Frank 'n' Stan's bucket list - #2: TT Races - Poignant, uplifting and sublimely funny - one to put a huge smile on your face!

by J C Williams

  Adrian took a lingering look at Dave and Monty, and smiled as a glimmer of recognition filtered in. “Ah!” he said. “You know what, now I think on it… yes, you two… you two are legends, aren’t you? I remember reading about it.” Adrian put his weapon away, his stance finally relaxing. “But… but what happened? Only, what happened to you between then and now? Because…” he asked, looking them over with visible consternation. After all, this wasn’t the way heroes were meant to look. “… I mean, did you let yourselves go?”

  “Wow. Bit harsh, mate,” said Dave. “Anyway, they say that being in the paper puts ten pounds on you. Don’t they, Monty?”

  Monty nodded. “Ten pounds,” he offered. “At least.”

  “Is it not the TV?” asked Adrian, looking at the frustrated crowd who were thoroughly uninterested, just wanted to get inside.

  Dave’s patience was wearing thin. “Oh, for the love of… Adrian, now you recognise us, could you kindly… y’know…?”

  “Ha-ha, sorry, guys,” came the reply. “But it’s like I already said. No ticket, no entrance.”

  Dave was in danger of using the Spirit of the TT Award to beat the doorman, the doorman to the TT showcase event itself, to death. (There had to be an irony there somewhere.) However, salvation came in the form of a familiar figure marching through the Villa Marina gardens at a fair rate of speed. Chris Kinley, host for the evening, had a severe expression, tapping his watch as he moved forth. Chris, whose silky dulcet tones graced the TT coverage as one of Manx Radio’s presenters, was better known for oil-stained overalls, marching through the pits gathering expert opinion from the riders, and the occasional expletive. Tonight, he was immaculate in full black tie, and with no oil stains visible to the eye – though his underpants were anyone’s guess.

  “Dave. Monty. They’re all looking for you in there. What are you doing? Come on!”

  “We’re trying,” moaned Monty. “But Bruce Lee here won’t let us in without tickets.”

  Kinley put the palm of his hand on top of his immaculately-shaven bald head and looked up to the sky. “Do I have to do everything around here?” he asked of no one in particular. “Adrian, do me a favour and let these two gentlemen in, will you? There’s a good lad.”

  “Very good, Mr Kinley. Certainly, sir,” replied Adrian, stepping to one side.

  “Tin of beans, was it?” said Monty, with a sideways glance, as he walked past Adrian. To be fair, however, with his eyes pointing in two different directions such as they were, he couldn’t help but give the boy a sideways glance.

  “Right. I can’t hang about, I’ve got people to talk to on stage,” the presenter said. “Dave, press photographs are over there,” he said, and you’re on stage with me in about one hour. Please don’t be late, or you don’t want to know what I’ll do with my microphone.”

  “I’m hungry now for beans on toast,” remarked Monty idly to Dave.

  “Later,” Dave had to assure him, as they finally made their way into the event.

  Frank and Stan gushed like proud fathers, stood next to sidecar Number Forty-Two. There were several outfits lined up next to each other, mostly the factory-sponsored machines, but the big blue & yellow boiled sweet – Number Forty-Two – was an equal to any of them. She was immaculate. The stage lighting overhead bounced off her bodywork like a polished diamond.

  Every man or woman, on either two wheels or three, petrol or electric motor, was a hero. It didn’t matter if you were parked up the top of the paddock in a sumptuous motorhome or holding up the rear in a rusty transit van. Each and every one of them had their own motivation, their own challenge and reason for tackling the famous TT course.

  Dave and Monty had for years done everything themselves and one of the biggest challenges for them, unfortunately, was money. The prize money on offer was, relatively speaking, chicken feed. The racing for these people – Dave and Monty included – was about more than the money, but, money is what paid for the engines, tyres, and petrol. So, to have two sponsors like Frank and Stan was a godsend. No longer did Dave and Monty have to get bank loans, borrow from friends, or offer sexual favours for cash to visiting TT fans. (Most believe the latter was an urban myth, started by Dave about Monty, but as most know, there’s no smoke without fire, and Monty’s awning was, as it happened, particularly popular.)

