The paddock was alive early, and the sound of revving engines meant a long lie in bed was all but impossible. Not that a long lie-in would have been desirable anyway, as Dave’s definition of getting the guest quarters prepared was slightly different to what Frank and Stan had imagined.
“Morning, teammates!” said Dave enthusiastically. “Did you sleep okay?”
Dave lay back on the mattress, arms stretched out across the width of it, with Frank cushioned into one of his armpits and Stan into the other. Despite the circumstance, his excited smile remained infectious.
“Sorry for the smell, chaps, but I wasn’t expecting any company other than Monty, and sleeping in the back of a transit van doesn’t give you the best of showering facilities.”
“It’s fine,” said Stan graciously. “But I do feel a bit guilty about throwing Monty out of his bed. Is that couch comfortable?”
“He’ll be fine on that couch.”
“Thinking about it,” said Stan. “You both live over here, so what are you doing sleeping in the back of your van?”
“Because I love it,” Dave said. “I love every aspect of the fortnight — the smells, the noise, the atmosphere, the comradery. I love everything about it and if I sleep at home I feel like I’m missing out on something. Monty’s the same, he can’t get enough of it, either.”
“Look, Dave,” said Frank. “It’s really generous of you to put us up last night. But I don’t think the three of us can sleep in the back of your van another night. We’ll try and get a hotel sorted, if you don’t mind. Just so you know, and I know we’d had a few beers on board, but I’m deadly serious about the engine.”
Dave jumped up. “Fantastic! If I can get me some logos from your website or something, I’ll get the printers to sort the stickers out.”
“Can we put one on your helmet?” asked Stan.
“Oo-er, Matron, you won’t see it for my trousers. Not a problem, I’ll get that sorted,” Dave said. “If you don’t mind, gents,” he continued, “I’m going to get on. I need to source the engine, and see if we can get the bike up to the test track in Jurby to give her a run out. Take my phone number, and if you need anything while you’re here, just let me know? The practices are on tonight and if you want to come up here to the pits and watch, you can help the guys with refuelling, or, I’ll give you a fantastic spot to watch from. We’re going to get to a hundred and five miles per hour this time. I can feel it in my water!”
“A hundred and five miles per hour?” asked Stan, very underwhelmed. “I’ve done that in my taxi going up the M6.”
“I like your spunk!” said Dave. “That’s the average speed over the entire length of the course, though. You wouldn’t be doing that in your taxi, not unless it had wings!”
Monty appeared, clutching sausage baps. He was an interesting character; his passion and zeal were immediately apparent, and Frank and Stan warmed to him instantly. Like Dave, it was evident from their generous waistlines that they weren’t natural athletes, but what they lacked in sporting prowess they made up for in gusto.
The thought of staying in the back of a transit van was far from appealing the night before, but within half an hour in their company, listening to their stories of previous TTs, they got it, they understood, and sleeping on a couch in the middle of a field made perfect sense.
Frank and Stan left their bags with Dave and walked down to Douglas Promenade, covered in the stale aroma that came from three men sharing a bed for the evening.
“I’ve got an idea,” said Stan, placing his phone to his ear.
“Yes, hello, Stella? Stella, its Stan.”
He struggled to hear as the sound of a passing bike thundered in front of him. “Stella, it’s Stan, can you hear me?”
He nodded his head before turning to Frank, saying, “We’re dickheads, apparently.” And, back to Stella, “Thanks for that, Stella. What’ve we done wrong, then? Well, what’s Lee done wrong?”
He continued to nod. “Okay, well, that’s good. That’s what we wanted him to do… I know the office isn’t a soddin’ drop-in centre. Stella, listen, I don’t have a lot of charge left on my phone. Me and Frank are struggling to get a hotel. We need you to phone a few and see if you can get us a reservation. We’re going to walk round a few but it’ll be quicker if you can phone? Okay, great, a-ha… Thanks, Stella.”
“Sorted?” asked Frank.
Stan smiled. “She said she’s not our fucking secretary, so no, not sorted. Remind me why we employ her again?”
