Monty took the toothbrush, inspected it, and, apparently satisfied it still had remnants of toothpaste on it, set about giving his teeth a bit of a spot clean.
Chapter Fourteen
Tuesday Evening – Practice Session
S tan paced back and forth.
“I feel sick. Honestly, I could throw up,” he said, rubbing his stomach for maximum effect.
“Have one of these,” suggested Frank, handing him a cheeseburger. “This’ll settle the nerves!”
“Has Dave been back in touch?” asked Stan, checking his phone again. “Do you think the engine was overpriced?”
Frank checked his phone as well. “Nothing since the last call, and no, I don’t think we paid too much. The only thing overpriced is this bloody burger,” said Frank, now grimacing at the plastic cheese dripping onto the saturated grease-proof paper.
“The money is all relative anyhow,” Frank continued on. “We have it, and look what we’ve been able to do. We’ve got Dave and Monty back in the TT races, we’ll get good advertising for the charity, and when was the last time you were this excited. Tell me you’ve ever been this brought to life by having money just sat in your bank account?”
The novice, but eager, team sponsors were stood at the foot of Bray Hill, one of the most iconic spots on the entire course — a steep, downhill section of the course which, when negotiating, must have felt like riding off the edge of the earth. Unsure of their directions, Frank and Stan had arrived early, before the roads closed, and watched the locals commute before the start of the practice session.
It was difficult to conceive that bikes would soon be hurtling down the hill at speeds of up to 170 mph inches from where they stood. It was still early in practice week, but the crowds began to descend on the popular vantage point.
“Chuck me one of those beers, will you?” asked Stan. “That will drown out the butterflies.”
“Ooh, phone’s ringing,” said Frank. “Hello?” he asked, answering it.
Frank listened for a moment before shaking his head and covering the mouthpiece. “It’s Stella, not Dave,” he said, before listening again. “Okay, okay, okay, Stella, you don’t need to shout at me.”
“She’s upset about something!” whispered Frank to Stan, the phone held away at arm’s length, ensuring Stella was out of range.
“Why? What’s she on about?” Stan asked.
Frank shrugged his shoulders and prepared for a second salvo. He placed the phone back against his ear.
“Stella, take the fag out of your mouth and take a deep breath — of air, luv, not the fag. What’s up?”
Those spectators near to Frank eased a little closer, hoping, no doubt, to eavesdrop on this juicy convo that must have sounded to them, from what they could hear, very much like an outraged wife chastising her husband for venturing out to the races.
Frank paid the interlopers no mind and listened intently, periodically moving the phone away from his ear to protect his tympanic membrane. Confused, he leaned toward Stan and asked, “Who the hell is Arthur?”
It was Stan’s turn to shrug his shoulders. “No idea, why?”
“She’s going mad about someone called Arthur,” Frank said. And then, back into the phone, “Stella, calling your employers a couple of imbeciles is not very nice, not to mention poor business practice. We have no idea who this Arthur is.”
“Oh. So Lee’s employed him, has he?” said Frank. “Right. This is all news to…” He paused for a moment, listening, and then, “Ah. Oh, yes. That Arthur. Yes, we knew all about it and we told him you’d give him a warm welcome, which, from what you’ve just said, sounds like you’ve given him.”
Stan laughed silently, his shoulders bobbing up and down.
“Anyway, Stella, it sounds like you’ve got everything in hand over there,” Frank told her. “I must go because we’re having a can of something cold, presently, before the practices start. Okay… okay… yes… yes, lovely to speak with you as well. Cheers.”
“What did she say?” asked Stan.
“She told me to stick my can of beer up your arse… and then drink it.”
Stan nodded his head. “Nice. Yes, that’s certainly our Stella, bless her. Anyway, so who’s this Arthur fella?”
