by J C Williams
Lee and Stella stared down the stretch of road at the spectacle of several hundred people waiting patiently for their carriage across the Irish Sea. It was orderly chaos with the semblance of a queue, but it was the sound of engines revving and the smell of horsepower that hung in the air. People of all ages mixed politely, with most taking a moment to admire the machinery of people they’d met a mere few seconds earlier.
And language appeared to present no hindrance; it was as if the TT was able to transcend all barriers, even that of communication, as demonstrated by a portly gentleman pointing with exuberance at a bike resting a bit further up the pavement: “MV Agusta,” he said, adoringly, in an exceptionally heavy accent. He walked up to the bike and bestowed a tender kiss to the top of its petrol tank. “Giacomo Agostini,” he said reverently, blowing a further kiss towards the machine as he took a step back to admire it. He took a picture on his phone and then returned to join the hoards nodding or shaking their heads in appreciation, same as him.
As they waited, Stella took a lead from the other more seasoned riders, loosening her leather jacket to welcome the sea breeze to her armpits.
She fidgeted at the sight of three men staring over in her direction. It was getting unnerving.
“Nice ride!” said one, with a laugh and a nod of the head.
“She’s been around the block, mate?” said the other.
The third man took a step closer, adjusting his glasses. “She’s got to be, what, fifty years old? She’s had a hard life, but plenty more action in that beast!”
Stella was in her rucksack looking for a kosh or some other form of blunt-force weapon – she rarely travelled without such – and two, possibly three spectators were about to have a detour to the local hospital. The closest of the men, in fact, reached into his own bag. Stella took this as confirmation that things were about to get ugly. But it didn’t happen like that at all…
“May I have a go at her?” the fellow asked, looking to Lee for approval, and, once granted, knelt down on one knee, carefully applying a soft cloth to the tired-looking chrome.
“I thought so!” he said, triumphantly. “She’d come up a treat, mate,” he offered, looking down on the small patch of bodywork – now gleaming.
“I never imagined!” replied Lee. “I’ll have a go at her myself when I’ve more time, I surely will.”
“She’s a classic. Definitely worth the effort,” the fellow replied encouragingly. “Oh!” he said, looking at Stella. “Lovely t-shirt!” he commented, without the least hint of sarcasm or malice at all.
Stella stood down, pulling her hand back out from her rucksack. “Thank you,” she said, blinking several times – she was unaccustomed to receiving compliments, no matter how modest.
Shortly, the engines of dozens of bikes burst into life in unison: an audible invitation that the Seacat ferry was ready to depart. Lee took the opportunity to casually extend his hand to Stella. She hesitated for a moment, not wanting a further error or faux pas like the earlier crotch incident.
Lee wasn’t moving his hand away, however, so Stella placed her gloved hand in his, allowing herself the faintest of grins to appear.
“I think we’re going to have an amazing time, Stella.” Lee smiled, turning to face her once he was seated on the bike. “Stella,” he said. “Thanks for this, you coming with me. It’s just grand, so it is, and, truly, it means the world. Now pull yer socks up, it’s time to go! Do I need to be helping you to get a leg over?” he asked, in reference to the bike.
“Cheeky sod!” said Stella. “You need to buy me a steak dinner before I’d even consider that! Now hurry up. We don’t want that thing down there leaving without us.”
Chapter Sixteen
Saturday – Practice Week
W hat a difference a year makes!” remarked Frank, caressing the blue bodywork of sidecar Number Forty-Two. Do you remember, Dave? The first time we met you, you were beating the hell out of the engine because it was knackered?”
“Happy times,” said Dave, cracking open a can of lager. “Monty?” he asked rhetorically before throwing a tin over, as well, to the partially-sleeping Monty on the leather couch.
“Remind me why you’re drinking alcohol?” asked Stan.
“Because we like to. You want one?”
“You’re not going out for practice?”
