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

  “Oh, dear,” Jessie said again. “You see? This is why I don’t do bloody technology. I always get it wrong!”

  “I’m sure if you phone her tonight, she’ll understand,” said Frank, taking her arm once again.

  Stan arched his neck, looking for what he could hear was imminent. “Oi! Forget all that. Here we go!”

  You’d be forgiven for thinking the noise in the air was the clap of thunder, but the skies were clear and you were at the Isle of Man TT, and it could mean only one thing: machines were approaching at great speed!

  Spectators who’d taken the interlude to rest their legs jumped to attention, with the first sidecar on the road approaching. If you closed your eyes, you could follow their progress with just your ears. With each approaching meter, the decibel level increased a tone as did the anticipation. Your heart rate began to increase, the air somehow had a stillness and although you were surrounded by dozens and dozens of people, nothing was said. Like a horror movie, you knew you were about to be startled when the stillness was shattered, but it was compelling, compulsive, and you couldn’t take your eyes off a small stretch of tarmac where your focus was fixed.

  Frank looked up towards the Railway Pub, where those enjoying a pint in the beer garden would be a visual indication of the first arrivals. The marshals stood poised, shielding their eyes from the sun, and the wildlife – sensing what was coming – either took to pad or hoof, or took to wing.

  Your ears were momentarily distracted from the horsepower hurtling along Peel Road, past the Snugborough trading estate, by the thump-thump-thump from overhead – which felt like it was coming down on top of you. You looked up at the TV helicopter bursting through the trees, but you didn’t have a chance to wave as the first sidecar negotiated the bend in front of you, the passenger performing acrobatic miracles to clamber over to the right. For a split second, it looked to those in the church grounds that it was heading directly for you, until the passenger manoeuvred swiftly to the left, ensuring the outfit carried the maximum velocity through the left-hander.

  Jessie looked up at Frank and Stan and all thoughts of June’s upset were forgotten in the moment.

  Frank took a pause to scour the crowd, once again looking for those who might be experiencing their first TT. He smiled at the sight of a small boy, three, maybe four years of age, with ear defenders almost as big as his head. The boy jumped back in awe as the sidecar screamed by in glorious fury, and he clutched at his father’s sleeve, demanding to be picked up for a better vantage point before the next bike would come into view.

  “Any minute now!” announced Jessie to the others. “There’s Number Thirty-Eight! That means our Number Forty-Two is coming soon!”

  She counted them through, one by one, hopping on the spot in nervous anticipation, but their own outfit did not appear. “Now that’s peculiar,” she said. “I know they left the grandstand since I heard Chris Kinley say as much on the radio.”

  Frank immediately looked to the marshal’s post, where the flags were fortunately fixed in a resting position – a positive sign, since flags being picked up would indicate some sort of incident.

  Jessie checked her phone. “He’ll always send me a text if he pulls over,” she told them, but immediately shook her head. “No. Nothing,” she said, fixing her eyes on the road once more. Her shoulders fell in relief when, finally, Dave and Monty appeared.

  “They must have had mechanical problems?” she mused aloud. “Do they look slower than the other machines? What do you reckon?” she asked of Frank and Stan, but their blank looks in response indicated that they knew less than she did.

  Jessie tilted her head, listening to the bike in question with a trained ear as Dave and Monty whizzed past and disappeared up the Ballahutchin. “Hmm. Well it doesn’t sound like anything’s wrong,” she put forth.

  Stan produced his phone where the TT app was loaded to monitor lap times through the various sectors. “We’ll soon see when he gets to Glen Helen,” he suggested, in reference to the official timing point on the circuit, a sweeping left-hander just over nine miles from the starting line.

  “Get lively, boys!” shouted Jessie with a vigorous shake of the fist, as much a directive as cheering them on. “A good lap time tonight will give them the world of confidence for the race tomorrow,” she told her companions.

  Their three heads peered down on Stan’s phone as the timing beam was broken by those first on the road. They saw the times for those behind Dave flash up on the screen, but not for Number Forty-Two. The McMullan brothers topped the pile by some distance, but when Dave and Monty appeared on the board, they were significantly off the pace.

