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

by J. C. Williams

  “Look, I didn’t come out of this unscathed,” Stan continued. “I’ve lost half of my trousers, after all,” he said, looking for signs of injury, of which there were fortunately none. “Come on, we need to go and get our bags back from Dave’s, I can’t walk around like this, I’ll be nicked for indecent exposure.”

  The dog, at the foot of the hill, was now on its back, bollocks in the air, wriggling about, rubbing itself against the tarmac and making happy grunting noises.

  Stan’s trousers, or what yet remained of them, flapped like a torn sail as they powered the bike up once more and sped off. It was a godsend — the bike, that is — and, on reflection, quicker to navigate the roads which were congested with traffic.

  “We won’t get our bags on this thing,” said Stan as they cycled, near their destination now, through the crowded paddock. “We’ll need to leave the bike, grab the bags, and walk to Henk’s house. Are we doing the right thing, Frank? What if he is some sort of nutter? I mean, who invites two complete strangers to stay in their house?”

  “I don’t think it’s his, more of a rental for a couple of weeks, but I take your point. Look, if it doesn’t feel right, we’ll just turn back round. If we do, I think we’re best off heading home, and we can sort something out for next year.”

  “Bit optimistic?” asked Stan.

  “I’m trying to remain positive, Stanley, I have every intention of being above ground next year.”

  “I meant optimistic about getting a hotel for next year, not pushing up daisies. Although with your illness, it would probably make sense to not pay a deposit. You know, just in case,” laughed Stan.

  The joke was not lost on Frank, who clipped Stan across the back of the head.

  Monty laid on the grubby couch with a dirty cloth covering his face. He said nothing, apart from a periodic expletive, and did nothing apart from kicking the arm of the couch with his heel.

  Frank and Stan were surprised to see a scene of relative quiet, as opposed to last-minute race preparations, and parked up their bike.

  “Everything okay, guys?” said Frank.

  Monty didn’t move.

  “Did you get your hotel sorted?” asked Dave, stepping out of his van. “Nice tandem, by the way!”

  Stan shook his head. “No, as they’d say in the bible, no room at the inn. We’re going to hopefully stay with the chap we met on the boat, so just needed to grab our bags,” he said, and then added, “Is Monty alright?”

  Dave’s jolly demeanour dropped as Monty sat upright.

  “I’m fine,” said Monty, his voice raw. “Twelve months of work down the shitter, that’s all.”

  “I’ve had to give him some unlucky news,” said Dave. “He won’t be racing, and, understandably, he’s taken it badly.”

  “What?” said Frank. “That’s awful, sorry to hear it. What happened?”

  Dave took up his customary pose of arms crossed, rubbing his chin. He took a deep breath. “No engines. Anywhere. I could get a second-hand, bog-standard one, but it’s pointless. So, sadly, without a race-tuned engine, we’re calling it a day. If you’re coming back over next year, we’d love it if you wanted to sponsor us then?”

  Frank slapped him on the side of the arm. “Sorry, mate. At least this means you can join us for a pint or two?”

  “Lead the way, my friend,” replied Dave.

  “We need to go and check this house out first,” said Stan.

  “And showered,” said Dave, turning his nose up.

  “Yes, and showered. Come on, Frank, Henk said if we can get to him before four, he’ll show us around and give us a spare key. We can check to see if there are any dead bodies lying around.”

  “Henk?” asked Dave.

  Stan nodded. “Henk! This slightly eccentric fellow we met on the boat. He’s from Holland.”

  “Fuck off!” said Dave.

  Stan looked at Frank. “Bit harsh?”

  “Dutch Henk? About seven-foot-tall?” asked Dave.

  “Yes,” Stan said. “The Laughing Dutchman, we call him.” And then, hesitantly, “How, erm, do you know him, exactly? Is he completely mental?”

  Dave laughed. “Very possibly. The guy is an absolute legend. He’s been coming to the TT for years. He’s absolutely loaded, owns car and motorbike dealerships all over Europe. He sponsors a few of the top riders. I was at a party he was at a few years ago and the guy is completely crazy — I’ve never seen anyone drink like that boy!”