“No idea. I didn’t want Stella to think we didn’t know — it’s not good for staff discipline. She’s a bit upset because some ‘mumbling old codger’ has joined Lee working in the office. Apparently, he’s helping Lee out with the charity. I’ll give him a ring in a bit to see what’s going on.”
“Do you think we’ve made a good choice with Lee?” asked Stan.
“Well, the other reason she’s upset is because she’s been counting coins all day. Lee asked the drivers if they’d help out with a bit of fundraising and put a collection in their cars. In two days, they’ve raised just over three thousand pounds.”
“That’s amazing,” said Stan.
“It’s bloody brilliant! Stella said the safe in the office is almost bursting.”
Once again, the sidecars were due to go out on the later session, after the solo bikes. Stan and Frank didn’t have Henk or his radio with them tonight, but a giant speaker near where they stood blared out Radio TT for the benefit of those assembled. The viewing numbers had swelled considerably by this point, and unlike their location the previous evening, they were not covered by trees, and they basked in the gloriously sunny Manx evening. The atmosphere was electric and the anticipation in the air was palpable, and the commentator on the radio was getting more excitable as the start of the session approached.
Fortunately, due to their early arrival, they had a prime viewing spot, with a crowd approximately ten or eleven deep behind them. Parents stood with eager children wearing ear protectors on their shoulders. The still calmness of the empty road was, once again, unnerving and slightly eerie — but it only enhanced the feeling of anticipation.
As soon as the commentator called the first two riders away, the crowd stood to attention and stretched their necks out. The start line was out of view — only half-a-mile or so up the road — and the noise of the engines echoed through the still air.
The arrival of the first two bikes a moment later was an outright assault on the senses, and, from seeing sedate traffic a short while earlier, to bikes hurtling past them now, was epic. They were stood near a traffic light with a protective cushion wrapped around it, but, with the speed the participants were going, a bouncy castle between them wouldn’t have been much use if the riders didn’t navigate the gentle right-hander at the foot of the hill.
There was a slight dip in the road, which wasn’t apparent to the naked eye, and Frank nearly ended up on top of Stan when the first rider bottomed out his machine — causing a stream of brilliant sparks to fly out from the bottom of the fairing — before disappearing up Quarterbridge Road.
“Holy shit!” screamed Stan. “That’s unbelievable!”
Stan wasn’t the only one grinning like a schoolboy. Everyone around them had the same reaction. There was even a schoolboy next to them — sat on his dad’s shoulders — grinning like a schoolboy, and doing an especially good job of it.
“I’ve been going to the football for years,” Frank told Stan during a brief recess in the action. “And this beats football no end!”
They, like most of the crowd, stood slack-jawed for the remainder of the solo session, which went on for over an hour. The action was breathtaking.
There was a brief lull after the last of the solos roared by.
“My ears are ringing,” said Frank. “Sidecars next!”
“Give me another beer, will you?” asked Stan. “My stomach’s flipping something crazy.”
It was getting later in the evening, and the crowd had thinned out slightly. Stan was pacing back and forth once more. “Our friend’s in this,” he was saying, to himself as much as to anyone willing to listen. “He’s got one of the fastest engines out there!” he added, like he knew what he was talking about.
The screaming of an engine over the loudspeaker signalled the departure of the first sidecar. The sidecars were set off on their own, ten seconds apart, and it wouldn’t be long at all before the first of them made its appearance.
“What number are they again?” shouted Stan.
Frank raised his fingers and signalled a four and a two.
“Our friend’s forty-two!” announced Stan, like an expectant father, to those within earshot. “We’re his sponsors!” he explained, to make clear that he and Frank were the proud parents.
Frank counted the sidecars down till they were approaching forty.
“Any minute now,” said Frank. “Get your camera ready!”
Thirty-nine, forty, forty-one, and then forty-three and forty-four passed by…
“What happened? Did I miss them?” asked Stan, popping his head up from behind his camera phone.
“I don’t think so?” Frank offered.