  “At least they’re through,” offered Frank.

  Jessie’s normally cheery demeanour was somewhat flat. “Of course, but I know how disappointed they’ll be right about now. I just hope there’s nothing wrong with the bike. They’ll be devastated, especially as they had a fair chance of a top-ten finish.”

  When Dave and Monty didn’t break the timing beam at Ramsey Hairpin, Jessie instinctively took her phone from her pocket.

  “It’s Dave,” she said, but the absence of colour in her cheeks told Frank and Stan what they already knew.

  Jessie put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, no,” she said. “Dave will be in tatters.”

  She read the text aloud:

  Chapter Twenty-One

  …We knew we were on track for lap records to tumble this week, after the blistering pace in practice and near-perfect conditions, but that Superbike race has left me breathless. As I look out from the tower at the Grandstand, I can see a few clouds rolling in but the rain which threatened earlier in the day looks to have missed us. With that, Chris Kinley, I’ll hand over to you trackside so I can get my breath back ahead of the three-lap sidecar race in a little over twenty minutes, at three p.m.

  Yes, thank you, Tim Glover. Well, what can I say about that Superbike race that’s not already been said? For the thousands around the circuit and many more listening in around the globe, how about that for a starter to this year’s TT? It doesn’t stop there, folks. In a little over… well, eighteen minutes now, the action continues with the hotly anticipated sidecar race. A number of the machines are lining up and I can see the two favourite outfits. As we know, it’s the McMullan brothers who’ve set the pace in practice. But you really cannot discount Thomas and Napier, who’ve been impressive and perhaps with more track time can really mount a challenge.

  Announcer Chris Kinley now gingerly approached Andy Thomas…

  Andy, the conditions are perfect as we’ve seen in the Superbike race earlier. Are you confident you can catch the McMullan brothers?

  With that, he thrust his microphone under Thomas’ helmet.

  “Yes,” came the terse response, followed by a long pause.

  Kinley waited, in hopes for further comment, but nothing else presented itself…

  Right. Okay, thanks, Andy.

  Chris returned to his commentary:

  I’ll leave them alone. There’s a lot at stake for these guys and I can see from the intensity in his eyes that he’s well and truly in the zone. Other machinery is being wheeled onto Glencrutchery Road where they’ll all get their chance to sit under the starting arch, waiting for the tap on the shoulder to send them on their way.

  I’ve been doing this for years, folks, but I can honestly say I’ve never experienced such a sense of electric anticipation.

  Ah! Now, then. There’s a pleasing vision if ever I saw one. Excuse me, folks, if I can just get through? Thank you, excuse me. Okay, I’m delighted to see this man with his leathers on.

  Chris thrust his microphone like a knight with a sword.

  Dave Quirk! I’m delighted to see you ready for racing. You pulled in just before Ramsey in last night’s practice. Everything okay with the bike? And, Dave, if you’d be kind enough, please remember you’re on live radio!

  Dave opened his mouth, feigning a look of insult.

  “I’d neve
r swear on live radio, Chris. I wouldn’t do it to a friend like you. Yeah, the bike’s fine, Chris. In fact, she’s running like a dream. The problem is rather the two old codgers on board, if I’m being honest.”

  Is that from the crash last year?

  “It is, Chris. Monty’s been having a few problems – well, more than he normally has – with his leg, hip, and that. I got the tap on the shoulder last night as he was really struggling.”

  And you’re okay for today?

  “We’ll see, Chris. Monty’s been with the physio all morning, but we’ll do what we can. If everything goes to plan, we’ll be in that top ten.”

  I wish you well, Dave Quirk.

  “Oh, Chris. One more thing?”

  Yes?

  “Bollocks and boobies.”

  Chris shook his fist at Dave, before extending his middle finger. There were benefits of being a radio commentator at times.

  Well, folks, there you have it, local rider Dave Quirk eyeing a top-ten finish. And apologies for the salty language.

  “Bollocks and boobies?” said Monty, once they had themselves back to themselves again. “I’d have gone for something a bit more… well, better, is all.”

