Frank 'n' Stan's bucket list - #1: TT Races - Poignant, uplifting and exceptionally funny!

by J. C. Williams

  “HA-HA-HA!” laughed Henk. It was the loud laugh of a drunken man, and caused everyone to turn and stare.

  “Like Frank-and-Stein Monster!” Henk roared with delight, and then raising his arms, moaning, and stomping like the mythical green creature for additional effect.

  “Yes, we get that a lot,” Stan said politely.

  Stan cleared his throat and pulled Frank toward the door.

  “Anyhow, Henk, we really need to go…” he said.

  “Yes, yes, we should drink!” said Henk enthusiastically.

  He’d mistaken their rebuff as an invite, it would seem, following them back inside to the bar, and — due to his sheer mass — Frank and Stan did not feel compelled to correct him.

  The bar was heaving with people, but Henk had the ability to create space for himself. People were cautious of him, Frank and Stan observed, but within ten seconds or so, his laugh — which initially one might find annoying — would have people instantly warmed. What was at first assumed to be intoxication was actually his natural enthusiasm.

  People congregated around him, and he told a story like no man they’d ever met. He spoke of his visits to the TT races with such energy that all those stood near to him were arching their necks to listen in, and after he’d finished another in a generous string of anecdotes, he put his hand inside his bag.

  “Drinks for all my friends!” the Dutchman insisted, handing the barman a pile of banknotes. “Whatever they want!”

  Frank caught the tail end of this as he was returning from the loo. He didn’t just buy Frank and Stan a drink, but the entire bar a drink.

  “Is he a bit crazy?” Frank whispered to Stan once back into earshot.

  “He may very well be,” said Stan. “But he’s just invited us to stay with him.”

  “All three of us at a campsite?” asked Frank. “Just how big is his bloody tent?”

  “No, well I presume he’s staying in a house,” Stan responded.

  “You told him no?” asked Frank.

  Stan had a look of uncertainty over his face.

  “I’m not sure, to be honest. He offered, started laughing, as he always does, and patted me on the back. We’ll just smile politely? Besides, he’s been drinking all the way, so he won’t even remember us when we get off, most likely,” Stan said. “Oh. Hang on. Here he comes.”

  “You stay with me, my friends from Liverpool. I’ll show you the TT!” Henk said, pointing at them both. “Only one bed, it will be cosy!”

  Frank was starting to get worried. “Stan,” he said out of the corner of his mouth. “Does this big lummox think we’re sharing a bed with him for a fortnight?”

  Stan started to laugh. “If the big fella said you were sharing a bed with him, you’d be sharing a bed with him! No, what he said when you were powdering your nose is that he has one spare bedroom in a house he’s staying at, as two of his friends couldn’t make it and he didn’t have time to fill it.”

  “Nice offer,” said Frank. “But I think I’d feel more comfortable, and safer, in a hotel. He seems a little… I dunno… unhinged?”

  Frank and Stan, like many others, pressed their noses up against the window as the ship eased into the harbour. It’d been years since their last visit, but the memories came flooding back as they were greeted by the Tower of Refuge in Douglas Bay — built to provide safety to stricken mariners since 1832.

  They’d exchanged pleasantries with Henk and apprehensively taken his phone number on the pretext of meeting up for a drink at a later date.

  “We should have taken him up on his offer,” said Stan. “He even offered us a lift with his friend.”

  “We’ll be fine,” said Frank. “A chap told me about a snoozebox up at the grandstand, something like a temporary hotel. We’ll get a taxi up there, have a look about, couple of pints, and sort a room out. You’ll thank me when you find out that Henk is wanted by Interpol.”

  They stood outside the ferry terminal and waited in line for a taxi, watching as those passengers with bikes made their way onto the Manx roads. The display of a convoy of motorbikes was matched only by the noise they made; it was simply staggering. Locals waved to the new arrivals and received a friendly hoot on the horn as they powered off on the start of their holiday. The atmosphere was electric. The noise of the bikes wasn’t just coming from where they stood; there was the constant hum of engines that floated on the breeze.

