Stan moved his face closer to the computer screen, squinting. “I see the names of Dave and Monty nominated. If I’m not mistaken?”
“What can I say about that? Except that the public has exceptional taste,” suggested Dave, before pointing down to the total. “That’s the amount we’ve raised, Stan. And the winner, with the most votes, as it turned out — and despite me and Monty’s nominations! — is a chap by the name of George Spence.”
“Dave, am I reading that correctly?” asked Stan. “Thirty-four thousand pounds? That can’t be right? That would mean there’s, let’s see… divide by… carry the…”
“A lot of votes,” confirmed Dave.
“A lot of votes,” confirmed Monty, not wishing to be left out.
“A lot of votes,” Stan confirmed.
“It sure is, Stanley,” Dave told him. “And all going to the charity, me old son.”
Monty pulled out a printout, unfolding it and snapping it open. “George Spence is a class act and one of the nicest guys in the paddock. You only have to read some of the comments that people have left about him to see as much. Here. Take a gander,” he said, happy to contribute, and printout prepared in advance per Dave’s instructions for Stan’s consideration.
Stan took the piece of paper handed to him, running his finger down the page. “The Scotsman with the most TT finishes and one of the highest overall,” he mumbled.
Stan’s smile broadened as he continued to read the comments that’d been left:
Dod, as he’s known to most, epitomises the spirit of the TT.
First came to the TT in 1978 and after twenty years got his licence so he could say he’d done the TT once. He didn’t stop at one!
Former steel erecter that used his skills to put up a shelter at his local track.
The first guy in the paddock to offer to loan you something from his toolbox.
Has ridden everything around the TT course – would ride a donkey around the mountain circuit if it was race-ready!
“Wow, this guy sounds like a complete legend. I’ve got to say, he does appear to be a worthy winner indeed,” observed Stan, his eyes continuing down the page. “Here, I like this paragraph, especially, from TT Supporters Club Magazine.” He read it aloud to the others:
George ‘Dod’ Spence epitomises the spirit of the TT, an event which cannot do without the true privateer who battles often on a shoestring budget relying on dedicated friends to achieve his goal whether it be an improved lap speed, a replica, or just the satisfaction of completing the race distance. Dod is not a front-runner, but has stood on a TT rostrum and is the leading rider from Scotland in terms of finishes . . . We must not forget the role played by Dod and his like in the annuls of TT history.
Stan placed the paper back on the desk. “I think I like this fellow,” he announced.
“It’s the tattoos, isn’t it?” Dave joked.
“No I’m serious. I don’t know why, but that’s made me a little emotional, reading that,” Stan told him, dabbing at his eyes theatrically. “I know from being around the two of you what the TT and racing means in general, but this just brings it all home that much more, you know what I mean? To see so many people talking about the positive influence someone has on a sport, and their lives, is, well… it kind of gets you right here,” he said, making a show of wiping his eyes again, but only to hide that fact that he seriously did need to wipe his eyes. “I’ve got to say, guys, this is a wonderful idea, and an exceptionally worthy winner. Great, initiative boys. Truly, great initiative. Blimey, this whole thing…” he began, fanning his face… “Has got me right in the…”
“Cockles? Of your heart?” suggested Dave gamely.
“Right in the cockles,” Stan happily agreed.
“We should name the trophy after him,” considered Monty, an idea forming in his brain. “I know we’re going to give him an award for being privateer of the year. But I’m thinking that if this turns into an annual event, we could name the race-winning award after him as well?”
“Oh, Monty. I like that, me old son,” Dave answered him, pursing his lips in approval. “That’s a wonderful idea.”
“Is it as good as the Le Mans name? My other great idea?” asked Monty, still sore about the misappropriation of his brilliantly original idea that was pulled right out from under his feet, and he cast one eye on Dave as he said this. Though, to be fair, one eye is all he could only ever manage.
“LET IT GO, MONTY,” Stan and Dave said in unison. Monty just shrugged in response.
“You know, I can see our little event turning into an annual spectacle on the Isle of Man,” Dave mused grandly. “It’ll be a globally-recognised event, with everyone battling it out for the prestigious trophy!”