Dave nodded. “Of course we are. Aren’t we, Monty? We like a beer or two to steady the nerves before we hurtle down Bray Hill at one-hundred-and-forty miles per hour, that’s all.”
Dave held his stare, but Stan wasn’t on board. Which was fine, actually, because Dave wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep a straight face.
“Stan, of course we’re not going out for practice, mate. Tonight is mainly about the newcomers, solo and sidecars.”
Dave and Monty were parked up at the rear of the grandstand for the full two weeks. Even though they lived less than ten minutes away, they wanted to be right there, part of the action. They didn’t want to miss a moment of it. When they weren’t racing or practising, the paddock was a campsite for friends, who, in large part, may not have seen each other since the previous year or for perhaps just the occasional qualifying race. There were rivalries, sure, but for most they were with like-minded people sharing a collective passion. Racers would happily oblige if a competitor needed the loan of a spare part or perhaps needed a second opinion about suspension set-up. Dave and Monty had a succession of newcomers to their awning throughout the day, with a desperate thirst for knowledge about the track they would soon face for the first time. The experience of more seasoned campaigners was vital to the newcomers and they sat like a child listening to its grandfather as Dave spoke about a particular apex or optimum racing line. These guys needed to figure most of this out for themselves, but they’d be foolhardy to not soak up any of the available knowledge around them.
Further up the paddock where the motorhomes expanded in size, the same sense of comradery was in the main shared. The factory teams may have had more money and more mechanics, but, ultimately, they were also joined by the desire to race – with the only difference, on the whole, being that such guys had more of a chance of actually winning.
Two sumptuous race trucks who were not joined by the mutual respect of their owners, however, were that of the McMullan brothers and the Napier/Thomas teams. The trucks appeared somewhat larger than those of their contending peers, perhaps as a very visible dick-swinging contest. The press were partially to blame, stoking up the flames whenever they had the chance, though one person who was far from impressed with this – as he called it, “childish bolloxology” – was the man in charge of the proceeds. The two team principals had been put on notice by the Clerk of the Course that he wouldn’t tolerate any repeat of the nonsense that’d been witnessed at the pre-launch event, and any physical altercations would be dealt with immediately. Ultimately, these guys were fierce competitors, but there was never any question that they’d allow this to spill over into the racing. Yes, they hated each other, but once they planted a wheel on the track, that’s where any shenanigans ended – they all knew how serious the ramifications could be if they didn’t.
Of course, this didn’t stop them winding the hell out of each other at every opportune moment…
“Are you Tom Macamoooliman?” asked a pretty little girl, with her hair in bunches and a face as pure and innocent as one could ever imagine, evidently struggling with the pronunciation of the rider’s name.
Tom McMullan put down his spanner in the forensically-sterile preparation area where their sidecar lay in several pieces. He could hear the voice but, as yet, saw nothing.
The little girl stood on highest tippy-toe, like a ballerina dancer, affording Tom a temporary glimpse of her, before disappearing from view once more as her feet fell back to the ground. He moved over to the awning wall, peering over, where he saw the girl looking back up at him, race cap in hand.
“Hello, darling,” he said gently. “You want me to s
ign the cap?”
She smiled at him in return, and then shook her head from side to side, her pigtails swaying back and forth as she did so.
“No, but thank you,” she said, clearly struggling to remember what she was going to say next. It seemed as though she’d rehearsed her lines, but in spite of her best efforts the words escaped her. She looked at the back of her hand where she’d scrawled a reminder note before continuing:
“Mister Macamoooliman,” she said, again pronouncing the McMullan brother’s name in her own adorable, inimitable way. “My dad has got a Citroën 2CV and says his car would go around the TT course quicker than your sidecar.”
Tom leaned over the awning to get a closer look at the girl’s cap, which, he now noticed, sported one particular signature.
“Did Andy Thomas sign your cap a minute ago, wee one?”