  Frank and Stan were like excitable children as the taxi driver took them along the main promenade, past the famous Bushy’s beer tent. Music boomed from the fairground on the seaward side of the road and row upon row of motorbikes were parked up on both sides, stood like dominoes as far as the eye could see. The hair stood up on the back of their necks. The Island was bouncing.

  “Are the practices on tonight?” asked Frank of the driver.

  “No,” replied the cabbie, handing them a small visitors guide. “No practices on a Sunday. The first one was last night, then every teatime until next Saturday. Then the races are Saturday, Monday, Wednesday, and then the big race is on the Friday. It’s all in the guide. It’ll be good to have a look around the grandstand — there’ll be plenty of people milling about and you should get a pint or two up there.”

  “We’re hoping to get a room in the snoozebox hotel,” said Stan.

  The taxi driver gave him a look in the rear-view mirror that meant a reservation was anything but likely. “No chance!” he said. “Best chance is a campsite.”

  “You’re not the first to tell us that!” said Frank, glaring at Stan as he did so.

  Like many others, the Grandstand was one of the first destinations for those on their TT debut. The pit lane and the scoreboard opposite were iconic — like centre court at Wimbledon, or the Hôtel de Paris at the Monaco Grand Prix. The park area at the rear was home to the riders and their pit crew for the next two weeks. It was a carnival atmosphere and gave the eager visitor a unique opportunity to walk among their sporting heroes, and observe their teams working on their bikes.

  Pop-up shops selling a huge array of motorsport merchandise waited eagerly to lighten the wallets of those looking for a memento of their visit. Elaborate, state-of-the-art race trucks sat proudly near to parc fermé — the area where racers would converge before tackling the Mountain Course. The further down the paddock you ventured is where you’d find those without factory funding — the real back-of-your-van racers — for whom the sport was a passion, usually without financial reward. For these riders, the TT was an all-consuming, adrenaline-fuelled adventure that would be funded by themselves and a few generous sponsors. The contrast between the top of the paddock and the bottom was stark, although everyone shared the all-consuming desire to ride out onto the start line on Glencrutchery Road.

  The mouth-watering aroma of cooked meat lured Frank and Stan through the busy crowds. Stan’s face blushed for a moment as Frank caught him smiling at a tattooed biker.

  “You must be like a dog in a butcher’s shop with all these men walking around in leather pants!” laughed Frank.

  “I hadn’t noticed,” smirked Stan, and then, “Ah. This must be the Snoozebox Hotel,” he said in reference to a towering, portable structure. “It’s a bit smaller than I thought.”

  Any hopes of a room for the night were dashed by a large no vacancies signed placed strategically on several posts driven into the sod.

  Frank shook his head. “Shit. Now what?”

  Ever the optimist, Stan linked his arm, and said, “We, my good friend, head over to that impressively-appointed beer tent, and have a pint or two of their finest ales just after we have a big, juicy cheeseburger.”

  “It’s not too good for my waistline,” said Frank.

  Stan rolled his eyes. “Ah, you’ll be dead soon anyways. Live a little!”

  Two pints turned to three as they soaked up both the atmosphere of the paddock and the brew in their cups.

  “If it’s like this in practice week, imagine what it’s going to be like in ra
ce week!” said Stan as they reluctantly, and slightly unsteadily, wandered through the maze of trucks, vans, and tents.

  “We’ll need to walk down to the promenade and see if they have any cancellations?” suggested Frank.

  It was early evening, and from every van or awning they walked by came a sound of tinkering: the noise of ratchets and wrenches bouncing on metal, as intense mechanics stooped over their vehicles to make alterations — anything they could do to drag an extra horsepower out of their finely-tuned engines. Lower down the paddock, riders were genuinely pleased if you took a moment to pop your nose into their temporary garage, and would happily talk you through their racing career, or the motivation that brought them to the Island. The thing they all had, every one of them, was a passion. Their eyes widened as they spoke about their sport, and it was infectious.

  Even though they’d already eaten, Frank and Stan were offered the spoils of a BBQ each time they stopped to speak to another outfit, and another beer was thrust into their hands.