  In addition to a new engine – which was more than capable of producing a top-ten finish – Frank and Stan were providing matching leathers and helmets, festooned with advertising for the charity. If their boys, Dave and Monty, were going to start high school, so to speak, proud parents Frank and Stan wanted them to have only the best school uniforms, as it were.

  Presently, Stan was busying himself, applying his handkerchief in circular motions above Number Forty-Two’s wheel arch; there would be no imperfections on the bodywork left unchecked.

  “And here they are,” announced Frank.

  Stan turned and stood, awestruck, pride etched all over his face as Dave and Monty emerged from the makeshift dressing room. The yellow leather suits were resplendent, as were their helmets held under their right arms. They waited in that doorway, poised, with an air of unmistakable confidence, perhaps even bordering on arrogance, surveying the vista before them. They looked like astronauts preparing to embark on a voyage of discovery, to the moon, or possibly beyond. They looked at each other, sharing a knowing nod, before bravely progressing towards their adoring public (which, in this particular case at least, consisted of Frank and Stan). The only thing missing from their dramatic arrival was the plume of dry ice for them to walk through with a fanfare of dramatic, stirring music. They even walked in an exaggerated slow-motion; they were fully embracing their role. The glamour and romance evaporated, however, when the reason for the slow-motion became apparent…

  “My testicles are chafing!” shouted Monty, well and truly shattering the heroic persona they’d presented for a few short seconds.

  The leather suits were visibly too tight for them, and their ambulatory progress was fraught due to the restrictive nature of their attire. Consequently, they hobbled like they’d been repeatedly violated by King Kong.

  “It… leaves little to the imagination,” said Dave, pulling at the seams by the gusset. His face was a puce colour, with every laboured breath a struggle. “I may pass out, actually,” he gasped, with a stream of sweat running down his face.

  Stan’s gushing pride was soon replaced with that of vexation. “Those suits were professionally fitted,” he insisted. “And at a cost that was very dear, I might add. Have you two put weight on?”

  “That’s what Adrian asked as well,” Monty replied morosely.

  “Who’s Adrian?” Frank interjected.

  “Someone who was giving us guff, but then was our friend, and then… I’m not sure,” Monty answered.

  “No. No, we didn’t put on weight,” said Dave, before an exceptionally long pause. He bowed his head, rubbing the sole of his new boots like he was putting out a cigarette. “We were optimistic,” he confided. “We told them at the fitting to take a couple of inches off, as we were looking to lose a few pounds.”

  Stan approached, rubbing his hand to feel how taut the smart-looking leathers were (or that was the excuse he was using, at least). “We’re the only ones who’ll be losing a few pounds if those don’t fit you come the TT,” he admonished. “Especially if we need to buy you another set each.”

  “It’ll be fine, Stan. We’re still with the fitness trainer. I promise these leathers will fit like a glove,” Dave assured him. He tried to place his confident hands on Stan’s shoulders, but with minimal give from the leather, he could only get his arms to just above waist height. From this, coupled with a pained groan from the suit restricting his crotch, he resembled a zombie – a leather-clad zombie, or, more specifically, a leather-clad zombie astronaut.

  Frank smiled broadly. “They do look bloody good, though, don’t they?” he said. “I mean, apart from the overstuffed-sausage appearance? Here,
stand next to the bike,” he guided them, waving his arm in case Dave and Monty should need direction. The press photographer appeared with precision timing, right on cue, plying her wares with a series of snaps.

  “Smile,” she prompted, but all Dave and Monty could offer were constipated grins of pain. “Perfect!” she said. “I’ll send you a copy for your publicity campaign.”

  He had no idea it was coming, or even where it came from, but Frank was overwhelmed by a wave of emotion, resulting in watery patches just under the eyes. Perhaps it was the question on his own mortality, or maybe the idea that Dave and Monty may not have walked away from their crash the year before, but, stood there, looking at what he was a part of, was something a bit special.

  Stan smiled, offering a tender pat on the back. “It’s good, this. Isn’t it?”

  Frank nodded. “The best.”

  “Right. I’d like that beans-on-toast now, Dave,” Monty suggested.