  Dave pulled his helmet over his chubby cheeks. “And that, Monty, my old son, is why Chris Kinley doesn’t interview you anymore. He knows I’ve got a touch more class, doesn’t he?” he offered cheekily, whilst using his left hand to pull leather from the crack of his arse. “So how’s the leg?”

  “Better. Look, Dave, I’m sorry that I’ve been slowing you down.”

  Dave punched Monty playfully in the arm. But Dave’s hands were like shovels, and unfortunately for poor Monty even friendly punches impacted like a wrecking ball.

  Monty rubbed his shoulder, now one more injury that’d have to mend.

  “You shut your cakehole, Monty, you hear me? Just shut it, mate,” Dave told him with affection. “Sure, I’d like a top-ten finish as much as the next fella. But I do this because I love it. And if I didn’t race with you, I wouldn’t be racing at all. So, let’s go out there and have some fun, right? Don’t hurt yourself, Monty. And you let me know if you’re struggling, yeah?”

  Monty nodded, and rubbed his shoulder some more.

  “Where are they?” asked Jessie, almost falling over herself.

  Stan felt the pressure, holding his phone aloft in a desperate attempt to gain mobile data. They’d returned to their favourite viewing spot just before the Highlander, but sadly the dense canopy of trees was once again playing havoc with their reception. “Oh…” said Stan, watching the egg timer having a fit on the screen. “… Yes!” he shouted, punching the air. “They’re through the grandstand on lap three!”

  Those riders higher up the starting order had gone past their vantage point sometime earlier, but all Team Frank & Stan were interested in was how Dave and Monty were progressing.

  “Go on, Dave…!” Stella called out, between sucking the life out of another fag and adding the dimp to an ever-growing pile by her foot, “… You great knob!”

  “Where are they?” asked Frank, wrestling with the plastic digits on his scoreboard. Frank had been promoted to afford Dave with a scoreboard, indicating what position he was circulating in.

  “Position sixteenth, Frank,” provided Stan, eyes fixed on the phone. “He’s seven seconds down on the guy in front.”

  “Roger that,” confirmed Frank, poised with his scoreboard. “I can’t actually believe they’ve got this far!” he shouted as another machine hurtled past.

  Frank, Stan, Jessie, Lee, and Stella all leaned out over the rope in expectation. Yes, Dave and Monty were further down the leaderboard than they’d hoped, but a few hours earlier they didn’t even think they’d be on the start line let alone looking likely to complete three gruelling laps of this majestic circuit.

  “Breathe,” said Frank, placing a friendly arm around Jessie’s shoulder. “You’ll have no fingernails left, either, you keep that up!” he told her, referring to the fingertips being nibbled in her mouth.

  Jessie tucked her head into Frank’s chest. “Frank, I get so nervous. TENA Lady should introduce a TT version for ladies of a certain age!”

  “We should suggest it to them!” agreed Frank with a laugh, releasing his grip and leaning forward again with his scoreboard just as the big blue boiled sweet that was sidecar Number Forty-Two burst gloriously into view for the final time.

  Dave, who knew they were there, lifted his left hand from its grip just enough to manage to offer a flicker of a wave as he tramped on towards Greeba Castle.

  “You’ve got the scoreboard the wrong way round,” Stella observed casually to Frank.

  “Bastard!” said Frank, now frantic.

  “You’re a bit late now,” Stella told him. “They’ve already gone.”

  Further cursing issued forth from a frustrated Frank.

  “One job, Frank. One job,” Stella said, with a derisive shake of her permed bonce.

  “I’ve bloody lost it!” shouted Stan.

  “I’ve been saying that for years,” offered Stella, now on a roll.

  “No, the reception’s gone!” Stan replied, trying to get a signal, and windmilling his arm around like Pete Townsend playing the guitar.

  “Anything?” asked Frank.

  Stan mashed the keyboard. “Not a bloody thing, just this rubbish egg timer. Bloody trees!” he shouted, starting a fight with them.

  Leaves rustled in the breeze, but otherwise there was no response from the trees.

  “Come on,” suggested Jessie. “Most of the bikes have gone through now. We can walk back to the car and may get better coverage once we’re clear of the trees?”