She nodded, unsure what her previous recitation actually meant, concerned only by the two gold coins rattling around in her hand. She returned to the custody of her father, who was busying himself admiring the array of high-tuned machinery on display.
Tom McMullan offered a particularly half-arsed wave as she departed, allowing his eyes to fall on that of another awning a short distance away. There stood Andy Thomas with a proud grin on his face, offering a vertically-extended middle finger for Tom McMullan’s kind consideration.
Tom collapsed in a canvas chair, putting his head in his hands. “I’m needing to smash that face in,” he said, virtually sobbing with anger.
Harry, composed and practical – though ordinarily the instigator – calmed his brother down. “Tom, I need you to focus,” he said, gripping Tom’s shoulders. “I want you to close your eyes and think of that chequered flag waving as you’re bringing that machine home,” he told him, pointing to their sidecar. “Across the line for a victory. And don’t just imagine the one, either. Picture it, for a moment, next Saturday, and then again, on the following Friday. Visualise us climbing up to get presented with the trophy, perhaps spraying champagne down on the adoring crowds below. You never know, maybe a drop spills over onto the face of a pretty girl stood next to you on the podium, you both laugh, and you proudly show her the trophy. Your trophy, yeah?”
“And where’s Thomas and Napier in this scenario?” asked Tom, more relaxed now.
Harry patted his cheek. “Who cares, Tom? They’re not on the top step and that’s what’s important. No matter what he says to wind you up, whether it’s about the size of your appendage, how slow you are on the track, or even that he slept with your girlfriend, just let it all wash over you and imagine you’re sat on the boat going home with a large cheque and two trophies.”
“Wait, hang on, I didn’t know that he’d said that?” Tom answered him, the anxiety back in full measure and then some. “When did he say that??”
“Which bit?” asked Harry.
“About my girlfriend!”
Harry adopted his most soothing tone, kneading Tom’s shoulders. “Don’t let it worry you. Just think of the chequered flag… the chequered flag… the chequered flag… that’s right, the chequered flag…” he repeated, like a two-bit hypnotist.
Eighteen-twenty to the second and the solo newcomers made their way furiously away from the grandstand on their speed-controlled lap; the TT fortnight was officially underway.
“My god, I didn’t realise how much I missed that noise!” said a delighted Frank, raising his hands to emphasise the point.
Dave had very thoughtfully secured them two pit passes, and, coincidentally, where they were watching the opening practice session just now was where they’d sat, contemplating, only a few nights earlier. It was exhilarating to watch pit lane, now a hive of activity, loaded with petrol cans and mechanics ready to pounce on their riders’ machinery at a moment’s notice.
Stan nodded. “I know. It’s a bit special. I was somewhat worried the novelty might have worn off this year,” he confided. “You know? I mean, how do you better something that’s perfection in the first place, right? I thought it wouldn’t have the same impact.”
“And has it?”
“I think I’m even more excited this go-round, Frank, I’ve got to be honest with you. I can’t wait to see Dave and Monty out there. Imagine if they got a top-ten finish!”
Frank didn’t need to respond, the proud look spread all over his face like Marmite-on-toast said it all.
“Frank, did you ask Henk?”
“What, about buying the farm? No, he’s been fairly preoccupied when I’ve seen him. Well, that’s being polite. I think he’s bordering on psychotic, is what it is. He always wants to win, but this stupid wager with Rodney Franks has really gotten to him. That bike of his, the Vincent, means more to him than life itself. It’s a shame, because I think it’s going to ruin his enjoyment of the TT. The more I think about it, anyway, that farm would be good but it’s too expensive for what we need. We’d end up bankrupting the charity.”
“Well, you do some stupid things when you’re drunk,” Stan replied. “My old dad, god rest his soul, always told me two things – never gamble when you’re drunk, and never go to bed on an argument. It’s served me well. Hold on, is that a new shirt?” asked Stan, changing the subject and reaching out to feel Frank’s collar. He ran his hands over Frank’s cheek. “And you’ve had yourself a shave!”
