Frank 'n' Stan's bucket list - #1: TT Races - Poignant, uplifting and exceptionally funny!

by J. C. Williams

  Frank leaned on a metal fence that kept the Bushy’s drinkers safely away from the busy road. The passing traffic was like a beauty parade of bikers on a constant loop, and made for compelling viewing. A collective cheer would erupt as reward to any biker providing entertainment to the crowd. Frank had zoned out, but the melancholy he felt earlier in the day was this time replaced with a warm sense of appreciation.

  The volume from the crowd increased ten-fold, snapping Frank out of his trance, and was followed by a rapturous round of applause.

  “What was that?” asked Stan, handing over a plastic beaker of beer.

  “A yellow bike just did a wheelie and the girl on the back decided, it would seem, that it would be an even more enjoyable experience with her top off.”

  “Oh, poor dear, she’ll catch cold,” remarked Stan.

  Frank laughed. “Only a gay man or her father would say that. I bet you don’t know where to look with all these men in leather!”

  Stan cleared his throat. “I’m sure I hadn’t noticed. We should venture over to the fair later,” he said, changing the subject. “It’s been years since I’ve been on the dodgem cars, and we can try and win an oversized teddy bear by throwing a bent arrow. I think they’ve also got those mini motorbikes. We should have a go on them!”

  Frank motioned toward the pavement. “Oh, look. There’s a two-pound coin on the floor, just there.”

  Stan twisted his neck before discreetly walking closer. As anybody who’s picked up money in a crowd, Stan turned into a character from a black-and-white silent film, overacting every movement. He gave a forced yawn, stretching his arms above his head. As if by magic, he noticed that the lace on his shoe was showing the early stages of wriggling loose. With a final glance over his shoulder, he moved his right foot forward and lowered himself onto his left knee. He pulled at the shoelace and discovered that it didn’t actually need adjustment, and, whilst near the floor, discreetly reached for the two-pound coin. It was stubborn, and his fingernails were trimmed neatly, likely making purchase on the coin difficult. He casually reached out for it once more, but it wouldn’t move. Undeterred, he made a half-arsed attempt to ruffle his shoelace, once again, before reaching for the coin, this time with both hands. He now had four fingers attached tighter than a pair of pliers, but the bloody thing wouldn’t shift. He looked as if he were about to remove his shoe, perhaps to try and hammer the coin loose with its heel.

  Stan shook his head, and, in a moment of clarity, looked up at Frank and several other people who were stood over him laughing.

  “You bastard, Frank! You knew that it was glued to the tarmac!”

  “Guilty as charged,” admitted Frank cheerfully. “I saw some other cheapskate doing the same thing while you were at the bar. At least you’re going to be famous, though” he said in reference to the camera phones pointed at him. “Come on, your beer’s going warm.”

  Stan re-joined Frank. “That was a dirty trick,” he said.

  “The best kind,” said Frank.

  The pair wandered two steps forward and one step back up Douglas Promenade, accompanied by a three-foot teddy bear.

  “I knew you could win him,” said Frank. “I had faith in you,” he said, slurring his words slightly.

  “It would have been cheaper to just buy a bloody bear. I must have spent thirty quid trying to shoot a pellet gun that’d clearly had the barrel bent to one side,” Stan said.

  “Sometimes the barrel is bent but the gun still shoots straight,” Frank said.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” asked Stan.

  “I honestly have no idea,” Frank said, and they both had to laugh.

  Stan clutched his teddy, which he’d name Harold.

  Frank had the happy, vacant smile of a man who’d participated in one too many libations. “But, you had a good time, didn’t you?”

  “I did, old pal, I did. How’s your knee?” asked Stan.

  “I’d forgotten about that,” replied Frank.

  “I think your trousers are for the bin, judging by the hole in the knee.”

  “I was quick, though. I’m going to buy one of those mini motorbikes when I get home,” insisted Frank.