  No matter how many times you’d watched the onboard footage of man (and woman) and machine negotiating the 37.73 miles of twisting tarmac climbing from sea level to nearly fourteen hundred feet in a matter of a few exhilarating minutes, it was still mesmerising. It was incomprehensible for the brain to absorb the speed at which the Isle of Man countryside, for the riders, approached and then disappeared. These guys weren’t riding on a generous, purpose-built track, with gravel traps and run-off areas. These guys were riding past people’s houses, bus shelters, shops, and even telephone boxes temporarily covered in padding. There were severe crosswinds over the mountain that could blow you the width of the road, bird strikes were common, and to think the bikes would reach speeds of over 200 miles per hour on this course was difficult to fathom. Common sense told you it couldn’t be real, but, oh boy, you better believe it’s real, and one of the main reasons these riders were held in such high esteem.

  Presently, the auditorium reverberated with the deafening tone of a BMW S 1000 RR screaming through the Bungalow section of the Mountain Course. The crowd sat in awe, slack-jawed, soaking up the onboard footage – which was on display from a previous TT so as to whet the audience’s appetite for the current year’s race.

  “What about that??” said Chris Kinley, taking the stage as the video ended, and applauding the massive screen at the back of the platform. He’d seen the footage before, of course, but was still captivated. “And wasn’t it great to see Dave and Monty earlier with their Spirit of the TT award! Worthy winners last year and we wish them every success with their Team Frank ’n’ Stan’s Food Stamps outfit!”

  Kinley strutted on stage at the Google Villa marina venue like a peacock; the audience were well and truly in his hands. He rubbed his palms together in excitement. “We’re onto the final section of the evening, so take an opportunity to top up your glasses!” he encouraged them.

  But the sound of snoring was causing a distraction.

  The presenter strained his eyes against the harsh lighting. “Only not you, Peter Last,” he chuckled, in reference to the sleeping man, head on table, surrounded by an array of empty beakers. “I think my old mate Peter has perhaps had enough!”

  Chris’s quip fell largely on deaf ears, apart from one laugh that started off slow, gradually increasing in tempo, very much like an old engine sparking up on a cold morning, until finally it was roaring at high idle – and then, the pipes clearing out, a loud BANG! expelled:

  “HE’S DRUNK!” said the booming voice in between the roar of laughter. “HA-HA-HA!” it continued. “I MUST TAKE THAT MAN OUT FOR A DRINK!” it continued, once more, all eyes in the room now focussed on the round table near to the stage, slightly to starboard.

  Dutch Henk had landed on the Isle of Man, and the Isle of Man now knew it from the foghorn-esque laugh. He was built like Richard “Jaws” Kiel from James Bond, with a personality as equal in stature. He was unconcerned that everyone was looking at him. In fact, he took it as a compliment, raising his own beaker of ale as a friendly acknowledgement.

  Frank and Stan were honoured to call Henk their new neighbour, and the hospitality Henk had shown them at the previous TT was one of the reasons they’d enjoyed themselves so much. He oozed from every pore an infectious zest for life that you couldn’t help but be swept along with. (Granted, that’s a lot of oozing.) Henk may have appeared a puzzle; looking at him, you mightn’t think he had two pennies to rub together, dressed as he was in tatty denim with a leather waistcoat emblazoned with motorsport badges, though Henk was, in fact, loaded. But while he was reserved about his wealth, that’s where the modesty ended: he was loud and a lot of fun. And it was precisely for this reason that Frank and Stan made sure they were sat with him, in addition to a relieved, now-leathers-free Dave and Monty.

  Henk, as it happened, loved the bejeezus out of the TT – everything about it – the people, the racing, the location. Everything. He put his money into motorsport across Europe; it was the perfect advertising for his motor showrooms. The TT had a global appeal, which was one of the reasons he was delighted to become chief sponsor for Harry and Tom McMullan.

  Currently, Chris Kinley was tapping his forefinger on the stage microphone in an attempt to redirect the focus of the room.

  “Okay, ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention? Thank you. Now, I’m not alone in admitting my affection for the sidecar racing at the TT races. The level of competition has always been gripping, but this year, it’s going to take on an entirely new intensity. It’s not been widely known, until now, and I’m delighted to announce that this year we welcome not one but two regular competitors in the greater World Sidecar Championship!”

