kids, but it worked well for dashing about the garage complex. I fired it up and made my way around the inside of the circuit past the McLaren medical centre and around the inside of Stirling’s bend till I was on the inside of Dingle Dell corner.
There was no access to the track here so I propped the bike against the tyre wall barrier and scrambled over. A marshal made to stop me but I avoided his grasp and ran across the track leaving him to turn back two teenage boys.
Stanley Grey, the chief marshal, was standing by the ambulance. He lowered the radio he had been talking into as he saw me approach.
“Simon,” he said gravely.
“Hi, Stan.” I stopped where I was, frightened to go on. Afraid of what I might find.
“What’s happening?”
Stan shook his head. “It’s bad, mate. Bloody terrible.”
A paramedic rushed over to the ambulance to fetch a small red bag off the front seats. There was blood on his gloved hands. That couldn’t be good.
Stan’s radio crackled into life and he turned away from me to talk into the mouthpiece. I walked over to the mobile barrier. The first thing I saw was Ryan’s bike. I would never have recognized it as a Honda if it weren’t for the team colours on the shattered fairings. Further round and I could see the two groups of paramedics huddled over two prone, unmoving riders. Medical equipment was scattered around them. The medics closest to me were assisting the track hospital surgeon who had a bloody scalpel in his hand. Shit. That can not be good news. I thought. Dry mouthed, I turned back to Stan.
“Any idea on what’s happening, Stan?” I asked with a lump in my throat.
“Your boy is going directly to The Mountbatten General hospital in the helicopter for emergency surgery. Ryan will be taken to the track hospital where Doctor Bryant will tend to him.”
“What’s their condition, any idea?” I asked.
Stan shook his head. “You’ll have to ask Bryant when he’s back at the medical centre,” he answered, meaning the track facility. I nodded reluctantly and watched, as Russell was loaded into the helicopter. His racing leathers had been cut off. A bag of fluid, possibly blood, flowed into his arm via an IV line. It had been Russell that Bryant had been using the scalpel on.
We all ducked as the helicopter lifted off and turned away to the north, disappearing over the trees and out of sight. I listened to it until the sound of the rotors faded away. Ryan was loaded into the back of the ambulance. As it pulled away, Stan and I went to take a closer look at the million-pound wreckage that had recently been two superbly engineered racing machines.
“Don’t worry, Simon. My lads will stop the eager young onlookers from pinching souvenirs.” I gave his shoulder a squeeze of thanks and we started back to the hospital facility; Stan rode off in the pace car.
Outside the surgery door I caught up with Stan again, this time talking to Dan Simmons, the Honda Britain team manager. Dan looked grave. We looked at each other but said nothing. Time dragged. Ten minutes later Dr Bryant came through, stripping off a theatre gown soaked in blood. He motioned Dan over and quietly gave him the news. From Dan’s expression I could tell it wasn’t good.
Dan shook Bryant’s hand sadly and turned to leave. There were tears in his eyes. I gave his shoulder a sympathetic touch as he passed. He nodded and began the dreaded walk back to his team garage. He had some painful news for the new bride. Bobby Ryan was on a life support only because he was an organ donor.
We watched Dan go. Each of us glad we were not in his shoes. At least I hoped I wasn’t in his shoes.
“Doc?” I asked.
“Your boy’s in a serious condition, Simon, but I don’t think it’s critical,” He said. “Basically, he has a ruptured spleen, two broken arms, and a broken lower leg but most seriously, three ribs broke and one has pierced his right lung. They’ll be operating on him pretty much as we speak.”
I thanked him and turned to go, but Stan stopped me.
“About Ryan,” he said, “I would appreciate it if you don’t tell anyone about … you know … uh, just yet. We really should inform his relatives back in the States first.”
“Sure, Stan,” I replied. “If anyone should ask, I’ll simply say Bobby is still in the medical centre.” Stan and Bryant both nodded their thanks and turned to go. I walked back to give my team the news.
California was a long way to go for a funeral of someone that you hardly knew, but Julia, Michele and I, along with Bud, Brett and Geoff made the trip anyway. The Honda Britain team was there en masse of course.
The service was over by ten-thirty, they do things early out west, and we drifted in over-loaded hire cars to a large house belonging to Bobby Ryan’s father, for a memorial gathering. Bobby’s immediate family went with the coffin to the crematorium and joined us just before two o’clock.
The family handled it well, Bobby had after all been in a dangerous sport and they understood the risks. Ellen, widowed before the honeymoon was over, took it badly and departed with sedatives as soon as she could.
I found myself standing next to Dan Simmons holding a glass of single malt and looking uncomfortable.
“Poor kid,” he said. “Ellen, I mean. You know they were married the day before Bobby came over to Britain to join us? They spent just one night together before he left.”
“Why didn’t she come and stay in England with him?” I asked.
“She was finishing a degree, or masters in something or other at Caltech. She came over when she could but… they just never really had a life together, did they?”
“No. I guess not.” There wasn’t much else to say, was there?
Dan downed the scotch and sighed. “I’m out of here.”
“Hang on a sec, Dan, and I’ll come with you,” I said. “I’ll just round up Michele and see if Julia wants to come too.” Michele readily agreed but Brett wanted to stay, out of respect for Bobby. Julia shook her head at me. “I’ll stay with Brett, Simon, you go and I’ll see you both at the airport tomorrow.”
By four-fifteen Dan and I were doing justice to a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue i
n the hotel bar. Michele, having complained of a headache, had gone to bed early.
“So, Simon, what are you going to do now? Will you stay with the team?” Dan asked.
“I don’t really know, Dan. It’s kind of all up in the air, you know? I’m tempted to go on with a tour of the USA that I started nearly a year ago before I met Brett and Michele, but at the same time I think Julia and the Rodber team needs me. Maybe not. I don’t know.”
“Well, if you want a job, give me a call when you get back. OK?” he said, topping up both glasses.
“As a rider?”
Dan shook his head. “You’re too old, Simon.” He looked embarrassed to say that, me being fifteen years younger than him. “But you have proved you can run a team and I could always use good help.”
“Too old. Bugger me, Dan, I’m thirty-four, or thirty-five, I forget.”
Dan shrugged apologetically and giving me a friendly pat on the shoulder he stood. “I’ll see you sometime.”
I stared morosely into my empty glass. What to do? I didn’t have to work anymore. My bank balance was safely over the £300 000 mark again, and there was the million quid in the deposit box too. The trouble was that thirty-four, or thirty-five, is a young age to retire at and a new career didn’t seem to readily suggest itself: unless I took up selling industrial secrets to lying, murdering international businessmen for a living. Of course, there was always Travolta and the movie deal, except that that would kind of let the cat out of the bag to the British and Algerian police.
Ah well, I’d have one more drink, and then go and sleep on it.
Cha pter 28
Heathrow airport, again. Brett and Michele Robinson were going back home to South Africa. Not to stay, however. Brett would be back next year. After winning three out of the four remaining races he would be considered a real contender for the championship next year and had been offered a ride with one of the big works teams. He turned them down to stay with Rodber though. Well, what do you expect; his future wife owns the team.
Brett checked their luggage through and shook my hand at the “Passengers only from this point” sign. Michele wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed me fiercely.