  “Mmm, you probably shouldn’t,” advised Stan, reliving the moment of the tumble on his mobile phone. “If you look at this, Frank, when you get to the corner, you’re supposed to negotiate it, not pile straight on. You’re lucky the policeman had a sense of humour. Still, at least you’ve had more laps than Dave and Monty!”

  “I love you, Stan, you know that. And you, Henry.”

  “It’s Harold,” said Stan, taking the arm of the bear and slapping Frank in the face with it. “I love you, too, you daft old bugger.”

  Harold said nothing, but it was assumed he felt the same.

  A young couple sharing a carton of chips smiled at Frank, Stan, and the large teddy as they meandered unsteadily along the promenade. Amongst the three of them, it was unclear who was supporting who.

  Stan started to chuckle to himself. “You know I said I’d get you back for the coin incident?”

  “… Yes…” replied Frank warily, waiting for the explanation that was sure to follow.

  “Well, when you were doing your Joey Dunlop impression earlier, trying to break lap records, I think I may have sent Stella a text from your phone telling her that you’d developed feelings for her… beyond friendship.”

  “You think!”

  “Well, no, I did.”

  “You bastard! I wondered why she sent me a text calling me a repulsive-looking slob that she wouldn’t piss on if I was on fire. You need to call her tomorrow and put her straight!”

  “I will, at some point,” said Stan. “But we’ve got a more important issue to worry about.”

  “What’s that?” asked Frank, his head swimming in a not-unpleasant way.

  “Who’s going to get to sleep with the dopey-looking hairy monster?”

  “You can,” said Frank.

  “Frank, I was talking to Harold!”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Thursday – Practice Week

  Today’s weather brought to you by Radio TT. Dry and bright for large periods of the morning, with bright sunshine in parts. Unfortunately, we’re seeing a band of heavy cloud moving in from the west, which may bring outbreaks of rain later this afternoon, which could be heavy at times. We’ll keep in touch with the Met Office, but Thursday practice could be in doubt. It’s been a challenging week for qualifying times, particularly for the sidecar outfits, whose session was red-flagged on Tuesday.

  T urn that shit off, Monty!” shouted Dave. “Bloody weather! We’ve got the bike running like a dream and an engine that could get us to over a hundred and five miles per hour average, and the bastard weather looks like it’s going to ruin everything.”

  “Just when we thought the day couldn’t get any worse,” announced Monty. “Dickhead alert at ten-o’clock.”

  Harry McMullan sauntered over like he didn’t have a care in the world. “Here you go, Dave, I’ve bought you a doughnut. Well, when I say bought, I mean I found it, actually. Chucked in the bin. Much like your chances in the race?”

  McMullan’s hand was held out, and Dave nearly took the doughnut before remembering himself. “I’ll pass,” he said coldly.

  “Suit yourself,” McMullan said, shrugging for effect, before sending it sailing an inch from Monty’s head.

  “Leave him, Monty,” said Dave. “Put the fire extinguisher down.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Dave. I could beat him senseless and make it look like an accident?”

  “I know you well could,” said Dave. “But we need that fire extinguisher in one piece. Use that cucumber by the fridge…”

  “The cucumber? But I was going to use that in my sandwich later,” Monty protested. “Why the cucumber?”

  “It won’t leave as many bruises,” explained Dave.

  “Ah. Good thinking,” replied Monty.

  “You two are a bit grumpy this
morning,” said McMullan cheerfully. “I take it you’ve just heard the weather forecast, then, judging by the radio you’ve smashed to pieces?”

  “I don’t know why you’re so smug, McMullan,” said Dave. “We’re all in the same boat.”

  “Au contraire, my tubby friend. You forget that we got two laps in on Monday night. So, whilst the weather isn’t ideal, if it means you don’t qualify, then, y’know, it’s all good. If practice doesn’t happen tonight, we only need one lap tomorrow. You pair of clowns need three laps, and there isn’t a hope in hell of you getting three laps in tomorrow night. I’m still a bit pissed that you got that engine, but knowing you’ve got it, but are unable to use it, gives me such a warm, fuzzy feeling inside as you couldn’t imagine.”