Frank blushed, trying to use the now-departing sidecar newcomers as a temporary distraction.
“And you’ve got aftershave on,” continued Stan, sniffing at Frank’s neck.
“Bugger off, will you?” said Frank, swatting Stan away. “If you must know, I met a friend for a drink earlier.”
“What friend?”
“Just… a friend.”
Stan smiled. “Does she happen to have a son that races in the TT?”
“I didn’t say it was a she, now did I, Clever Dick?”
“Did you meet Jessie for a date?”
“It wasn’t a date.”
“Why didn’t you invite me along, then?”
“What? No chance.”
“If it was just a friend, you wouldn’t have minded me coming along,” teased Stan.
Frank merely pouted in response.
“I wondered where you might have disappeared to this afternoon, you sly old dog. So what has Dave had to say about all this?” asked Stan with a grin, undeterred.
Frank cringed. “It’s not been discussed.”
“Why? Because you need him to concentrate on the racing?” Stan suggested.
“No, because I’m a coward,” Frank answered. “But I like your reason better, and I’m going to nick it to use on him when the time comes.”
“So?” pressed Stan.
“So, what? Look, can we watch the practices, please?”
Stan looked up the empty road. “There’s nothing going on right at the moment.”
Frank shrugged his shoulders, and then sighed in resignation. “If I tell you I like her, will that shut you up?”
“Yes. Maybe. We’ll see. Carry on…”
“I quite like Dave’s mum, okay?”
“Okay. I won’t say another word about it.”
“Fine.”
“So where did you go for a drink?” asked Stan.
“You weren’t saying another word!”
“I didn’t totally commit.”
“But you said yes!”
“And then I changed my mind.”
“This is going nowhere.”
“Just like your explanation to Dave?”
“Fair point.”
“On the subject of romance…” continued Stan.
“I thought you were shutting up?”
“I said we’d meet Lee and Stella for a pint in town later. They seem to be getting friendlier,” Stan insinuated, with his insinuation eyebrow stood to attention.
Frank nodded in approval. “I’m really pleased by that. God knows it’ll take a man of a certain temperament to cope with Stella, and hopefully that someone is Lee. We’ve known her
a good long while, our Stella. About time she found someone.”
Stan wore an expression of consternation. Or perhaps constipation. “Frank, can you imagine Stella wearing–?”
“Don’t even go there, Stan!”
“What? I was only trying to imagine Stella in her wedding dress – I don’t know where your gutter-mind was. She’d probably wear hobnailed boots with her dress. Do you think she’d ask either of us to walk her down the aisle?”
“I’m watching for the bikes, Stan. Why don’t you ask her yourself?”
“Because I’m not brave enough. Or foolish enough.”
“My entire body is in pain,” moaned Stan, opening his eyes in stages like the shutters of a shop doorway. He went silent for a moment, presumably taking an inventory of what exactly was causing him difficulty. “Frank, if it was anybody else I’d be questioning why you were in bed with me. Ahhh,” he continued with increasing volume. “I hurt. Even my eyeballs hurt. What happened? Who would do this to me?”
“I think his name was Jack Daniels. And judging by how many we had, the bastard must have brought all his friends with him.”
“Bastard,” agreed Stan.
“I think you invited half the patrons of the beer tent back here for a party,” Frank went on. “It was a great night, though. Dave and Monty are somewhere about. Stella’s in one room and I think Lee has, being a gentleman, taken the couch. As for everyone else… I’ve not a clue.”
Stan eased himself upright, with the back of his hand pressed against his forehead in dramatic fashion.
“Knock-knock, hope you’re decent?” boomed Dave’s voice, entering the bedroom, and his large frame following shortly thereafter.
“Aren’t you supposed to wait for an invite?” asked Frank, rolling over.
“Funnily enough, I just had the same response from across the hallway – although not quite as polite. That was the wrong room, as it turned out. You’d think I’d learn. But, no.”