Eventually, Number Forty-Two trundled past, visibly slower than any of the other bikes had been.
“He wasn’t exactly flying, was he?” Stan said.
Frank shook his head. “No, it didn’t look like it. Did you manage to get a photo, then?”
“Get a photo? He was going that slow I could have painted a watercolour of him! Still, at least everyone could get a good look at the charity logo. It did look quite nice. Maybe that’s his game?” wondered Stan.
“Or maybe he’s just getting used to the track again?” suggested Frank.
“He’s cagey,” offered Stan. “Playing it close to the vest. It looked like he sped up a bit after he went by, though?”
“Stan, can you get that app working on your phone? The timing one Henk told us about?” Frank asked.
The two watched the live timing feed, which showed the competitors as they passed through timing beacons located at key points around the course.
“There he is!” shouted Stan. “He’s still going.”
Frank put his arm around Stan as they stood in the middle of a patch of grass, next to dozens of people they’d never met, listening to a giant speaker, and sharing a look at Stan’s mobile phone. It was surreal, but also strangely compelling.
“Go on, Dave and Monty!” shouted Stan. “We sponsor them,” he said, looking around, proper chuffed, in case people had missed it the first time.
“It looks like they’ve found their rhythm, they’ve started to pick up the pace,” he said to Frank. “Go on, you beauties!” he bellowed at the phone.
They were gripped as Dave broke the timing beacon at both the Glen Helen section and the famous Ballaugh Bridge — where bikes would often become airborne, making for a spectacular photo opportunity.
The radio commentary enhanced the experience, and Frank and Stan erupted as the announcer gave a mention to Team Frank ’n’ Stan, and how Dave was a late entry and nearly didn’t make it.
“That’s us!” shouted Stan, giving a high-five to those within reaching distance.
Those around them didn’t turn their nose up at these two excitable idiots; they shared in their joy, and because they were part of all this, they seemed to understand their excitement perfectly well.
The riders first out were soon approaching the grandstand at the end of their lap, and the air growled in the distance with the sound of raw horsepower. The backmarkers, which included Dave and Monty, were yet to break the beam at the Ramsey Hairpin — a challenging part of the track located near to the twenty-fifth milestone.
Frank hit the refresh button on the phone.
“Should he not be there by now? Number Fifty-Two is showing ahead of them.”
They waited, impatiently, desperate for an update. By now, those stood near them were caught up in the enthusiasm, arching their necks to follow the progress of Dave and Monty.
Frank looked at Stan. “Where the hell is…?”
One of the marshals stood a few feet from their location moved at pace, and began frantically waving a red flag.
“What’s he doing? What’s going on?” Said Frank, looking at those around him for an answer.
Outfit Number Three, which had begun their second lap, eased gracefully to a stop in front of them.
“Why’s he stopped?” continued Frank.
The man with the child on his shoulder took a step back. “The race has been stopped,” he explained.
“The race has been stopped,” repeated the boy on the man’s shoulders, in case Dad hadn’t explained it well enough.
“Stopped? But why?” asked Stan. “Why would they stop it?”
Both Frank and Stan suspected they knew the answer, even though they were reluctant to hear it.
“It could be a number of reasons,” the dad said sympathetically. “But, one of them is that there could have been an incident on the track.”
Stan looked at Frank and then back to the man. “But it could be something else, yes?”
“Well, yes,” said Dad.
“It could be something else,” agreed Boy.
“If, for example, an ambulance had to get to a resident inside the course,” offered the man. “Or an animal was loose. They would stop the race.”
“If an animal was loose,” added the boy helpfully.
The group moved closer to the radio loudspeaker, desperate for an update.
“They didn’t make it to the next beacon. What if something’s happened to them? What if we’ve given them an engine and something’s happened to them,” Frank said, the last more a statement than a question, with Frank contemplating the very real possibility.
