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

  Dave accelerated in third gear, the suspension softening for a moment as he caught the dip in the road over the defunct Douglas-to-Peel railway line. Those riders catching air was the reason it was so popular with the congregation of photographers blocking the view of others waiting patiently at Union Mills Church. And it was here the ferocity of the glaring sunshine hit, coupled with a flock of birds taken to the wing by the commotion of the race. It was obstacles like this that the novice rider would have to experience to understand.

  The next section – the ascent up the Ballahutchin – was quick, and then flattened out for what seemed like an age. It gave Dave a brief opportunity to shake his head and clear his senses before being thrown into the infamous Ballagarey right-hander, which was a serious test for how the bike handled and also for how brave you were feeling.

  Dave’s hand was in conflict with his brain but he powered through without lifting off, quite smartly, and he carried this valuable momentum onto the straight. In races which could be separated by hundredths of a second, it was corners such as Ballagarey – or Ballascary, as it was affectionately known – which separated positions on the podium.

  The hedges and walls were scattered with faces, and, whilst Dave couldn’t make out any precise detail at his rate of speed, he could appreciate the volume of people desperate to exploit any viewing opportunity.

  A constant stream of wee winged creatures, meanwhile, paid the ultimate price, with their remains enjoying a lap of the course plastered all over the front of Dave’s visor.

  Dave was focussed, listening out for any noise or vibration that would provide him feedback on the bike’s performance – and the flat-out Glen Vine section was a worthy adversary for it – but she was running like a dream, and she wasn’t missing a beat.

  Dave and Monty flew past the Crosby Pub, where more spectators enjoyed a pint in the warm evening sunshine, but it was all business for Dave, who prepared himself for the Crosby jump where the quicker competitors would once again feel their suspension soften.

  Dave had now progressed a little over four miles and was coming up on what would arguably be the quickest point of the course, despite the fact they’d been all but flat-out for the previous two miles. Trees hung over the road from both sides, forming a virtual tunnel which only further enhanced the feeling of velocity.

  A small lane on the left – flanked on one side by a modest white house – was separated from the track by a low-hanging piece of rope. Although Dave was tearing through at over one hundred and fifty, he offered a split-second wave to four heads that would only have been visible to those watching out intently for it. Those four heads on the other side of the rope, as it happened, belonged to Frank, Stan, Lee, and Stella.

  “Holy fucking fuck!” screamed Lee, jumping on the spot. “That’s them! Dave and Monty! Jaysus!”

  Frank and Stan gave a knowing glance – similar to the one they themselves had been offered at the same point twelve months before.

  Lee couldn’t stand still. He was practically doing a jig.

  “Oh my god, Frank! You’ve been going on about this place all year. But I didn’t get it. Not until that very moment, just then!” He was grinning like an idiot. “Frank, Stan,” he said, looking at them each in turn. “This place is completely unreal. My brain cannot register what it’s seeing!”

  Lee had to place his hands on his thighs and lower his head for fear of hyperventilating. After he’d sorted himself out, he stood back up, hands on his hips. He shook his head. “Frank,” he said with a deadpan expression. “I actually think I’ve got an erection.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first, nor the last,” replied Frank, shooting a glance in the direction of Lee’s groin despite himself, as did Stan. “In fact I think it’s one of the reasons Stan likes it here so much,” Frank added.

  Stan shrugged his shoulders. “It’s a fair cop,” he said with a smirk.

  Beyond that, Stan had the look of every TT spectator stood next to a first-time visitor. It was a face of anticipation, knowing that that person was about to enter a new chapter in their life. Once you’d seen a bike passing in anger at the TT, you would look at everything else in life with a different lens from then on.

  Yes, you could appreciate other sports, but, with this, with the TT, you respected it. The riders became mythical creatures; it was simply impossible for the average man or woman in the street to comprehend how human beings were able to go at such speed on what were country roads surrounded by walls, trees, and phone boxes. Those that’d been through it just knew; there was no explanation required. TT shirts were worn the world over and for the majority wearing one, it meant that they’d experienced this spectacle for themselves. If you met someone who’d been to the TT, a simple nod of appreciation was all that was required to convey the fact that you knew. You’d had the privilege, no, the honour, to watch these sporting goliaths negotiating what was the most challenging, unforgiving test of sporting achievement anywhere, without question. There was nothing like the Isle of Man TT.