  “On second thoughts, Monty,” instructed Dave. “We can always buy another extinguisher.”

  “Temper, temper, boys!” Harry looked over the end of his nose, giving Dave’s sidecar a condescending look of disgust. “I may buy this… thing… off you boys, seeing as though you won’t be needing it. I could stick it in my garden, yeah? Maybe fill it with soil and have a few flowers poking out of it. It’d be good for something then, at least.”

  “There will be flowers poking out of your arsehole if you don’t fuck off!” shouted Dave.

  “♫ I’m singing in the rain♪ ♬ Just singing in the rain♪” chirped McMullan merrily, as he left them there.

  “I could spend days thinking about the best way to hurt him,” said Monty.

  “Yep, he’s got a face you wouldn’t tire of slapping with a trout. But he has got a point, though, bastard that he is — and that’s if we don’t get out tonight, three laps tomorrow is going to be pretty tough.”

  Monty finally set the fire extinguisher down. “I could’ve,” he said under his breath.

  “There’s no point hanging about here, Monty,” said Dave. “Let’s go and buy something for lunch — the greasier the better.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  S tan sat on the seawall, hunched over a plastic cup full of lukewarm coffee.

  “We should have gone to bed when we got in,” he said. “That bear scared the hell out of me this morning — I thought I’d brought someone home with me.”

  “You woke up with fur stuck to your lips,” said Frank.

  “He was a good kisser, I admit,” replied Stan.

  They looked out at the ocean, and the waves crashing in.

  “My head still hurts,” Stan announced. This was yet one in a row of very similar announcements.

  “You should keep telling me about your head, Stan. It will make it better if you tell me enough times!” Frank replied. “It was good fun, though, up with Henk and his friends. They’re all crazy, but what a bunch of wonderful guys, and that offer was so generous.”

  Stan knew he should know, but he didn’t. “I thought you were drunker than me. So how don’t I know what you’re talking about?”

  “Henk and his friends said that they’d help out with the charity.”

  Stan bobbed his head slowly. “Ah, I vaguely remember that. Something about a work placement?”

  “Exactly! They were going to throw some cash into it, but between them, they’ve got businesses all over the country — garages, dealerships, and shops. They employ hundreds, and they’ve said they’ll join with us to offer work experience. It won’t pay much, but it will certainly give those that want to get back into work some hope. Cash is wonderful, but this gives them longer-term prospects and some workplace skills. I’ve told Henk and his friends that we’re going to take them out for a meal, next week, you know, to say thank-you for everything.”

  “The least we could do. Now you mention it, I think I may have invited them all to stay with us back home. So, are you going to tell me what we’re doing here?” asked Stan. “I must admit this sea breeze is helping me to feel a bit better, but my stomach is in pieces. That kebab probably wasn’t the best idea.”

  “Here we go!” said Frank. “You’re going to love this, Stanley.”

  “Is it, Frank?” asked a short, stout man with a beard ZZ Top would envy.

  “It is, and this is Stan. And you must be Andy?”

  Andy nodded, handing them some papers. “If you could fill these forms in. Just the usual waivers — you know, if I kill you, you can’t sue me, and such — bog standard.”

  “What the hell are you doing to us?” whispered Stan.

  “You’ll see. Just sign,” said Frank.

  “What the hell is a Trike Tour?” asked Stan, observing the logo on the waiver form. “Is a trike not one of them things that children pedal, with the three wheels?”

  “It is, my friend,” Andy explained. “But it’s also…” he said, pausing for dramatic effect… “one of these magnificent creatures.”

  With impeccable timing, a black trike with polished alloy wheels pulled into the car park.

  “Is that it??” asked Stan, getting suddenly more enthusiastic. “It looks like a three-wheeled, three-seated version of the Batmobile!”

  “Pretty cool, right!” said Frank.

  Andy gave them a moment to appreciate their steed, before ushering them to a large van parked nearby. “I’ve got everything you need — gloves, helmet, boots and leathers.”

