Frank 'n' Stan's Bucket List #3 Isle 'Le Mans' TT: Featuring Guy Martin

by J. C. Williams

  “You’re right, Dave. But just mind you don’t give it too much strain. We don’t want anything to rupture at this stage. Can I do anything more to help?”

  “No, I’ve got this on my end,” replied Dave, eyes narrowed in concentration. “You just keep doing what you’re doing, holding that bit together while I tighten the bolts down, yeah? And this is what teamwork is all about, Monty, me old son!”

  “But I’m doing most of the work?”

  After a bit more diligence, Dave was satisfied, leaning back and wiping the wrench in his hand with a cloth rag. “There,” he said. “I think that’s done it, Monty. What do you reckon?”

  Monty nodded in agreement, collecting his own tools together. “Looks good to me as well,” he confirmed.

  “Oh, I saw my mum earlier,” mentioned Dave. “Stan’s staying in hospital overnight, she tells me. She’s brought Frank back, though, but he’s having a powernap out in the car. Or at least he was. As for why he’s napping in the car, specifically, guess who else couldn’t get back into the carpark?”

  “Ha-ha! They met up with Adrian?”

  “The lad was just doing his job, Monty,” Dave admonished him with a laugh, wagging his finger. “Dunno why Frank stayed with the car, though. Stubbornness, maybe.”

  “Dave, I know it turned out to be only a kidney stone,” Monty came back, turning serious. “But it put the fear of God into me, I have to confess, when it seemed…”

  “I agree about Stan,” Dave answered, picking up Monty’s trail of thought. “We’ve only known Frank and Stan for a couple of years but they’re like…”

  “Fathers?” suggested Monty, finishing Dave’s sentence like an old married couple.

  “Fathers,” replied Dave. “Yes, that’s it.”

  “No, wait,” said Monty, reconsidering. How about older brothers? Or what about uncles? Uncles might be better?”

  “I think—” Dave started to say, but Monty wasn’t finished yet.

  “Maybe not uncles. Maybe Scoutmasters? Or carnival barkers? No, I’ve got it! Spaceship captains! I think that’s the one. I think it’s spaceship captains.” Monty looked to Dave for approval, but was met instead by the bemused sort of expression one might give someone who is…

  “Are you high?” asked Dave.

  “Just high on life, Dave.”

  “Oh…kay…?”

  “Just trying to provide you with some alternatives to consider, Dave.”

  “Oh…kay…?”

  “Just didn’t want to be too hasty, Dave.”

  I appreciate that Monty. Thank you,” Dave told him, hoping to put the subject to bed.

  “Not a problem,” Monty assured him.

  The two of them walked around the pit area, like a commander and his first lieutenant surveying the field before battle. The temporary garages were situated in an L-shaped formation and, sadly, the majority were now occupied — meaning their machinery had returned to home base, likely due to either mechanical failure or driver error. Those involved who didn’t make it to the final hurdle were still in attendance, however, with most offering encouragement and assistance to those teams still in the race. It was difficult to not be impressed by the camaraderie on hand, as members of each team in turn offered Dave and Monty their best wishes as the pair composed themselves during their gentle stroll.

  They appeared calm enough on the outside, Monty and Dave, but the magnitude of their task ahead was not lost on them. Their future, and that of the farm, would be formed on the next two hours. Dave didn’t want to admit it to himself, but felt the nerves more for this race than he did when competing in his winning Isle of Man TT race. This wasn’t about personal glory; this was about something bigger. Dave had seen first-hand what the TT farm meant to people. He’d seen Tyler, for instance, a young boy, timid and without much self-confidence, develop into a self-assured, inquisitive child in only a short time, free to express himself in a safe environment. And he’d seen Becks, Tyler’s mum, crippled with anxiety, constantly looking over her shoulder, and previously just worried about simply existing and keeping her son safe from harm. Now, she had a future, as well as the chance to learn new skills and make new friends. They both had this, mother and son, thanks to the charity. They both had this thanks to the TT Farm. And although Becks and her son were the first residents, the hope was that there would be many, many more. The thought of the TT Farm being demolished — and by Rodney Franks, no less, to add insult to injury — to make way for a bloody hotel was sickening. And speaking of Franks…

  “What a stroke of luck!” Dave exclaimed, but then quickly shushed himself as well as Monty with his finger to his lips. He pointed to the rear of a van near to one of the garages, parked up with its rear doors wide open. He took a step closer, to make certain that what he thought he saw was in fact what he saw, and then he looked to Monty, mischief dancing in his eyes. “Rodney Franks,” he whispered. “Must be tired, poor chap, because he’s having a little bit of a lie-down.”