  “Hmm,” was all Stan replied.

  “Stan, you know I’m not one for fashion,” added Dave. “But what the hell is going on with those trousers?”

  “Long story, involving a hungry mutt. Can we lock our bike up, here? At least till we drop the bags off?”

  “Sure,” said Dave. “But don’t leave it too long. There’s no point in us leaving our stuff down here, as we’re going to pack our stuff up and head home soon. Sadly, our TT dream is over for the year.”

  “You still here?” came a jovial, smug voice from two awnings up. “In case you were worried about me, don’t. I’ve got a ride with Tony Dearie.”

  “Who’s that plonker?” whispered Stan. “Friend of yours, Dave?”

  “Not hardly,” Dave replied. “That’s Harry McMullan. Good racer, but a complete WOMBLE!” And he said womble loud enough so that McMullan was certain to hear it well enough.

  Monty raised his head. “Micky Fitzpatrick’s racing with Tony Dearie. Is he alright?”

  “He’s fine, Minty!” McMullan called over.

  “It’s Monty, you stupid git!” shouted Dave. “MONTY. It’s not that hard!”

  McMullan only feigned offence. “I’ll tell you what else wasn’t hard,” he said. “Was Tony Dearie deciding he didn’t want to be a loser, like you two. Tony’s parted company with Micky, and is now in possession of one of the quickest engines on the grid. Something you’d have had, Dave, if you weren’t so stupid.”

  Dave glared daggers over at McMullan, but McMullan continued on, undaunted. “Look at you, stood there with your knuckles virtually dragging on the ground. And Monty there. I mean, seriously? You could have been racing with me, but you chose him instead. He’s got one eye looking at me and the other looking for me — how does he even know which bend to aim for? Those two gawkers,” McMullan said, pointing to Frank and Stan, “Would jolly well be more competitive on their little two-wheeled tandem than you two overweight Neanderthals. Be sure to give me a little wave when you’ve packed your van up. I might even park mine on your pitch.”

  “A real charmer, he is,” said Stan.

  Dave raised his chubby middle finger and threw it in McMullan’s direction. “Isn’t he just!”

  Monty padded over quietly, unable to raise his head. “You could have had his engine, and him as a passenger, but you refused?” he asked Dave.

  “I refused because he’s a complete cock. If he was alright, I’d be helping you pack your bags myself, Monty.”

  “I know you don’t mean that, Dave, but for what it’s worth, thank you.”

  “Christ almighty,” said Dave. “If we were in a film, some dodgy Celine Dion track would now be playing as we both look lovingly into each other’s eyes.”

  This got a laugh out of Monty.

  “I race because I want to race,” Dave continued on. “There’s no chance I’m ever going to be on the top step at the garlanding ceremony. I might get a few extra miles per hour out of his engine, sure. But ultimately, I want to enjoy it. I enjoy riding with you, Monty. The only way I’d enjoy riding with him is if I were in my car and it was over his leg.”

  Monty smiled and tucked his head into Dave’s bosom as he started singing, very badly, “My Heart Will Go On” by Celine Dion.

  Chapter Eleven

  L ike most who’ve been invited to stay with a friend, there’s always that nagging doubt as to whether the polite invite was genuine or merely rhetorical.

  “My fuck-it friends!” Henk shouted on his doorstep at their arrival, his deep
, booming voice both clearing the fog for a several-mile radius and frightening the sheep.

  An epic bearhug from Henk, accompanied by a deep belly laugh, were enough to allay any fears that Frank and Stan may have had.

  “Please, come in, make yourself at home,” Henk offered. “You should shower!” he added, though his intentions there were likely not entirely altruistic.

  Frank and Stan hadn’t had a wash since they’d left Liverpool and, since, had slept in a van using a man’s hairy underarms as pillows and been chased down by a crazed dog, amongst other misadventures. In short, they stank.

  “Stan,” enquired Henk. “You do know you have only one trouser leg?”

  “It’s a long story,” Stan said. “Perhaps best told later on over several beers.”