“Great. And what’s Lee done to annoy her?” asked Frank.
“Nothing. He’s had people dropping clothes off at the office to give out to the homeless. And he’s given a collection bucket to every driver on the night shift. He raised over fourteen-hundred quid last night!”
“What! That’s amazing!”
Frank looked concerned as they continued walking along the promenade.
“There’s not quite as many hotels as I remember. It looks like there are more apartment blocks now. I don’t think this is going to be a success, judging by the no vacancies signs in the windows. I’m starting to think we need to—”
“Phone the crazy Dutch bloke?” interrupted Stan.
“It’s either that or another night in the back of the transit van, with Dave’s underarms for pillows.”
“I’m ringing Henk now!”
Chapter Nine
M onty was, without doubt, the most enthusiastic co-pilot a man could wish for. He’d taken to racing later in life than most, and it could be argued he wasn’t the best there was. But he wasn’t just about the glory of turning up to race; he was the man who was committed all year round. It was only his second year now racing with Dave, but he was always as excited as a dog eating chips. Nothing was a chore and every task was met with complete commitment.
“There’s good and bad news,” declared Monty.
Dave popped his head from under the sidecar. “You’ve found a page-three model, but she’s only got eyes for me?”
“No, well, not yet,” Monty said, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “I’ve just found us an engine!”
Dave jumped up. “That’s amazing! Well done! Why’s that bad news? The cost?”
“I don’t know about the cost. But it belongs to the McMullan brothers. Tom’s fractured wrist hadn’t healed as well as they thought, as it turns out, and he’s had to pull out of the race.”
“Fuck. Well, that’s that, then. I’m not going cap-in-hand to them couple of arseholes. I’ll just get on the phone and see if I can get a standard engine.”
“Dave, it may have escaped your notice, but we’re not exactly the slimmest guys on the paddock. We need every horsepower we can get hold of. Otherwise it’ll be as slow as driving in treacle.”
“Or Lyle’s Golden Syrup,” Dave said dreamily.
“Dave! Snap out of it! We need their engine!”
Dave crossed his arms and caressed the two-day growth on his chin. They’d both worked all year for this; pride was telling him to forget it, but deep down, he knew it was the only opportunity to race. If they had a standard engine, it’d be that slow carrying the pair of them that they’d have no chance of getting a qualifying time to race.
“Aw, bollocks. Okay, I’ll do it. I don’t like it. But I’ll do it.”
Monty slapped him on the back. “Just focus on the hundred-and-five miles per hour, Dave. Just focus.”
The McMullan brothers had funding, and with that came the best of everything: motorhome, equipment, leathers, you name it, they had it. They were talented, all right, but just thoroughly repugnant. Dave marched across the paddock, rehearsing what he was going to say. His inner voice was calm and conciliatory, but as soon as he clapped eyes on Tom or Harry, he knew he’d have to resist the urge to stick a torque wrench where it didn’t belong.
As he walked along, Dave gained some small satisfaction by considering the correct application of the wrench, working out just how many ft-lbs of pressure might b
e applied.
Harry McMullan sat under his canopy looking forlorn. A stream of fans waited patiently to get a programme signed or a photograph with him. He wasn’t interested, and his signature in their prized possession was nothing but a scrawl. Dave waited patiently as the small queue dispersed. Harry signed the last programme and looked up at Dave.
“You want a photograph with me?” said McMullan, pretending not to recognise him, and then, “Oh. Apologies. Are you here to empty the chemical toilet?”
A hundred and eighty foot-pounds, Dave thought. A hundred and eighty should be about right.
“I’m sorry to hear about your brother, Harry,” Dave managed diplomatically. “I understand he cannot drive, because of his wrist?”
McMullan didn’t respond; he just sat scraping oily grime from under his fingernails with a penknife.
“Harry, I know we’ve never got on, but—”
“Twenty grand,” Harry said without raising his head. “For the engine. Twenty grand and it’s yours.”
Dave’s composure quickly evaporated. “You know what, Harry, you’re such a prick. You can stick the engine up your sanctimonious, scrawny arse.”
