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

by J. C. Williams

  And so, with no proper conception of time, Dave was grateful to see his pit team indicating one more lap till they came in for fuel. His body felt like it was shutting down, both physically and mentally. Fortunately, at least, Henk’s sidecar hadn’t missed a beat.

  As soon as their outfit came to a blessed halt after that one remaining lap, Monty gratefully jumped out. Neither of them were what you’d call svelte, and Monty had been performing gymnastic miracles for the whole of the preceding hour, throwing himself around to maximise the grip on the tyres. Thus, the opportunity to take a much-needed stretch during the brief reprieve the filling of the fuel tank offered was most welcome.

  “How the bike doing? How’s she holding up?” asked Mike the Mechanic, in between distribution of water to the lads.

  “Fine,” Monty gasped, coming up for air after demolishing the contents of one of the offered bottles. “Running like a dream.”

  Mike took Monty and Dave’s helmets, in order to perform a quick change-over of the visors. As the previous hour had been raced mostly early in the morning and still in darkness, the visors were relatively free from splodged flying critters. Still, there was nothing wrong with having clean, fresh windscreens. He called over to Dave and Monty as he did this. “So do you want to know where you are?” he asked them, conscious of their previous request to remain uninformed.

  “We’re here? With you?” Monty said, hazarding a guess.

  “In the race, you silly sod!” Mike returned, with a laugh.

  “Oh, right. Of course,” Monty replied. He rubbed his eyes, trying to change his brain over, making the transition, at least for the benefit of the few remaining minutes of the pit stop, from race mode to normal-thinking mode.

  Dave arched his neck in Monty’s direction and shrugged his shoulders. It was like they were being asked if they wanted to know the sex of their new baby. “Your call, Monty.”

  “Right, then,” decided Monty for the both of them. “Tell us.”

  “You’re six laps ahead!” Mike declared. “They’ve already been in for their own fuel stop, Napier and Thomas, so you’ll maybe drop half a lap.” He handed them back their helmets. “Here you go. All sorted,” he said. “And thirty seconds till the tank’s full,” he said, indicating when they’d be needing to resume position on the bike. Monty gave his back one more good stretch before climbing aboard again, offering a similarly re-mounted Dave a slap on the shoulder as he did so.

  Once refuelled, Dave raised a hand in salute to their faithful crew as he head out. Though he didn’t need any further motivation, it nevertheless presented itself in the form of Rodney Franks’ bruised noggin popping up, peering over a tyre wall at them with a recently-procured black eye. It was certainly a sight that sent Dave on his travels thinking happy thoughts along the way. He offered a smart salute to Rodney, as well, as he accelerated from the pit lane and roared back out onto the track.

  Dave was unsure if the knowledge of their lead was a positive one. Indeed, he now caught himself approaching turns with a degree of caution rather than attacking them aggressively as he’d done before. Yes, six laps sounded significant, but that could all change by overshooting a bend, for instance, or as a result of mechanical failure. And, in fact, for the latter, he always had his ear out for any fluctuation in the engine note. Dave knew their recent fuel stop would have had an impact, but he also knew they must be still well in the lead, at least as compared to Rodney’s team.

  With the increasing daylight, Dave caught a glimpse of Napier and Thomas a good way ahead on the track. With his competitive instinct kicking in, Dave’s natural inclination was to open the throttle and chase them down. Fortunately, his sensible side, such as it was, won out. He knew all he had to do was just to keep them in his sights, and by doing so he and Monty would finish above them. As grand as it would have been, Dave had no interest in topping the leaderboard. His primary concern, first and foremost, was to come out ahead of Rodney Franks’ team.

  Along with the increasing daylight, the number of spectators also increased commensurately. There were those waking up with a tender head after an evening of camping, and also those early birds who arrived to soak up the finale of the race, with carpark gate finally reopened to that end.