Frank’s mouth was dry. He looked for consolation from the faces around him, but it was not forthcoming. The jovial atmosphere was turned sombre the second the red flag had been waved. He took another look at his phone, willing Number Forty-Two to have appeared at Ramsey Hairpin, but it hadn’t, and it was evident from the number of bikes that had overtaken them that Dave and Monty were missing.
“They must have broken down,” said Stan, with little conviction. “Maybe a problem with the new engine?”
He was trying to convince himself as much as Frank, and Frank nodded his head, but he wasn’t listening — his attention was focussed completely on the radio commentary for an update. But without a practice session to comment on, music was being played over the speakers in the interim. Unfortunately, this only served to heighten Frank and Stan’s apprehension and frustration.
They stood in contemplation for what seemed like an absolute age. They’d only known Dave and Monty for a short while, but they were all of them a team now, and the wait was agony.
The music ended…
The sound of someone clearing his throat…
We’ve had news from Race Control.
This was Tim Glover, the announcer, of Radio TT. There was a collective hush as the crowd hung on every word. The announcer cleared his throat once again, before continuing…
I regret to report that there has been an incident near to the Sulby Straight section of the course. We have no information on those involved, but we’ve been told that the evening practice session will now be brought to a close. We’ll update you as soon as we are given more information.
“Where’s Sulby Straight?” said Frank, looking at the man with the child once again.
The man looked pale, and he took his son from his shoulders and placed him on the ground.
“Is it before Ramsey Hairpin?” Stan asked.
The father stood there, eyes raised up, working it out.
“I’m afraid it is,” Dad said softly after a moment, his eyes returning down to earth. “If your friends went through Ballaugh Bridge, and didn’t arrive at Ramsey Hairpin, then it is possible that they were in that section, near to the Sulby Straight.”
“Near to the Sulby Straight,” Boy said, his young face creased with genuine concern.
Frank put his hand to his head. He walked in a circle, feeling lost. He stared blankly at the red flag still being brandished by the marshal.
“Blood
y hell, Stan, this doesn’t look good.” He took a deep breath and rubbed his forehead. “What if something has happened to Dave and Monty?”
“I don’t know, mate,” said Stan, the worry lines in his face showing prominently. “I don’t know…”
Chapter Fifteen
Wednesday – Practice Week
A rthur struggled with the chain coiled between two metal door handles. A rusty padlock gave the impression that the door was fastened securely, but — a spot of luck — a tug opened it up, with a bit of iron oxide dust falling to the floor.
“Let me,” said Lee, pulling the heavy chain free.
“I’m thinking of taking up a self-defence class, Lee.”
“Impressive,” replied Lee, nodding his head in approval. “But you’re not on the streets anymore. Is it more for fitness, then?”
“No, I’m starting to think I need to defend myself against that woman in the taxi office, Stella. She’s a bit, ah… intimidating. She looks like she wants to attack me. Or eat me. I’m not sure which.”
“She’s a big lump, but she wouldn’t attack you, Arthur!”
“I’m not so sure. I don’t think she wants either of us in the office. She hid my chair today.”
Lee patted Arthur on the back. “She’s probably just teasing — you know, like some sort of taxi-related initiation.”
“I don’t know,” said Arthur. “She spat in my cup of tea yesterday. Would that be considered a normal part of taxi-related initiations?”
“What??” Lee responded. “She wouldn’t have done something like that, surely? How do you know?”
“I was holding the cup when she did it!” replied Arthur.
“We’ll stick together, Arthur. Besides, we’re only in there until Frank and Stan come back. They said we’ll look for something elsewhere, so it’s only a temporary measure.”
Lee flicked the switch on his pocket torch, illuminating the dark brick walls which glistened from the light of the torch off fresh rainwater running down having taken advantage of the missing roof tiles. “You sure they’re staying here? There doesn’t seem to be much sign of life.”
Frank 'n' Stan's bucket list - #1: TT Races - Poignant, uplifting and exceptionally funny! Page 13