McMullan laughed. “That engine is the best-tuned on the Island, ready to race, and could be in your fleapit of an awning in ten minutes, good to go out and practise tonight.”
“Even if I had that sort of money, I’d rather employ a hitman than give it to you.”
“Fine, should I tell my brother you were asking after him?”
“No,” said Dave. “I’ve got a funny feeling you’re going to be joining him in the fracture clinic, though.”
“Temper, temper!”
Dave turned his back on him. “Oh, do you know what? Stick it. You and your dopey brother can kiss my hairy Manx arse.”
Harry let him walk to the entrance before standing theatrically.
“Okay, okay, out of respect for a fellow racer, I’ll do you a deal.”
Dave wanted to carry on walking, but had to listen to what McMullan might have to say. He stopped, but didn’t turn round.
“Go on, then.”
“Dave, for you, I’m going to let you have the engine for the princely sum of… one pound.”
Dave looked over his shoulder, fists clenched, certain McMullan was taking the piss, and he did not fancy being made a fool of.
The look in Dave’s eyes was one of dire enmity. Harry was arrogant, but knew if Dave hit him he’d wake up at the end of the week. “Ah, temper, Dave,” he said, raising his hands in submission. “I’m being deadly serious now. The engine is yours. No charge.”
Dave turned to face McMullan. He was irritated, but needed to see where this was heading.
“Let’s not do that thing they do in films where there is a last-minute demand and an audible exhale of surprise. We both know you want something, so out with it.”
“Okay, Dave. As you know, Tom cannot drive because of his wrist, but there’s nothing wrong with me. Get rid of that Minty fellow and I’ll be your passenger.”
“It’s Monty. And not a hope in hell.”
“Dave, don’t be an idiot. I’m the best passenger you could have, and you’d have the best engine. You could get a hundred-and-ten-mile-per-hour lap, no problem.”
Harry stepped closer. “Dave, I’m being deadly serious here. I’ve met Monty. He’s a nice enough bloke, but come on, he’s not a very good passenger and you know it. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. You will never get the chance to have this package again. Monty would understand, if he’s a friend, he’d never let you pass up on this opportunity.”
Dave stood silent. But he was still listening.
“Dave, you’re, what, early forties? This is your last chance to compete at this level. Don’t let your pride get in the way of this opportunity. This is everything you’ve ever wanted.”
Harry McMullen took a chance, a rather large chance, and stretched up — because it was a stretch — to place both his hands up on Dave’s shoulders.
“Forget about Monty.”
Chapter Ten
N ext time, let me arrange the travel bookings?” said Frank, wiping sweat from his face.
“What?” protested Stan. “We’ve been here a day and the boat was fine, you’ve had a nice sleep—”
“In the back of a bloody van!”
“You’ve had a nice sleep,” repeated Stan. “The crazy man has offered us accommodation, and now I’ve arranged us transport. All in all, that’s not a bad result, I would say. Now stop your bloody whinging and carry on pedalling.”
“I’m not a well man,” continued Frank. “I’m on my last legs and you’ve got my legs out cycling.”
“Stop being so melodramatic, Frank. A bit of gentle exercise will do you good, besides, and that’s why I’ve gotten us a tandem bike.”
“I still need to pedal, though, Stan, and I’ve not showered for some time, so my personal hygiene would, at best, be considered questionable. This is not helping.”
“Hardly peddling — it’s an electric bike. Every car was booked out, so this is the next best thing. Can you have a look at the maps on your phone and see where Henk’s house is?”
“Already done. I’ll give you directions, but I don’t have much life left in my phone so we’ll need to be fairly quick — turn that electric engine up to maximum.”
With the battery on the bike it was like having the benefit of a prevailing wind providing a gentle push along, and Frank’s scepticism was soon replaced with a huge smile. It’d been years since he’d been on a bike.
Broadway was a challenging incline which led from Douglas Promenade all the way up to the top of Bray Hill, a short distance from the Grandstand, but with modern technology and two pairs of legs, they made short work of it. The house was in the general direction of the Grandstand, and from where they’d just come from.