Monty pursued his lips in contemplation as well. “I’m right there with you on this. I can just see the garlanding ceremony, where the winner reaches out, dripping in sweat and champagne, reaching for the… George ‘Dod’ Spence Isle ‘Le Mans’ TT Trophy.”
Before the others could say anything else, Monty added, hammering the point home, “FUCK ME THAT’S GOT A NICE RING TO IT, DOESN’T IT, LADS.”
Chapter
Thirteen
I t’s not a date, so just be yourself,” repeated Dave, over and over to himself aloud. The traffic lights in Marown turned red, permitting further time for his self-directed pep talk. It hadn’t been that long ago that he’d been hurtling through these very same traffic lights at one-hundred-forty miles per hour, on his way to his maiden TT victory. The pace today, however, was mildly sluggish in comparison.
“Just be normal Dave Quirk, and if it’s a joke you’d think funny, or Monty, just remember that not everyone shares your sense of humour,” he reminded himself, pointing at his reflection in the rear-view mirror. He shook his head several times in quick succession, executing a sort of get-yourself-together-mate routine, sending his jowls jiggling around like a slobbering bloodhound, until the car behind offered a polite toot on the horn as the lights turned green once more. Dave offered a friendly wave, all the while gibbering away to himself, and with his hulk-like frame against the backdrop of a pink Nissan Micra, his silhouette must have been quite a vision to the waiting driver behind.
The TT farm developed a little further each time Dave appeared for work; it never failed to bring a smile to his face as he turned left from the main road, up the drive, and into the cobbled courtyard. Frank and Stan had taken a calculated gamble by continuing with the buildingworks, but with the money from the race, Family Fun Day, sponsorship, and other endeavours, confidence was high that they’d meet their financial deadline. Indeed, press interest had soared through the roof, expanding as far as France and Germany. Tickets to spectate the planned race had been sluggish initially, but Guy Martin’s efforts, legend that he was, had produced tremendous results, with a simple tweet or message on his social media platforms resulting in massive surges in ticket sales. The Isle of Man’s ferry company had been inundated with bookings for the relevant days, and there was talk of needing to operate additional crossings to meet the demand. It was fairly evident that their idea had the makings of something special and, crucially, in addition to that, commercially viable.
Today, however, was not a workday for Dave.
Rebecca stood with her back to the barn door, dressed like she was ready for a polar expedition. She had more layers than an onion, and at first glance Dave didn’t see Tyler huddled into her, wearing a red bobble hat and scarf that matched his mum’s. Rebecca took Tyler’s hand as Dave pulled up. “Nice car,” she said.
“Thanks, Becks. Yeah, it’s me mum’s,” Dave told her.
“That’ll explain the pink,” she replied, with a wink and a glorious smirk that lit up a rather overcast morning.
Dave, ever the gentleman — at least on this occasion — darted from the car to render assistance in opening the passenger door. “Oh and I’ve got something for you, little man,” he said to Tyler, in tow.
Tyler peered insi
de the plastic bag and pulled out a black t-shirt, with the sort of less-than-unenthusiastic expression children were not yet adept at hiding. His eyes, however, widened once was revealed, emblazoned on the front of the shirt, the image of a sidecar bursting through the trees along with a trail of confused lights enhancing the impression of warp speed.
Dave knelt down on one knee. “Who do you think that sidecar belongs to?” he asked of the boy.
Tyler shrugged his shoulders. “I dunno. Lewis Hamilton?”
“Not quite, but I’m sure he’d be pretty quick if he raced at the TT. But, that,” Dave explained, pointing at the image. “Is me when I won the TT last year.”
“Wow. You have your very own t-shirt with your picture on it?” Tyler asked, duly impressed now. “Are you famous, Big Dave?”
Dave glanced at Rebecca. “Well… I don’t really like to talk about it, Tyler,” he said, trying to appear modest.
“But you’re talking about it now,” Tyler answered, with a child’s inherently unfiltered bluntness.
“I suppose I am,” Dave answered, giving a jolly laugh.
“Can I wear it now, Mum? Please?”