  “What about you, Stella?” asked Frank. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Stella put a shaking hand to her mouth, taking a deep, trembling draw on her cigarette.

  She didn’t speak at first, so overcome was she.

  She gave the impression she was about to reveal the deep emotional impact the experience of the last few moments were to have on her…

  Remark upon the profound majesty of the moment…

  How it had affected her…

  How it would change her life forever…

  Finally, she spoke:

  “I think I’ve got an erection as well, actually,” she said, and she forgot, for a moment, to even take another draw from her cigarette.

  Chapter Nineteen

  … So make sure you tune in tomorrow for the final night of practice. Before we go, we’ll hand over to Chris Kinley in pit lane to reflect on what’s been another frantic practice session.

  Yes, thanks, Tim. Frantic is the word. My-oh-my, what a week we’re having at the Isle of Man TT. I’ll be the first to admit that I thought the forecasters were being too optimistic, but the weather has been fantastic as we draw to the end of practice week.

  I spoke earlier about the solo machines, and, as predicted, lap times are already approaching lap-record pace. I will not be surprised to see the outright lap record smashed in the Superbike race on Saturday.

  The sidecars have really captured the imagination so far, and, oh, my, are the guys at the top of the leaderboard quick! I don’t think I’ve ever seen them pushing that hard at this stage.

  There was speculation at the start of the week as to whether lack of course experience would hamper Andy Thomas and Jack Napier, but I’ve been impressed. They’re a little off the pace, but even so, they’ve dropped in the second fastest lap of the week, which is deeply impressive. They’ve pushed the McMullan brothers all week, and after tonight’s practice session it’s the McMullan brothers who top the pile with a fastest lap of one-one-five point-seven-three-two.

  But the newcomers are not a million miles behind them, just over two seconds slower. For an outfit that’s never raced at the TT previously, that lap time is simply stunning.

  There is a chance of a few showers next week, which may impact on lap times, but regardless of the weather we’re sure to have some amazing racing. I’m off to get my breath back, so, Tim, it’s back to you in the studio.

  T he leather sofa outside Dave’s awning was more than just a seat; it was an occasion. Some of the fondest of times had been shared on it – from talking through their strategy, to welcoming new friends and old, to toasting to success, or perhaps downing a few to drown their sorrows – and it was as much a part of Dave and Monty’s TT experience as their sidecar.

  Monty stretched out, like a cat, topless with just his shorts on, eyes closed, and with a solitary beer resting on his chest.

  “What a night, Monty!” Frank called out, startling Monty from his trance
-like state. “Eleventh on the leaderboard, that’s unbelievable!”

  “One hundred and seven-point-six-four-zero, Monty!” offered Stan, sharing the enthusiasm. “We watched you from the garden, and you boys were shifting!” he continued, expecting perhaps a high-five or some sort of reaction or confirmation.

  Frank peered over from the back of the couch. “You sleeping, Monty?”

  “Drunk, maybe?” suggested Stan.

  Monty opened one eye – his good one – staring up at the two excitable faces looming over him. “I’m not drunk,” he said. “I’ve only been back ten minutes, and I only have one tin during TT.”

  “Everything okay, Monty?” asked Frank. “I thought you’d be ecstatic. You’re nearly in the top-ten fastest lap times!”

  “I guess.”

  “You guess? You are, Monty!”

  “Have you fallen out with Dave?” asked Stan. “Where is he?”

  “He just texted me. He’s in a meeting with the organisers about the big willy drawn on the race van. Seemingly there’s been a bit of bad blood over it. He said I should come up as it was starting to kick off, but I couldn’t be arsed.”

  “They know who it was?” squirmed Stan.