  Dave was able to relax and shake himself loose, and with each completed lap, he took immense enjoyment from seeing Rodney shaking furiously and gesticulating wildly at this own team each time they crossed the start line. He’d learned long ago to never count your chips whilst you were still at the table. Still, Dave felt good. He could sense that Napier & Thomas had slackened the pace for some unexplained reason, and the decrease in their lap time was apparently contributing to an increase in Rodney’s blood pressure.

  On every level, the event had been a roaring success. Thousands of people had turned out to support it, with people travelling huge distances to be there. The TV crew failing to appear had been a kick to the testicles, to be sure, but the framework was there to repeat the event the following year, bigger and better.

  Trackside, Frank and Stan were virtually sat on top of each other, counting down the minutes until the end of the race. “Come on, Dave and Monty!” Stan screamed, as he had every time the boys had gone past. “You can do this!” Then, directed towards his best mate, “How long, Frank?” But he knew the answer already, since he was looking at the very same scoreboard.

  “Fifteen minutes to go!” replied Stan, in answer to his own question, moments later. “They’re five laps in front! How about this, Frank? Does it not make you feel alive??”

  Frank placed his arm around Stan. “It makes me feel…” he began, but then trailed off as the very loud sound of a very perturbed Henk cut through, blotting out all else. Rodney Franks’ name could be made out, interspersed between volleys of Dutch expletives, likely to do with various diseases, plagues, or other assorted unpleasant and unsanitary conditions with which Rodney was afflicted. Though not spoken in English, the intent was clear, so much so that Rebecca thought it best to discreetly cover Tyler’s ears. Frank and Stan were at a loss as to the origin of Henk’s ire, aside from it being directed at Rodney Franks, and accompanied by a veritable cornucopia of angry gestures directed up pit lane in Franks’ general direction. But then they saw the smile on Henk’s face, and realised Henk was hurling abuse at Rodney in delight.

  The scoreboard clock ticked past 8:50 a.m., and the team of Napier & Thomas had made no inroads into the lead. In fact, their pace had dropped significantly. They must have known they had no chance of making up the deficit. With a little vigour on its part, it almost looked for a moment, so slackened was Napier & Thomas’ pace, as if a van that’d come up behind them was about to overtake Rodney Franks’ outfit.

  “They’re slowing down,” remarked Stan. “Guys, they’re slowing down.” There was slight worry in Stan’s voice.

  “Napier and Thomas? They’re slowing down even more?” asked Frank, but in the time it took him to say this, he could now see what Stan was talking about, noticing it as well. “Oh. Why are they…?”

  “They’re still slowing down,” said Stan, this time turning to the rest of the crew. “Why’s Dave slowing down?” he asked to anybody that’d listen. For the first time since daylight broke, Napier & Thomas were now putting a considerable distance between themselves and the machine of Dave & Monty.

  “It’s fine?” offered Frank. “There’s not a chance in hell Napier and Thomas are going to catch up on those laps in, what, nine minutes? No chance,” he said. And yet there was an uncertainty in his voice.

  Stan rose up and slapped his hands down on the wall that’d been their resting post. “Why are they stopping??” he shouted. “Please tell me they’re not stopping!”

  But, sadly, Stan’s visual acuity was not letting him down. And in fact the rest of the crew now adopted his meerkat-like posture, looking at each other in confusion and alarm.

  Dave and Monty’s sidecar shuddered to a halt on the opposite side of the track to pit lane.r />
  “Help them!” screamed Stan. “Somebody help them!”

  “They must have run out of fuel?” Mike the Mechanic wondered aloud.

  “Well get them some!” a hyperventilating Stan demanded hysterically, and not understanding why no one in the crew was taking action. He looked about desperately for a petrol can, but Mike placed his hand on his.

  “I’m sorry, Stan,” he said. “I’m sorry, guys,” he explained to the group at large, for those who didn’t already know. “The only way we can refuel is in the pits. I hate to tell you this, but there’s nothing we can do for them if they’ve no fuel left. Not with only a few minutes on the clock remaining.”

  “Maybe it’s a loose wire or something they can fix themselves?” Frank offered up.