  “Ah. Well in that case, come, I’ll show you to your room for now,” Henk said.

  “Henk,” Stan began. “Can I just say, thank you for—”

  “After which, you can take a shower!” Henk continued.

  “You’ve really helped us out, Henk,” Stan carried on. “We really do appreciate it. We couldn’t find anywhere to stay. We slept in a sidecar racer’s van last night, nestled under his armpits, as it happens…”

  “You’d probably like to shower!” Henk suggested.

  “It’s a lovely place you’ve got here,” said Stan, admiring the house. “Is this yours?”

  “This is my home-away-from-home on the Isle of Man. I rented it for years, but, since I intend to retire here on the Island anyway, I ended up simply buying the house.”

  “Close to the TT course, as well,” said Frank.

  The property was similar to Franks, sat at the end of a private driveway with a few other properties, but this was huge. Really huge.

  Frank looked over Henk’s shoulder. Or around his shoulder, at least, since looking over Henk’s shoulder was not easily accomplished. “Is, eh, that a swimming pool you’ve got there, Henk?” he asked.

  “Always a good idea to take a quick shower before jumping in a pool!” Henk said as a bit of useful trivia.

  In the marble-floored entrance hall were several racing bikes, with pictures displayed along the walls of Henk stood with rider after rider. Frank wasn’t the most clued up about racers, so avoided the embarrassment of asking who they were. He arched his neck to look at the pictures, which continued up along the imposing staircase. In fact, there were motorsport memorabilia everywhere — not just bikes, but cars, sidecars, enduro bikes, and rally cars. It was a petrolhead's dream.

  “If you’re quick,” said Henk, looking at his watch, “I’ll take you to my favourite viewing spot to watch the practice session. You’ll love it. Meet you downstairs in twenty minutes. Feel free to take a shower!”

  Frank threw his bag on the bed. “This place is freaking amazing,” he whispered. “We’ve landed on our feet with this.” Then he said, turning to face Stan, “What do we do about money?”

  “For what?” asked Stan.

  “For Henk. We can’t stay in this place for two weeks without paying for the room?”

  “I don’t think he needs the cash, but it would be good to offer. Maybe we can take him out for a nice meal or something. You can decide,” Stan said, then added, “You outrank me.”

  “What? I thought we were equal partners?” Frank said, confused.

  “No, I meant you jump in the shower first. I smell,” Stan explained. “But you really smell.”

  It was difficult to comprehend that the roads they’d only just driven were now closed and become a racing circuit. Handed over to race control each evening for the practice sessions and a large portion of race week, the transformation was remarkable. The logistics to turn this small island in the middle of the Irish Sea into one of the most iconic racing circuits on earth was simply staggering, even more so when you consider the roads had to facilitate the daily commute of the island’s residents a short while earlier.

  The beating pulse at the heart of this operation was an unpaid army of volunteer marshals, known affectionately as the Orange Army due to the colour of their high-vis jackets and vests. They were required to ensure the safety of both the spectators and the racers. To do this effectively, each group of marshals had to maintain a line of sight with the next group; with over 200 corners on a 37.7-mile-long course, it was a challenge.

  Henk and two of his friends spoke at a frantic pace, in Dutch, stopping periodically to share a brief translation into English for Stan and Frank’s benefit. For two city boys, the walk along the disused Douglas-to-Peel railway line was captivating. Surrounded by rolling Manx countryside, it was easy to close your eyes and imagine the shrill whistle and smells of the steam trains that once served this route.

  They were perfectly happy to carry on walking, before Henk ushered them up a side lane. He switched his pocket radio on and the sound of revving engines boomed out of it, disturbing the tranquillity.

  “This place will blow you away!” effused Henk, as his friends shared a knowing look. They could speak English, it seemed, but were not as accomplished as their host, who now looked like a child in a toy shop as he quickened his pace.