  The outline of a slumbering figure lay stretched out the length of an inflatable mattress in the back of the van, and it certainly couldn’t have been the opulent accommodations to which Franks would have been accustomed.

  “Should I go and get the septic tank from that port-a-loo we just walked past?” asked Monty. He was being quite serious.

  “I like your way of thinking, Monty. I’m tempted to just jump in and start throwing punches, myself,” Dave told him. “Hang on. I’ve just caught sight of DCI Adrian. And that gives me an idea, I think. Hold on a minute,” said Dave, holding out a cautionary arm. “Right. He’s gone the other way. We’re okay. Okay, so here’s my idea. Give me your wallet, Monty.”

  “What…? I don’t think I like this idea, Dave,” protested Monty. “Why do I have to give you my wallet??”

  “No, don’t worry, it’ll be brilliant, you’ll see. Give it here. Quickly,” said Dave. “Trust me on this.”

  “I really don’t think I like this idea of yours, Dave,” Monty reiterated. “Why does it have to be my wallet? Unlike yours, mine still has money in it!”

  “Shh, not so loud!” Dave warned him. “And, yes, that’s why yours is perfect! Now, c’mon, hand it over before Adrian comes back and it’s too late! You don’t want to ruin it, do you? Don’t ruin it!”

  “I don’t even know what it is. But all’s I know is that I don’t like it,” Monty moaned, reluctantly handing over his oil-stained Daffy Duck-themed wallet. “I want that back,” he insisted. “Me and Daffy go back a long way.”

  “You’ll get it back! Don’t worry!” Dave said again. And of course the more Dave said don’t worry, the more Monty worried.

  Dave took Monty’s wallet, together with his own, once he’d made sure the coast was clear, he moved closer to the van where Sleeping Beauty was, fortunately, still snoring away. Dave carefully placed the two wallets on the airbed, tucked up beside Rodney, and stepped back, admiring his handiwork.

  “What the hell are you doing?” asked Monty, incredulous, barely able to speak at his supposed friend’s inexplicable actions.

  “Shh, you’ll see! Come on!” Dave told him, taking Monty by the hand and skipping away with him like a happy primary school girl.

  “I don’t like this game!” Monty cried, but before he could say anything else, they happened upon Adrian.

  Dave tapped Adrian on the shoulder from behind. “Excuse me, Adrian?” he said. “I need your help.”

  Adrian turned around smartly, clicking his heels together and pleased to be called upon. “Yes, sir? Atcher service,” he said. But, then, seeing who it was, “Oh it’s you. Look here, that money is already earmarked for weaponry, so I shan’t be giving it back.”

  “No, it’s not that at all!” Dave told him, employing a panicked expression over his face. “We need your help! Adrian, some vile, drunken fool, some pure dastardly rogue of ill intent, has been running around the grounds! I didn’t see his face, but he ran past our garage when we had our heads buried in our
bike, and now we can’t find our wallets! Who knows what other sorts of mischief he’s perpetrated…?”

  There was more bollocks he could come up with, but before Dave had even reached the climax of his delivery, Adrian had already adopted a superhero-style action pose. “Mischief-making, you say?” Not on my watch, sir! No, sir, not on my watch! Now did you by chance see which way this scoundrel was heading??”

  Dave shrugged his shoulders, feigning ignorance, cueing Monty and giving him the opportunity to contribute in on the act. Monty was none too pleased at this, but had no choice but to improvise accordingly. “I think he jumped into one of the vans, Adrian. Up there, in fact. Just there,” he said, pointing, of course, to the van in which Rodney Franks currently slept.

  Adrian nodded in grave acknowledgement. He produced a walkie-talkie from his combat belt, holding it tenderly, like a newborn child. It was clear he’d been desperate to make use of it in a live situation.