“Later,” Rebecca replied. “It’s taken me ten minutes or more to get you wrapped up in your current state and I’m not undoing it all now. So what do you say, Tyler?”
“What do I say to what?” Tyler asked, only half paying attention, engrossed in the t-shirt as he was. “Oh. Thank you,” he offered, after a gentle nudge from Mum.
Dave clapped his broad hands. “Right, you two,” he announced. “As you’re new adventurers to this lovely Island, I thought we’d start our journey by heading to Peel, where hopefully the ice cream shop hasn’t closed up for the winter. Then, I thought I’d take you up the west of the Island, and then on to Jurby where I’ll show you the track where the racing is going to be. The sidecar is up there now. You can have a go, Tyler, if you’d like? In the passenger seat?”
It was as if Dave had offered Tyler a free pass to a fireworks factory which had been dipped in chocolate equipped with a vending machine dispatching free toys. But Rebecca was somewhat more reticent at the prospect, her protective maternal instincts automatically kicking in. “I don’t know about that, Dave,” she told him. “Are you sure it’s safe…?”
“It’s fine. I won’t go fast, I promise,” he assured her. “How about you jump on, too? I’ll take you both on a very gentle spin round the pit area?”
“Can we?!–Can we?!–Can we?!” yelled Tyler, jumping on the spot like he was on a pogo stick.
“We’ll see,” Rebecca replied, throwing a glance at Dave of the sort only a mother was qualified or capable of delivering.
Once they were on their way, at Tyler’s request, Dave delivered a corner-by-corner recital of the final lap of his victorious TT as he hit each spot along their drive. Tyler hung on Dave’s every word, and fully believed competitors fired mushrooms and other objects at each other like those in Mario Kart — an embellishment Dave had thrown in to ensure his young friend’s attention didn’t wane, though he needn’t have worried in that regard. For her part, Rebecca, as someone with zero previous interest in motorsport, also found herself getting carried away in the commentary, and was in fact rather disappointed when they broke away from the dedicated TT course at Ballacraine, instead heading straight on towards the idyllic seaside town of Peel.
“It really is quite a dramatic rags-to-riches story, Dave. Who would have thought that someone like… I mean, em…”
“You mean a big lump like me?” laughed Dave. “How could a big lump like me end up as a race winner?”
Rebecca blushed. “No, not at all. I was going to say… for someone driving a pink car like this.”
A brief silence ensued as Rebecca, who clearly didn’t yet realise that it was impossible to offend Dave, thought for certain she’d stepped her foot right in it. She was about to attempt another apology, but it was Tyler who broke the silence.
“Look what I found, Mummy,” he chirped, leaning forward from the back seat and dangling what very much appeared to be a woman’s undergarment. “It’s just like yours, Mummy!” Tyler added, giggling, because undergarments were indeed a source of endless amusement, especially for a small child.
“What’s he found?” Dave asked, keeping his focus on the road.
Rebecca’s blushes returned once more, back in full force this time. “It’s a bra, Dave. A black one.”
Dave went quiet for a moment, terrified by the discovery and what Becks must think of him as a result. and searching desperately for an explanation. Any kind of explanation at all.
“Ah,” Dave said, finally. “It’s not… please don’t think… Only it’s my mum’s car, yeah? So it must be hers.” And this was a point he was at great pains to stress, and something at which point they all had a jolly good laugh at… That is, until he considered how his mum’s bra could possibly have ended up in the backseat of her car. Maybe it had spilt over from a load of laundry? But that didn’t explain why she’d be carting around a load of laundry in the backseat of her car. And then, of course, the solution hit him…
“Bloody Frank,” he muttered to himself.
All thoughts of women’s underwear and what Frank might or might not have done with them were soon forgotten, however, as they reached their destination. “This is Fenella Beach,” proclaimed Dave, pulling the little pink bullet into a space with a perfect view of Peel Castle opposite. “That there is where the Vikings lived,” announced Dave, summarising a thousand years of history for Tyler, who was clawing to get out of the car. For folks who’d spent most of their time in a cramped city, the vast, open spaces in the Isle of Man must have seemed a treat, thought Dave. Throw in an ancient castle, a picture-postcard beach, and a shop that sold ice cream, and Peel really was a child’s dream come true, not to mention an adult’s as well.