  But that hope was dashed by the sight of Dave dismounting. He removed his helmet and proceeded to beat the machine with his fist before collapsing on his knees.

  “I don’t think Dave’s confident of getting her going again,” observed Mike unhappily.

  Frank, Stan and the others were distraught. The lead was four laps, but with Dave and Monty now out of the game, Napier and Thomas could easily regain the lead over them. In fact, in the remaining time, all they needed to do was take it easy and bring her home and their comeback was assured. And this would soon become immediately apparent to them, since they were sure to spot Team Frank & Stan’s early retirement in the race as they’d ride past Dave and Monty sobbing on the grass on the next go-round.

  “Low-hanging scrotum!” shouted Henk, as Rodney Franks came dancing down pit lane, taking his own delighted turn shouting obscenities at Henk this time.

  Mike the Mechanic, while no longer being able to assist on the track, did a magnificent job of intercepting Franks, containing him like an oil spill, and diverting him back to his own camp in a precision armlock before Henk could make Rodney’s facial injuries that much more extensive.

  Each subsequent completed lap by the team of Napier & Thomas became more agonising than the last for Team Frank & Stan, as it progressively ate into Dave and Monty’s lead over them. And the clock, it would seem, would not do Team Frank & Stan any favours as it appeared to be slowing down to a veritable snail’s pace the closer the race got to its conclusion.

  Meanwhile, from his own vantage point, Rodney Franks continued screaming at Napier and Thomas every time they went past, to an extent that those spectators nearest the madman moved away. Whether he was screaming encouragement or screaming at them for not moving faster was anyone’s guess, at this point. Likely a mixture of both.

  Napier and Thomas were half a lap away from drawing level with Dave and Monty’s completed lap tally, leaving them approximately three minutes to easily complete an additional lap or two that would secure victory, at least over Team Frank & Stan. Dave and Monty had retreated to the rear of the run-off area beside the track, and they could only watch on helplessly as all theirs and Guy’s hard work was being undone. However…

  With one final corner before taking the lead over Team Frank & Stan, Rodney Franks’ sidecar slowed considerably, and then failed to negotiate the bend. It came to a surprisingly gentle halt, kissing the tyre wall.

  “What’s going on? What happened?” asked Frank. “Is that the end of the race?”

  Stan ran back to catch a view of the nearest scoreboard. “Nope, they’ve got more than enough time to complete another lap, Frank!” Stan called out.

  And yet Napier and Thomas were now out of their machine. And not only that, but they’d made their way back down the track on foot and were presently offering Dave and Monty the most cordial of handshakes.

  “We’ve finished ahead of them!” screamed Frank. “Stan, we’ve finished ahead of them! They’ve only gone and done it! Our team have only gone and bloody done it!” he shouted, before a flurry of arms enveloped him.

  Henk disappeared at pace. It was fairly evident where he might be headed.

  With a final check of his wristwatch, the chief marshal held aloft an air horn, giving it a generous burst, which prompted a modest though still-appreciated firework display, signalling the official conclusion of the inaugural Isle Le Mans TT.

  Dave Quirk, Shaun ‘Monty’ Montgomery, and Guy Martin had only gone and bloody done it. They’d beaten Rodney Franks.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Three

  C huck me a beer, will you Stan?” asked Frank, using his toe to push the swing once again.

  Stan reached back into the portable insulated cooler box and tossed Frank a can of lager as requested, then got up and threw another log onto the firepit before them. Stan sat back down and they rocked gently back and forth, the both of them, in the wooden swing seat set up in front of the fire a safe distance away, staring contentedly at the fire, and out over the evening’s moonlit field beyond.

  “Imagine, Stan. All of this could have been lost to Rodney’s hotel. It doesn’t bear thinking about.” He looked over his shoulder to the farmhouse. He laughed at the mock-up estate agent sign that Dave had painted, with proud words written on it in huge lettering, a statement to anybody driving past unsure of the intentions for this magnificent building:

  Frank sipped his beer, staring into the dancing flames. “I thought I’d lost you yesterday, Stan,” he said quietly. “I know it didn’t turn out to be that serious—”

  “It bloody was!” Stan insisted. “I thought I was dying! I didn’t know what was going on, all I knew was that my insides were all wrong!”