  A quaint white cottage sat at the top of the lane, next to the main road which was now a racetrack. The building had aged gracefully and would have been privy to the evolution of motorsport from its enviable location. A thick piece of rope with an oil-stained flag draped in the middle was all that separated spectators from the racing. On their car journey out, they'd seen hundreds of people crowded on the hedgerows, vying for a prime vantage point, and were surprised that they shared this spot with one tired-looking mountain biker who was mostly covered in dried mud. He also smiled and had the look that something special was about to happen.

  The energy level of the radio commentator had reached fever pitch as the first of the bikes left the grandstand for Monday night’s practice session. Frank peered over the rope towards the two sets of marshals located at either end of the long stretch of tarmac. As soon as the bikes were en route, the orange-clad volunteers jumped up and were poised to greet the first arrivals.

  They were a little over four miles away, where they stood, from the starting point, and the contrast between screaming bikes at the grandstand heard over the radio and calm silence presently at their location was stark. A light breeze ruffled the branches in the trees that lined the road. A chorus of birdsong filled the idyllic countryside, with one particular bird gliding leisurely down to retrieve a discarded snack from the middle of the road.

  Henk lowered the volume on his radio to inaudible level and put his finger to his lips, looking over at Frank and Stan expectantly.

  Frank strained his face as he caught the distant sound of engines, getting closer by the second. It was strangely compelling and caused a wave of anxiety to flash through his body, like watching a horror movie and waiting nervously to be startled at any moment. The breeze seemed to amplify the roar of engines hurtling up Ballahutchin Hill, a mile or so from where they stood, the sound of it riding the wind. The marshals leaned forward to maximise their view, and the bird that floated down moments ago instinctively knew it was now time to take flight.

  Frank looked over at Stan, who was so wide-eyed he'd stopped blinking. There was an unnerving stillness as the ground vibrated through their feet. It was as if they were at a rural train station with an express train due to hurtle through at any moment.

  The remaining birds, until now hidden above, broke free of the trees and took to the sky as well, disappearing in a swirl of flapping wings, as the first two bikes burst into view.

  The incomprehensible speed and ferocity in which they approached ripped at the group’s faces like J K Rowling’s Dementors. The long expanse of tarmac was eaten up in milliseconds, and, then, as quickly as the first wave of bikes had appeared, they were gone no sooner than they'd arrived.

  Henk had seen it all before, and took great delight in watching the reactions of those experiencing it for the first time. He laughed loudly as he c
aptured the gaping mouths of Frank and Stan on his camera.

  “This is one crazy fuck-it-list event!” shouted Henk loudly.

  Frank and Stan were dumbstruck, and barely had time to moisten their lips before the next volley of bikes arrived. The next two into view had been caught up on, so four bikes thundered through, inches from each other, ruffling the leaves on the trees as they passed in a blur. There was a kink in the road in front of them, and as every bike went by, the dip in the road caused the rider’s heads to bob, like they were sharing a friendly exchange.

  “Holy shit!” screamed Frank. “This is insane!”

  It was overwhelming on the senses: the sight, the sound, and the smell. They didn't know whether to look at the bikes that'd just gone, or the ones just coming. Their heads spun back and forth like they were watching the fastest-ever game of tennis. It was exhilarating. For the next hour, the stream of bikes was constant.

  The practise sessions were vital for less experienced riders to get a feel for the circuit and for seasoned professionals to reacquaint themselves. After all, this was an inhabited racetrack, and things like breaking points could have been painted, grown over, or simply moved since the previous year. It was also the time to take key readings on tyres, suspension set-up, anything that may eke out an extra mile an hour out of the bike. Qualifying lap times in practice week were also vital, because without enough completed laps at a qualifying speed, you were not permitted to race the following week.

  With a number of classes to compete in on a number of different bikes, these guys weren’t out for a gentle ride. The men and women risking everything for the challenge of racing the TT course was the culmination of months, and in many cases years, of work and determination. Frank and Stan weren't seasoned motorsport fanatics, but from the moment the first bike went by, they were hooked. It was nothing the likes of which they'd ever seen, or would do again — simply mesmerising.

  With the sun falling in the sky, Frank assumed the evening’s session was being brought to a close as the wonderful chaos in front of them eased to a deafening silence.