  The crowd responded accordingly, and, once the cheering and applause subsided, the presenter continued.

  “We’ve got Harry and Tom McMullan. Harry, you will recall, was involved in the incident for which Dave and Monty received the Spirit of the TT award. Tom had an injured wrist last year as a result of this, so it’s fair to say they’re champing at the bit to get racing. And, if that wasn’t enough motivation, we’re also going to welcome their main competitors in the World Championships, Jack Napier and Andy Thomas! Ladies and gentlemen, let’s give them a huge Isle of Man welcome!”

  Dave took a mouthful of his pint, shoving his elbow into Monty’s shoulder. “Get your video ready on the phone, Monty, because this could get very interesting very quickly. Whoever thought of getting them four on the stage at the same time needs their bloody head examined.”

  Chris Kinley sat back in the comfortable Sherlock-style chair placed in the middle of the stage for him. Two intimate sofas sat either side, where the crew of each outfit took their places.

  The presenter smiled, using his hand to lower the cheering from the audience before proceeding.

  “What a welcome. Wow. Guys, you can tell from that reception that the Isle of Man are looking forward to seeing you battling it out for the top step of the podium. Jack, Andy, if I can come to you first. You’re currently topping the leaderboard in the championship, with, not surprisingly, these two,” he said, pointing to the other sofa, before continuing. “In your hot pursuit, it’s really been about you both in the championship for the last three years, with currently one World Champion win apiece. What made you decide to come to the TT now, and was it a difficult decision?”

  Jack Napier gave a snide grin to those sat opposite him. He flicked back a shock of black curly hair, causing an elderly woman on the front row to whistle admiringly.

  “Well, Chris,” replied Napier. “The TT is the greatest test for a sidecar outfit, anywhere, in the world. Andy and I are winning the championship… again,” he said, picking at his fingernails nonchalantly, feigning indifference to the competition. “We know we’re the finest racers in the sport, which is why we’re top of the championship leaderboard. So we need to win the two sidecar races at the TT, you see, in order to remove any doubt that we are, in fact, the best.”

  Chris Kinley nodded slowly. “And you think you can win both races?”


  “We wouldn’t be here if we didn’t,” offered Andy Thomas. “Besides, those two,” he said, pointing his thumb to the other team, though not even acknowledging them with the courtesy of a glance, “… are the favourites. And they’re shit, aren’t they? So, if that’s the best on offer, then it’s a given that we’ll take both races for ourselves.”

  Kinley sat back in his chair, giving a nervous grin. “I’d heard you didn’t get on with each other, but I thought it was just down to sporting rivalry – you know, playing up to the cameras?” he said. “But you really don’t get on, then, do you,” he added, more an observation than an enquiry.

  Tom McMullan laughed sharply. “Chris, if you spent ten minutes in their company – that’s all it’d take – you’d want to punch their lights out. They’re arrogant sons of–”

  “You’re confusing that with a winner’s confidence,” interrupted Thomas.

  “They’re arrogant,” continued Tom. “Which is fair enough, but their biggest problem is that they’re dangerous. They take unacceptable risks on the track. I know I’m one to talk, in that respect. I know people didn’t really take to us, for that very reason. Well, more Harry,” he said, casting an accusatory nod towards his brother. “But we never put other professional racers lives in danger. Not like them. They do,” he finished off, with an accusatory finger point.

  “Piss off,” said Napier with a contentious shake of the head, looking straight ahead. “We’re winners and we give it one hundred percent whenever we race. Perhaps if you two losers did the same, you wouldn’t be second in the championship. What you call dangerous, most would call competitive.”

  Chris Kinley was not big in physical stature and he really did not want to be getting in the middle of a brawl between these four, should they resort to fisticuffs. “Okay, moving it away from the race, if we can,” he said, pushing his chair back a few inches for safety. “Tom, if I may, your outfit, sponsored by this… herm, and how should we describe you, Henk?” he asked, with a furtive glance over to Henk’s table. “I think we’ll go with enigma! That okay with you?” offered Kinley.