“That dog is looking a bit too interested in us!” shouted Stan in between several heavy breaths.
An ugly dog with a face like it’d been hit with a spade was jogging parallel to them, on the pavement. They were at the steepest part of the hill, but, Stan, spurred on by being stalked like prey, found a final burst of energy and increased speed.
“Come on, Frank, put some effort in,” he said as he pressed frantically on the control panel of the bike, trying to draw a further burst from the battery.
The dog kept pace without breaking a sweat, so to speak, and it started to increase its canter as it jumped from the pavement and onto the road.
“Shit!” shouted Frank. “It’s directly behind us now! And it doesn’t look too happy! Wait, no, it’s hard to tell with that mashed-in face…”
“Well is it happy or unhappy?” Stan asked desperately.
“Yeah, no, it’s started to growl. So definitely unhappy, I’d say.”
Stan gave it everything and they were soon doing a pace that Bradley Wiggins would be proud of. Even so…
“It’s not good, Stan!” Frank warned. “It’s gaining on us.”
“Kick the little bastard!” shouted Stan.
“I’m bloody pedalling! How can I kick it?”
Stan arched his neck and the bike wobbled unsteadily.
“I feel like a bloody gazelle on the Serengeti being stalked by a malnourished lion!” said Stan.
“Only not a gazelle,” Frank offered. “Maybe more like a water buffalo?”
“Do something, Frank! Throw something at it!” shouted Stan with increasing panic. “I bloody hate dogs!”
“What can I throw at it? I haven’t gotten anything to throw!” said Frank.
“Do I have to think of everything?” yelled Stan. “Throw your shoe at it!”
“But I need my shoes!” protested Frank. “How else am I going to get about?”
“You’ll still have the one! And, besides. If that dog gets hold of your leg, one is all you’ll need anyhow as your leg will end up its dinner!”
Frank struggled with his shoe and the momentum of the bike. H
e’d soon worked it loose and, like a pilot opening the bomb bay doors, he lined up his target with precision. He released the weapon, and it flew directly towards their four-footed pursuer.
The dog lifted its head and gratefully caught Frank’s shoe in its maw with ease.
“Well?” shouted Stan.
“It’s eating my bloody shoe!” shouted Frank. “But I think it’s only made him angrier, there’s some sort of white foam running down its face! Look, we’re going to have to stop.”
“What? That’s hardly a good plan, Frank!”
“I’m knackered, I can’t pedal anymore!”
With no other option available, they pulled over to the side of the road, with concerned drivers — who’d witnessed the chase — observing the spectacle as they passed by. They were not concerned enough, unfortunately, to stop and render assistance, it would seem.
The dog dropped the shoe and made straight for Stan’s waist, where it latched onto his trousers. Frank picked up his shoe — which was covered in puncture wounds and slobber — and started to hit the dog, but to little effect. The dog shook its head furiously, and with minimal resistance, most of Stan’s left trouser leg came away and now flapped in the wind from the canine’s jaws.
“Little bastard’s got my trousers!” screamed Stan.
The dog’s focus turned toward the pocket area of what up till very recently had been Stan’s trouser leg, and tore at it until a large pork pie fell out and rolled merrily down the hill. The dog turned and ran after it.
“A pork pie!” shouted Frank. “That’s what it was after! Why did you let me throw my shoe — which cost two-hundred pounds — when you had a pie in your pocket!”
“I was hungry,” said Stan by way of explanation.
“You were hungry! My shoe now has rabies because you were hungry!”
“And it was a gala pork pie,” added Stan.
“A gala pork pie?” demanded Frank.
“Yes. The kind with a hard-cooked egg in the middle.”
“I know what it is!” Frank shouted.
“They’re my favourite,” said Stan, shrugging his shoulders, as if this should have been both obvious and explanation enough.
Frank 'n' Stan's bucket list - #1: TT Races - Poignant, uplifting and exceptionally funny! Page 9