  At the end of a row of vans, they came upon an awning with a shabby, oil-stained leather couch underneath that looked like it’d been found abandoned by a canal. It was positioned facing in, with only its back clearly visible. Tucked beside the couch was something unusual. All Frank and Stan had seen so far had been motorbikes. When they clapped eyes on Sidecar Number 42, however, they beheld a thing of beauty.

  “Look at that!” said Stan shrilly, his voice rising several octaves. “That’s amazing!”

  The shell of this magnificent device glistened as the remains of the day’s sun bounced off its immaculate paintwork. The colour scheme was like something from a psychedelic dream — blue & yellow — which made it look like a giant boiled sweet.

  As they walked closer, Stan pulled his phone out of his pocket to take a picture. As he approached, the sudden, deafening noise of metal clanging against metal gave him quite a start, and caused him to pull back, curling his phone up to his chest.

  “You useless piece of shit!” screamed a disembodied voice.

  Frank, either brave or foolhardy, walked cautiously and peered into the workshop behind the sidecar. A crazed-looking brute of a man stood staring, with demonic eyes, at the machinery before him. He held a spanner that was the length of a baby’s arm, and he swayed back and forth like he was preparing to attack. He must have sensed he was being watched, because suddenly his head turned.

  Frank had been spotted. He froze.

  The man was tensed up, like a coiled spring. He stood barefoot, wearing only a pair of oil-stained white Y-fronts and a t-shirt with Frankie say Relax on the front. The shirt was at least a couple of sizes too small, and the man’s belly broke free of its constraints, poking out in a large bulge between it and the underpants, giving the appearance of a sausage that’d been tied too tightly around the middle. Fragments of an engine lay strewn about, and the spanner in the man’s hand was the likely cause of the sporadic dints on the engine itself, listing sadly to one side on a workbench. It looked very much like various engine parts, impossibly, had been separated from the main by vicious whacks of the spanner.

  In the blink of an eye, the brute was upon them, arm extended, massive, beastly paw at the ready with what could only be considered ill-intent.

  Frank and Stan cringed, eyes shut tightly, waiting for the rain of blows…

  …which never came. “I’m Dave!” said Dave.

  Tightly clenched eyes opened, cautiously. They beheld a wide grin, and a hand, quite innocently, held out for a shake.

  “Sorry about the ruckus! Engine trouble!” said Dave amiably, as he shook Stan and Frank’s hands in turn.

  “Self-inflicted, judging by the dints?” Frank ventured. “I wasn’t sure whether we should call for security.”

  “Ha-ha! Was I making that much noise?” said Dave.

  “No,” said Frank. “I meant more for the dress sense.”

  Dave’s face turned serious and he took a step forward. He was over 6 ft tall and built like the side of a house. He dropped the spanner and extended his arms, causing Frank to shrink back into his shell like a startled hermit crab, certain he’d finally gone too far, and braced himself again for the worst.

  Again, the worst never came.

  “I like you!” said Dave, gathering them up and ushering them inside. He reached inside a beer fridge, which had a dangerous amount of electrical cables running into it.

  “Beer!” Dave cried out, several bottles now in hand. It was rather more an exclamation than a question.

  Frank didn’t want to offend him twice, considering the huge spanner was within clubbing distance. “Yeah… sure,” Frank said slowly and carefully, not wishing to cause upset. “Anything we can do to help?” he added.

  The extent of Frank’s mechanical knowledge could be written on the back of a postage stamp in thick black marker pen, as Stan well knew.

  “And what exactly are you going to do with that engine?” laughed Stan, who was now also in receipt of a cold beer.

  Frank shrugged his shoulders. “Not much. Only I felt quite manly being in a garage with all the dirt and tools, didn’t I? And I thought it was the right thing to say besides.”

  “You calling me a tool??” demanded Dave.

  “W-what? No! I meant…” stuttered Frank.

  Dave gave him a friendly slap on the back that nearly launched him off his feet.

  “You could help me if you’ve got a race-tuned engine for a Suzuki GSX-R600 in your hand luggage!” laughed Dave.

  “Is this engine knackered, then?” asked Frank.