  The five of them walked along the railway line, with Stan in the lead and the others in formation behind them. They looked very much like migrating geese in their ‘V’ formation – all eager to look at Stan’s phone.

  The egg timer eventually disappeared, putting them out of their misery. Stan clutched the phone close to his chest so only he could see, keeping the others in suspense for a moment.

  “Well??” demanded Frank. “We can’t see!”

  “Bloody fourteenth place!” Stan shouted, now leaping up on the spot.

  The five of them formed a circle on the long-since defunct rail route, and in the middle of the Isle of Man countryside they joined hands and gambolled about as if they were around an invisible maypole – temporarily blocking access to the passing cyclists.

  The cyclists weren’t angry their progress had been impeded. They understood perfectly as this was, after all, the Isle of Man in TT week.

  Frank grabbed one of the dismounting cyclists, taking him like he was offering a waltz. “Our man has just finished the TT in fourteenth place!” he gushed.

  No further explanation was required, with the cyclists offering a celebratory high-five, before continuing on their way once they’d disentangled themselves from Frank’s friendly advances.

  Frank and the others held their arms linked as they made their way down the old railway line. There was a spring in their step as they marched with vigour, five across, faces beaming from ear to ear. They looked like they were travelling down the Yellow Brick Road, the lot of them.

  Emotions were a mix of pride, admiration, relief, and several others that could ultimately be summarised in no other way than, The Isle of Man in TT Week.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  N o way. You’re being serious?” asked Frank, but before Dave could answer, Frank ushered Stan into the conversation.

  “Four sausage baps and four teas,” said Stan, joining Dave and Frank on the leather sofa. “Here, no Monty? I’ve bought him a sarnie.”

  “He’s at the physio. But never mind that, Stan, listen to this,” insisted Frank.

  Dave rolled his eyes, as he’d regurgitated the story several times already.

  “Sauce?” asked Dave, in regards to the food. Once that was sorted, he then took a mouthful from his sausage sarnie, creating a c
rescent moon in what remained.

  “It all kicked off round here, last night,” began Dave. “I’m surprised you didn’t hear the sirens at your house.”

  Stan loved a bit of gossip, moving closer as Dave chewed down on his breakfast, hanging on his every word.

  “Well,” continued Dave, wiping flour from his cheek. “Andy Thomas was told on very good authority that Tom McMullan was the one that’d drawn the huge meat puppet on the side of his van, so he marched down to have a friendly chat with him.”

  “They don’t know who it really was, do they?” asked a nervous Stan for the umpteenth time.

  “No, you’re fine,” Dave assured him. “Anyway, before Andy could get a word in, seemingly Tom McMullan was in possession of a photograph of Andy with Tom’s girlfriend, and it all kicked off. Tom threw several punches and got himself arrested.”

  “But Andy didn’t?” asked Frank.

  “No, technically, he was just defending himself. He managed to get a couple of punches in, as well, and cracked a bone in his hand in the process.”

  “One of the phalanges?” asked Stan.

  “No, one of the McMullans. And Andy Thomas. I just said,” Dave corrected him. “Haven’t you been listening?”

  Frank’s jaw dropped in astonishment. “Why’s Tom gone and done that? They won the first sidecar race handily. If he’s been arrested, will they let him race on Friday?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” replied Dave. “The organisers have been convinced he drew the cock on the van, or the coq au vin, as I like to call it. Oh, that’s brilliantly clever…” he said, trailing off, and impressing only himself, before regaining his thought process.

  “They’ve had enough of him, what with the assault charge, so they’ve kicked him out of the TT. Harry’s furious, apparently,” chuckled Dave. “So, with Tom locked up and suspended and Andy Thomas with his hand ruined, we may have a chance of finishing higher up on the leaderboard without them four tosspots racing.”

  “I don’t imagine Henk is going to be especially pleased by this development,” reflected Stan. “His sidecar took the first race at a canter, winning it easily, so chances are they’d have easily won the second? That little scuffle has lost him the chance of taking the farm from that Rodney Franks fella. On the other hand, there’s no way for him to lose the bet, either. But I’m damn sure he’d have relished beating that muppet given the opportunity.”