  With Adrian now engaged, Dave stole a glance at Monty, shooting him a smile, as if all was going accordingly to plan. Monty, quite understandably, remained unconvinced.

  Adrian depressed a button on the side of his walkie-talkie with his thumb and cleared his throat. “Percy? We’ve got a Code Seven,” he spoke into the device. “I repeat, we’ve got a Code Seven, and I require backup.” Satisfied with his performance, he did add one thing… “This is not a drill.”

  And then Adrian turned his attention to Dave and Monty. “You gentlemen did the right thing bringing this to my attention, he told them.

  With Percy soon on scene, Adrian and assistant quickly set off to apprehend the identified criminal troublemaker. Dave and Monty didn’t hang around for too long, as they had a race, after all, leaving things in Adrian’s capable hands.

  “Nice work, Dave,” said Monty with a slap on Dave’s back as they made haste back to their garage. “Bloody good job.”

  “Thanks!” replied a well-chuffed Dave.

  “Just one thing?” Monty offered.

  “Yes?”

  “When you generate another cunning plan in your brain…?”

  “Yes?” asked Dave.

  “Can it please not involve taking my wallet from me?”

  Chapter

  Twenty-Two

  D ave revved the tuned 600cc engine, keeping one eye on the return lane for Guy to come back in, and one eye on the marshal. He flicked the throttle with rhythmic precision, eager to get the oil flowing and the engine to temperature. Every fibre of his body was telling him to go to bed, as opposed to racing for the next two hours. Instead, he looked back to Monty — who returned an enthusiastic thumb extension — before looking back to the track ahead. Dave rotated his neck, giving his eyes time to adjust to the darkness on tarmac before him, though fortunately the upgraded headlight system he’d installed worked wonders.

  Out on the track, Guy hurtled around the final corner before braking for the pit lane speed restriction. Dave took a deep breath as the marshal prepared to slap him on the shoulder. Dave pulled in the clutch and knocked the bike into first gear, ready for the signal, and, with clutch now held in, gave a further flick of the throttle. Guy had done all he could for the team, and his efforts were magnificent. And, presently, with that slap finally coming down on Dave’s back, Dave released the sidecar’s clutch and he and Monty were off like a shot. He knew it was now down to them.

  He darted a quick glance back to Napier and Thomas, who sat waiting for their own slap on the shoulder, and with a fluid motion Dave slammed down the visor on his helmet and returned his attention to the course ahead, opening the throttle and sending Henk’s loaned machine hurtling towards the first bend.

  The speed differential between a race-tuned sidecar and a virtually standard van was staggering, and the turn was upon him all too soon. With the tyres still relatively cold, the sidecar snaked under braking, and for a heart-stopping moment Dave winced, fearing he was going into the tyre wall before he’d even moved out of first gear. But he wrestled the bike into submission, navigated the turn, unclenched his bum cheeks, and got his head down for the first straight.

  Dave hadn’t looked at the scoreboard before he and Monty had set off, and insisted nobody tell him where they currently stood on the leaderboard. He knew he needed to give it everything he had for the next two hours, and having that lap tally on his mind would only have distracted him from the task at hand. Whilst he didn’t know it, however, Dave would surely have taken comfort from the fact that Team Frank & Stan were presently five laps to the good — thanks to Guy Martin’s enduring efforts — over Rodney Franks’ outfit of Napier & Thomas. Coming out ahead of Franks was of course their primary concern.

  The machinery under Dave and Monty’s arses was the equal if not the better to Napier & Thomas’ machine. Also, while Dave and Monty may not have had quite as much racing experience as Napier & Thomas, they more than made up for it in passion. The difference between them was that Napier and Thomas were racing merely for a paycheque, and for a complete bellend to boot. Dave and Monty, on the other hand, were racing for their careers, and they were racing for their community. And the lads had spunk. Loads of it.

  The gruelling challenge of racing for twenty-four hours had well and truly taken its toll, with only seven outfits remaining in the competition. Two of the seven had sidecars out on the course for this last two-hour leg, and fewer rolling obstacles would make the lap times quicker for these three-wheeled rockets.