  Dave looked disapprovingly at the mauled carcass sat on the bench.

  “If it was a dog, we’d put it down,” he said bluntly.

  “Ah!” said Frank, maintaining his manly interest. “What happened?”

  “I’ve dropped a valve,” said Dave matter-of-factly.

  Frank sniffed the air and took a step back, scanning the floor for the valve gone missing.

  “On the bike!” explained Dave. “Engines don’t like a dropped valve.”

  “Have you not got a spare?” asked Stan.

  “Yes,” said Dave. “Can you give me a hand getting it? It’s wrapped in cashmere in the back of my gold-plated Lamborghini.”

  “Ah,” said Stan. “I take it they’re expensive?”

  Dave nodded his head in resignation. “Four thousand, maybe as much as six, at this late stage. That’s on top of the twenty thousand I’ve spent on the bike itself. The joys of racing! Still, I’ve got two weeks off work and the beer fridge is well stocked. So it’s not all bad news, I suppose.”

  “So, you can’t race?” asked Frank.

  “No. The only way I’d get that bike around the TT course is if I cut two holes in the bottom and run around, Fred Flintstone-style.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that,” said Stan. “Do you not have any sponsors?”

  Before Dave had a chance to reply, Frank stepped forward and took a large mouthful of beer. His mouth now well-lubricated, out came this:

  “If we buy you a new engine, can we put the name of our charity on the sidecar?”

  Dave laughed. “If you buy me a new engine, you can tattoo the name of your charity on both my arse cheeks. I’m being serious.”

  Stan smiled. “That’s a great idea. I mean the engine. Not the tattoo. Although…”

  “Hang on. Are you two taking the piss?” asked Dave.

  “No,” replied Frank. “We’re deadly serious. Call it a whim, senility, an impulse, or whatever.”

  “Or whatever,” Stan agreed.

  “But it’d be amazing to be part of a race team,” Frank continued. “We’ve just started a charity and it’d be a really good way of advertising what it does.”

  “A good way,” Stan chimed in.

  “What does it do?” asked Dave, barely able to contain himself.

  “We give food stamps to the homeless,” Stan and Frank said in unison.

  Dave’s eyes drifted down to his stoma
ch, and then back up at them.

  “You want me to be a poster boy for the hungry?”

  “Yes,” replied Frank. “The publicity would be good, and you can teach me a thing or two about mechanics?”

  “Monty is going to be over the moon,” declared Dave.

  Stan looked around.

  “Who’s Monty?”

  “Shaun Montgomery, my sidecar passenger,” said Dave by way of explanation, but was met only by looks of confusion from Frank and Stan. “Monty, wake up!” shouted Dave, throwing a small metal bolt past them.

  Stan and Frank had been with their backs to the oil-stained couch, and had given it no attention at all since they’d first encountered it, and were thus startled to see a cross-eyed man, roused from slumber, rise slowly from its depths, still clutching a can of beer.

  It turned out there’d been life couched within that couch the whole time.

  “He didn’t take the news about our retirement well,” said Dave, in reference to the array of crushed cans spread over the grass like jetsam thrown out a boat and washed ashore.

  Monty wiped the crust from his eyes and blinked.

  “Monty, my old son, you’re going to have to squeeze into those leathers after all! Because of these two crackpots, the team is back in business! We’ve got ourselves a sponsor — Frank ’n’ Stan’s Food Stamps!”

  Bear hugs were then given by Dave, from which Frank and Stan fruitlessly struggled to escape.

  “You just sort the engine out, Dave, and tell us where to send the cash,” Frank said. “Look, not be rude but we need to be on our way, actually. We’ve only arrived just today, and we need to find a hotel.”

  Dave looked like he was about to drop another valve.

  “The team principals do not stay in a hotel. No, they do not. Not a chance! Monty, get the guest quarters prepared, we’ve got visitors staying with us!”

  “Wait, we’ve got an engine?” Monty said drowsily, rubbing his eyes again to get the sleepybugs out of them, leaving a smear of black grease over his face in the process.

  “That we have, Monty. That we have,” said Dave. “We’re going racing, baby!”