  Monty shook his head. “I guess not, otherwise they wouldn’t be having only a meeting about it. I think you’re safe, Stan.”

  “Dave’s happy with the progress of the races?” asked Frank, confused with Monty’s indifference.

  “Over the moon.”

  Frank gave Stan a glance. “Are we missing something here, Monty? You’re lying there like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

  Monty peeled his torso from the leather surface, pushing himself into a seated position. He cupped his face with his hands and let out a sigh. “It’s nothing. I’m being stupid,” he eventually offered, taking a another pause before continuing. “I feel like I’m letting you boys down. I feel like I’m letting Dave down. And I feel like I’m letting the sidecar down.”

  Frank laughed, expecting a punchline, though none came.

  “Monty, you’re being serious? You’re nearly in the top ten, mate. This is utterly amazing. You should be spinning cartwheels with fireworks coming out of your arse, not sat here with your face tripping you up. Fucksake, you’re not letting us down in any way, shape, or form. We think you and Dave are legends!”

  “Legends, is right!” repeated Stan with an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

  Monty took a half-hearted mouthful of beer, which was concerning in and of itself since he never did any beer drinking half-heartedly. “I’m holding Dave back,” he told them.

  Frank laughed again, waiting for another absent punchline. He really needed to judge a situation with greater proficiency. “Monty, with respect, what the hell are you on about? The pair of you are flying!”

  Monty reflected for a moment, taking another mouthful of beer. “Guys, that bike is too quick for me. I don’t know what it is, whether it’s this bloody leg injury from last year. Perhaps the crash had a bigger impact on me than I thought. Maybe my confidence has gone?”

  Frank and Stan sat either side of the topless Monty, both placing a hand on either shoulder. It looked like they might start giving him a rubdown. With his free hand, Frank took his phone from his pocket and presented it to Monty. “Look at this photo, Shaun Montgomery. What do you see?”

  Monty’s focus, up close, wasn’t razor-sharp, so he arched his neck back and looked down his nose, squinting with the one eye that would best cooperate. “It’s me and Dave going past your house?” he hazarded a guess.

  Frank nodded. “That’s right, it’s you and Dave going past our house on your way to a nearly one-hundred-and-eight-mile-an-hour lap in the Isle of Man TT, and it’s only bloody practice week!”

  Monty permitted a smile. “I know. Perhaps I’m being stupid. That engine, though, Frank, it’s unbelievable. Dave, he’s unbelievable. Frank, yes, we’re doing that lap time. But I promise you this. Dave is one of the finest sidecar riders on that track and our outfit…” he said, scratching his head, poised in thought. “That outfit has the capability of a place on the podium. I promise you, it’s that good. The problem… the problem is that I don’t think I’m good enough for it.”

  “Can I get a massage next?” chuckled Dave, returning from the meeting. “I want in on this action!”

  Dave collapsed into the leather seat, giving a fond nod to his friend. “Don’t you just absolutely love this?” he said. “We’re sat on a crappy leather sofa in the middle of a field, with close friends, you’re getting a massage and I’m up next, and I wouldn’t change it for the world! Well, apart from one small detail. A beer, just the one, would be good,” he said, looking over to the beer fridge, then to Frank, and then looking back over to the beer fridge.

  Frank was on it immediately.

  “How did the meeting go?” asked Monty, which caused another chuckle from Dave.

  Dave reached over, slapping Stan’s leg. “Oh, Stan, that giant cock is absolutely priceless. It was on Napier’s truck, as it turns out. They’re all going completely mental up there. Happy days.”

  “They’ve not washed it off?” asked Stan, looking cautiously over his shoulder to make sure no one was in earshot.

  “Yeah, but whatever was in the spray doesn’t seem to react too well with paintwork. There’s still this big outline of a huge block and tackle,” explained Dave, tracing the phallic figure in the air to illustrate. “It’s in the paintwork and they can’t get it off. Their sponsors are going mad. Honestly. Priceless.”

  “What was the meeting about?” asked Monty.

  “They wanted all the riders brought together as they don’t want this escalating. They were asking if anyone noticed anything.”