  Dave had to mentally adjust to the different riding style required between small-scale circuit racing and the Isle of Man TT. For Dave, the TT would always be the ultimate test, but he had to change his mindset as the team of Napier & Thomas were masters on the smaller circuit.

  Dave tucked his head down even more than he had before, and lowered his entire bodily stance to make it as streamlined as possible. While he couldn’t see them, he knew that Napier and Thomas couldn’t be far behind and would be stuck to them like barnacles.

  The first three laps of this final segment were completed smartly and in short order. Dave’s confidence, like the heat and grip on the bike’s tyres, increased steadily. He was ready for this. He could do this. “We can do this thing, mate!” Dave shouted aloud, against the wind, to his partner.

  “Beans on toast! Sausages!” Monty shouted back, already sorting out his victory breakfast for after.

  The Team Frank & Stan crew took up position behind a wall on the start/finish line, Frank now among them. Frank, a little more refreshed after his nap in the car, looked up the line of heads peering with hope and anticipation at the headlights out on track. They all looked rather dapper, decked out as they were in their matching white polo shirts with TT FARM plastered over the front of them. Frank smiled. It wasn’t lost on him how this racing they currently watched so keenly had brought his group of precious friends together. Moments like this would stay with him always.

  “Excuse me,” said Frank to a passing marshal. “Would you be kind enough to take a picture of us?” he asked, with the marshal appearing very happy to comply. “We’ll get another with Dave and Monty later,” he explained to the others.

  Frank extended his arms, allowing Molly and Jessie to tuck inside either wing. Along with the pit crew, Stella and Lee were also present, as were Rebecca and Tyler. Guy Martin was among them, of course. And even a bleary-eyed Henk, who’d just woken up from having one too many beers over the course of the night, had joined them as well.

  “Ready?” said the newly-promoted-to-team-photographer marshal, but who was then distracted from the viewfinder. “Is he with you?” the marshal asked, in reference to the madman running straight towards them, arms flailing like an over-excited cephalopod.

  “Bloody wait for me!” shouted the bounding figure. “Hold on! I’m coming! I’m coming!”

  “A familiar refrain,” laughed Stella.

  Frank raised one of his arms in a welcoming greeting as Stan joined the crease. “My old friend Stanley,” Frank said fondly. “I was just t
hinking this photo wouldn’t be complete without you.”

  “I wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to have my picture taken, Frank, now was I?” Stan announced in reply, taking his finger and rubbing his cosmetically-enhanced teeth to remove any possible imperfections in preparation for the shot.

  “So how’s the… you know… all that?” asked Frank, pointing vaguely in the direction of Stan’s nether regions.

  “I never thought I’d be sick of men prodding around down there, Frank, but I finally managed to pass the bugger on my own, no surgery required,” Stan told him. “That little blighter caused me no end of worry. I thought I was dying! I thought it was the end of poor Stanley Sidcup!”

  “Yes, we know,” said Frank, though not unkindly.

  “And for more good news,” Stan went on. “I could swear I’ve just seen Rodney Franks using his cravat to wipe blood from his nose. He was surrounded by security guards, both small and large. What do reckon that’s all about?”

  Frank grinned. “I’m sure I don’t know,” he told Stan. “Just good fortune?”

  “Smile, everyone!” shouted the marshal-slash-photographer once everyone was back in position.

  “Kidney stones!” said Frank.

  “Kidney stones!” they all repeated, each of them sporting their broadest of smiles.

  Dave was exceptionally grateful to have seen the sun finally come up over the horizon. Riding in the dark, with no streetlamps to light the course, was like driving through a warp tunnel. It was a nightmare trying to judge braking points, and you’d find yourself on top of vehicles in front of you in an instant if you weren’t very careful. But, to be fair to Napier and Thomas, they were running their own race, as it was dangerous enough out there, and the two outfits had seen very little of each other this time around.

  The main thing on Dave’s mind at present was the petrol tank, or rather, what remained in it. The 40-litre capacity tank would be less generous than usual because of the shorter-type circuit course they were competing on as a result of the constant braking-and-accelerating, braking-and-accelerating cycle inherent to racing on this sort of track. The tactic they’d gone for was one fuel stop just after the hour mark, which would, it was hoped, see them to the conclusion of the race.