  “Hallo, did you say leathers?” asked Stan, with obvious interest.

  “Sure,” said Andy. “They’ll keep you warm. And if the worst happened, they’d give you more protection than your pair of jeans”

  “You don’t need to convince me, Andy,” said Stan. “I’ve been looking for an excuse to get a set of leathers on for years. I nearly bought a bike last year for that very reason.”

  A few minutes and they stepped down from the van wearing matching white leathers, carrying white open-faced helmets with black visors. On first glance they looked like the crew of Apollo 13, or, possibly, like they were about to be the ammunition in a circus cannon.

  “Looking great, guys,” insisted Andy. “You just need to pop these earpieces in, which means we can communicate with each other. I’ll let you enjoy the trip, so won’t speak too much, but I’ll tell you when we’re passing through the main parts of the course. We’ll be about two hours, and if the weather is nice up the mountain, we’ll stop for a photo, but the forecast isn’t the best.”

  Stan and Frank mounted the beast, taking their position in the well-appointed seats raised up behind Andy, the driver.

  “Sound-check,” said Andy, holding aloft his thumb. With a nod of confirmation from his two passengers, he eased the monster of a bike away from the Douglas Ferry terminal. “Next stop, Quarterbridge, where we’ll join the TT course.”

  Quarterbridge was a premium viewing point; it was close to Douglas, the campsites, and, importantly, had a pub. It was a series of roundabouts connecting Douglas with roads to the south, west, and north of the Island. It was a junction that created difficulty for an inordinate number of racers, as riders would have just negotiated Bray Hill flat out, then onto Quarterbridge Road equally as quick, before having to brake to a virtual standstill — often on cold tyres — before taking the sharp right-hander onto Peel road towards Braddan Church (another popular viewing spot for spectators). It was one of the slowest points of the course, but one with its unique challenges that would punish even the slightest lapse in concentration.

  “Okay, hopefully you’re comfortable back there,” said Andy. “We’re coming up to Braddan Church, and as we progress through, imagine for a moment you’re racing through the left then right-hand bend, in front of the grandstands near the church — which would have hundreds of people cheering you on.”

  The wooden benches were empty apart from a few people watching the traffic pass by. Frank nodded back as the spectators pointed out their impressive trike to their friends and gave a friendly wave. They were doing the speed limit in front of ten men and a dog, and Frank had goosebumps all over, and so he could only imagine the adrenaline the actual racers experienced must have been overwhelming. F
rank had seen TV coverage of the racing, but it was impossible to get a genuine feeling for how many twists and turns there were in the course until now.

  As soon as they’d hit a straight road, they were navigating another series of bends as they passed through Union Mills.

  Andy crackled into their earpieces. “At the top of this hill is Ballagarey, often called Ballascary due to the speed in which the right-hander is taken. You really do need balls made of steel to tackle it at full speed.”

  Stan opened the visor of his helmet. In spite of the cool, refreshing breeze, beads of sweat poured down his face, and it was a face that had taken on a tinge of green.

  “You okay?” mouthed Frank.

  Stan nodded his head unconvincingly, but it was clear he was in discomfort.

  “That’s where we watched the practices,” said Frank, pointing to their viewing spot from Tuesday evening.

  Stan continued to sweat, and it looked like the well-rehearsed delivery from Andy was largely falling on deaf ears in his case. Every bump in the road produced a gurgle from his stomach, and Frank wondered if poor Stan was in danger of losing his lunch, and, if so, which end of Stan it would come out of.

  The bike eased to a gentle halt as the traffic lights sat on red. “This is Ballacraine, just less than eight miles from the start line,” Andy said, taking advantage of the brief interlude. “If we continued straight on, we’d end up in Peel, but we’re turning right to remain on the course.” Andy pointed at the house on the opposite side of the road. “You may recall that house? It used to be a pub and was in the classic TT film No Limit, with George Formby famously crashing into it, through the front doors. If you haven’t seen it, you should. Look behind you, if you can,” Andy added. “We have quite the convoy!”