“How the heck?” asked Rebecca in reference to Tyler’s present attire. “How did you manage to get your new t-shirt on without me even noticing? Let me bundle you up again once we get out of the car again, okay?” she cautioned.
Dave briefly shuddered at the recurring thought entering his brain once again. “The backseat of my mother’s car is quite the changing room, it would appear,” he said. “Don’t ask,” he added in response to Rebecca’s enquiring glance. “Come on, you two,” he said, steering the subject hurriedly in another direction. “Let’s get this party started!”
“Ice cream time?” asked Tyler, tongue hanging out like that of a panting dog.
Dave pointed to the steep hill leading out of the carpark. “That, my young friend, is affectionately known as Ice Cream Hill. Not only does it provide the most spectacular views of the castle and Peel, but it is written in Manx law that you have to climb it, enjoy the bracing sea air, and enjoy every step of the way. Then, and only then, are you allowed the reward of an ice cream. In fact, I have to take a photo of you stood at the top, otherwise the person in the shop isn’t allowed to serve you an ice cream at all.”
Tyler looked at his mum for verification of this dubious claim, but she was perfectly straight-faced, indicating that Dave wasn’t having him on after all. “And what if you don’t show them a picture?” Tyler asked, looking up to the summit in worry.
“Ah. Well. You mean aside from just not getting an ice cream?” replied Dave, stalling his response for thinking time. “Right. See that?” he continued, explanation devised. He stifled a grin as he pointed across the water. “That is Peel Castle.”
“Where the Vikings live?” Tyler answered, remembering what Dave had said earlier.
“Yes. Only they don’t live there anymore. That was a long time ago. Now, the castle is where they throw people in the dungeon. People who’ve attempted buying an ice cream without having their picture first taken,” Dave explained solemnly.
Tyler’s suspicion rose, this all becoming a bit much, even for a small child, to swallow. Still, it didn’t stop him looking over to the magnificent castle perched atop
St. Patrick’s Isle. But then he began to laugh. “Well what if you’d didn’t have a camera? What then?” he asked, too clever for Dave’s machinations.
“Simples. You have to draw a picture in that case,” Dave replied instantly. “You see, camera phones have only been around for ten years or something, only a few years before you were born, and that castle has been stood for a thousand years. So, before cameras and the like, you had to draw a picture. And if it wasn’t a good one, mind, then not only didn’t you get anything in the shop but at the discretion of the shop manager you might still end up in the castle’s dungeon as a lesson to others,” Dave warned him, and, story-spinning business finally complete, said, “Now, come on, let’s get going!”
“Don’t forget your camera!” shouted Tyler, who was suddenly halfway up the steps at the foot of the steep hill, waving the others along, urging them to follow in his wake.
Never in the long and distinguished history of the Isle of Man had a child climbed that hill as quickly as Young Master Tyler managed to achieve. It was unlikely that retreating forces with Viking steel threatening an internal inspection would have been able to match the impressive pace.
“Take a photo, take a photo!” he commanded from the top of the hill, triumphantly.
Dave straggled behind, trying valiantly not to expose the fact he was blowing smoke out his arse. And also because he was having a difficult time of it travelling up the hill himself. The first initial steps were easy, but then…
“I need oxygen…” Dave declared weakly, audible only to those in close proximity. Of which there was only one…
Rebecca put her hand under his arm, giving him a push up the final hurdle. She’d deliberately kept her attention on the path ahead so as to achieve the maximum impact when she turned to face the view that Dave had promised. She wasn’t disappointed. She put a hand to her mouth, pulling Tyler in front of her. A brisk, salty wind whipped in from the Irish Sea, accosting their cheeks. Rebecca’s eyes fell on the castle, with the backdrop of the west coast of the Island stretching into the horizon. Her attention drifted over to the beach, where a hardy dog walker battled against the stiff breeze, before scanning over to the sight of the vibrant town centre, with expansive, rolling countryside providing the frame to this captivating scene.
Frank 'n' Stan's Bucket List #3 Isle 'Le Mans' TT: Featuring Guy Martin Page 20