  “Ah. That would explain the sex-change operation you nearly had,” Frank teased him.

  “The what, now?” asked Stan, his face going extra pale in the moonlight.

  “Your insides being all wrong. See, originally we thought… or, rather, I thought… Right, so there was a mix-up at the hospital and… Well, nevermind. I’ll tell you about it another time.” Frank slapped his old friend on the leg. “Don’t you worry about it for now,” he assured him.

  “Actually I think I’ll just continue worrying about it, thank-you-very-much,” Stan replied, casting a worried glance down to his trouser area. “That sounds like something I really ought to be worrying about!”

  Frank laughed. “It was all a silly misunderstanding,” he told him. “No harm done in the end.”

  “It’s the end I’m particularly worried about!” protested Stan. “I’d hate to see it fashioned into a—”

  “Dr Slughorn turned out to be a fine fellow,” Frank interrupted, quickly changing the subject away from Stan’s bits.

  “He had cold hands,” Stan considered thoughtfully. “But, yeah, nice fellow. I quite liked him. Of course, I tend to fall in love with anybody who’s kind enough to handle my—”

  “Can we please stop talking about your tackle!” said Frank, taking objection to the current line of discussion.

  “You brought it up!” Stan reminded him, returning Frank’s playful, affectionate slap on the knee.

  They settled back into the wooden bench, the two of them, enjoying the warmth of the fire, rocking gently, and reflecting.

  Eventually, it was Stan who broke the comfortable silence…

  “You were just worried that I’d be shuffling off this mortal coil before you, and you’d have to arrange my funeral and look after Stella all on your own.”

  Frank laughed, loudly. Perhaps too loudly for Stan’s liking.

  “Hold on, it wasn’t meant to be that funny!”

  “Not the bit about you dying, you old drama queen—”

  “Dr Slughorn told me it’s one of the most painful pains you can have! Right up there with childbirth and gout! Only worse than those, I’m sure!”

  “—But the part about looking after Stella. That’s Lee’s job now!” Frank said, laughing. “Blimey, Stan, what a difference a couple of years makes.”

  “No time to rest on our laurels now, Frank,” Stan answered him, back to business. “We’ve got to get this place up and running, we’ve got the TT which will be here before you know, a wedding to prepare
for, and we’ll need to start thinking about next year’s Isle Le Mans TT.”

  “Stan, I was thinking of doing something, but wouldn’t mind running it past you in the mean–” Frank began to say, but he didn’t have the opportunity to complete his sentence as there was an interruption. A very lovely interruption.

  “Here you are!” said Jessie in a lilting, sing-songy voice. “Room for one more?” she asked.

  “Always room for you, Jessie!” said Frank and Stan in perfect unison, both leaning in and placing a kiss on either cheek as she nestled in between them like a rose among thorns.

  “Where are the others?” asked Stan, but he was soon to get his answer as…

  The idyllic quiet of the Isle of Man countryside was shattered with the chanting of, “Let’s all do the Conga!” and the arrival of the rest of the gang coming out to join them from the farmhouse. They made their way across the courtyard of the Isle of Man TT Farm in lively, celebratory form, all dancing in line in a roundabout, circuitous route — much like the race that’d finished up earlier that morning.

  “I don’t know any of that lot are still going,” said Frank. “We snoozed the day away, of course, but I’m not sure Dave and Monty got any sleep at all over the course of the race, nor throughout the day today.”

  “They’re fuelled by alcohol today,” Stan observed, waving Dave and Monty over.

  Dave broke the conga line, but only long enough to offer up a surprise…

  “I know it’s only November, and so maybe a bit early for this, but, with this place officially becoming ours an everything, we wanted to make it feel a little more homey. We’ve been at it all day!” he told them, grinning inanely. “Mum knows what I’m talking about!”