  “They definitely don’t know who did it?” asked Stan, nervously fidgeting with his collar.

  Dave shrugged his shoulders. “Well everyone in the paddock thinks Napier’s a cock. So everyone’s a suspect. It’d make a really bad Agatha Christie book, actually. Or good one, depending on your perspective.”

  “Oohh, I know!” offered Monty. “What about, The Case of the…”

  “Yes?” said Dave encouragingly.

  “No, sorry. It’s gone,” Monty concluded.

  “Ah,” said Dave. “Oh,” he continued, gripping his phone. “Oh, that’s perfect,” he said, suddenly struggling for breath, his shoulders heaving.

  “What?” asked Frank, moving in for a closer look. “It’s a picture of Tom McMullan? What’s so funny?”

  Dave pinched the screen, enlarging the image. “Look at what he’s holding.”

  Monty started to laugh uncontrollably, before coming abruptly to a halt. “Nope, I don’t get it,” he said, the uncertainty evident on his face.

  Stan moved his head an inch from the phone for a better view. The leather sofa was starting to resemble the set of a gay porn film: Frank still had his hands rubbing Monty’s half-naked body, and now Stan’s head was positioned two inches from Dave’s crotch, and with Dave making overenthusiastic happy gulping and gasping noises.

  “That’s the tin of paint I used?” Stan put forth. “To make the–?”

  “I know,” replied Dave. “I threw it into the McMullans’ garage. The fact that Tom happened to pick it up as I had my camera at the ready was a happy coincidence.”

  “Ah-ha!” exclaimed Monty, followed shortly thereafter with: “No. I still don’t get it.”

  Dave, ever patient as far as Monty was concerned, pointed at the tin. “Napier and Thomas have a huge knob etched in the paintwork of their expensive truck. I’ve got a picture of his arch-enemy, Tom McMullan, holding a tin of white paint, and they don’t need to be geniuses to jump to the wrong conclusion.”

  Monty raised a knowing finger. “Ah, I’m with you,” he confirmed. “Print it off and slide it under their door.”

  “Exactly! That’s the plan, Monty. Then we sit back and watch the pyrotechnics. Beautiful!”

  “Should I just own
up?” asked Stan.

  Dave shrugged his broad shoulders. “You could, Stan. I’m guessing, a respray on a truck that size would be, maybe, let’s see… carry the one, add the eleventy-seven, divide by nought…”

  “How much??” Stan pleaded.

  “Five thousand?” Dave suggested.

  “Five thousand pounds??” said Stan, his voice rising several octaves. “I agree. We should definitely print that picture off.”

  “It was all kicking off at that meeting,” Dave went on. “Henk was there. And the other bloke, Rodney Franks. You know you meet people who suit their name? I don’t know why, but Rodney just looks like a Rodney, do you know what I mean? You just want to get him in a headlock and give him a wedgie.”

  “We should totally do that,” said Monty. “Hang on, what happened to my shoulder rub?” he asked of Frank.

  “I thought I was finished?” replied Frank.

  “Did I say to stop?” countered Monty. “No I did not.”

  “Anyway,” continued Dave, removing his own shirt in preparation for a shoulder rub on the gay porn couch. “Henk had printed off the leaderboard for the lap times and just held them in front of Franks. Whenever the officials weren’t looking, he kept flipping him the bird. It was like being back at primary school. Absolutely brilliant.”

  “What did Rodney do?” asked Frank.

  “Not a damned thing. Which is what made it especially amusing. I mean, what could he do? Henk is, what, six-foot-ten, or something ridiculous? Not to mention built like a Dutch draught horse.”

  “And then what?” asked Monty, expectantly.

  Dave gave a shrug. “No idea, they chucked me out at that point. I wasn’t actually invited to the meeting in the first place, it was only for the top riders and I just blagged along, being the nosy bastard I am. See, I only went up to throw the tin in the garage in the first place, and when I saw everyone looking deadly serious, I thought I’d head in to see what was going on. It’s probably still going on now.”