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

by J. C. Williams

  Frank wound his neck and the spectacle behind them was remarkable. A tailback of bikes, three or four abreast, both filled the width of the tarmac, and stretched the length of the road aft of them, like ants grouping up on a jam sandwich. Now his head was turned, he could tune in to the ear-splitting roar.

  “A trip around the course is a rite of passage for many visitors fortunate to be accompanied by their own bikes,” Andy carried on instructively, obviously relishing the part of tour guide. “There are no speed restrictions on the mountain section of the course — which became one-way over the TT period — but in all other areas of the Island, normal speed limits remain in place for your regular non-racing riders. Whilst most observe the laws of the Island, there are inevitably a small minority who flout the laws and ride considerably quicker than their abilities — sometimes resulting in accident, injury, and worse. This, unfortunately, not only affects those injured but delays the race as well if sections of the course need to be cleaned up before start of the day’s racing.”

  Frank extended his arm and took a selfie of themselves, with their chorus line behind them. The first few bikes raised their thumbs and Stan made his best effort to offer a pained smile for the camera.

  The more eager riders jostled for position, and as the lights turned to green they accelerated aggressively, hoping to have a clear road ahead for their lap of the course. Progress from the lights, therefore, was like walking through treacle as every time the vehicle in front moved, the space was filled by those with less patience.

  They sat for three cycles of the lights, with Stan looking distressed and clutching his bum on either side in what appeared to be an increasingly desperate effort to keep the cheeks closed.

  “Stan?” inquired Frank.

  “I’m fine,” Stan squeaked. “Actually, maybe not so fine… if we could, ah, perhaps…”

  But they were off again.

  Frank could feel the phone in the leather pocket vibrating incessantly. It was probably Molly again. He wasn’t ignoring her. If anything, she’d been on his mind more than ever over the last few days. She’d love this, he thought. It was difficult to comprehend that the image-conscious, immaculately-dressed woman was once a tomboy who’d doted on him. If there was the prospect of danger, she was in her element; if it involved an engine, so much the better. At least, that’s the way it used to be. More than anything, Frank wanted the relationship with his little girl back — but his biggest fear was that it was now too late.

  “We’re doing about fifty miles an hour,” said Andy, once they were back on their way and up to speed. “And we’re coming into Sulby Straight, so indulge me once more with your imagination.”

  Frank’s phone was vibrating in his pocket again, but he was paying it no mind at the moment.

  Stan’s stomach was involved in a summersault routine.

  “There’s a speed marker at the end of this section, and some of the racers have been clocked going over two-hundred miles per hour. Let that sink in for a moment as we travel through. This isn’t a circuit where there are gravel traps or foam barriers every five meters — these are narrow roads, flanked by trees with immovable objects such as lampposts and bus shelters. Travelling through here at that rate must feel like you’re moving at light-speed!”

  “Are we, ah, due to pull in anytime soon… erm, somewhere? Em… anywhere, actually?” interrupted Stan, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

  “Sure, not a problem,” replied Andy. “I was going to take us through Ramsey and then we head up to the mountain. If I can find a safe spot, I’ll pull over. Hopefully it will be a good photo opportunity and you can watch some of the bikes passing by. Is that okay with you guys, probably about ten minutes or so? The views up top are stunning.”

  “Yes, yes!” agreed Stan. “And it needn’t be a safe spot.”

  “A unique aspect of the Island is the ever-changing landscape,” Andy said, back to tour-guide mode. “One moment, you’re surrounded on all sides by a canopy of trees, which will break periodically to offer a glimpse into the glorious, rolling Manx countryside, and the next, you’re in a picturesque seaside town.”

  “An unsafe spot would do just fine,” Stan reiterated, whimpering.

  “We’re only passing through Ramsey today,” said Andy, seemingly oblivious to Stan’s circumstance. “But if you get the chance in future, you really should pop back for a visit. We’re just about to go through Ramsey Hairpin, and you’ll notice that the road changes to one-way traffic between here and the Creg-ny-Baa. Because of this, we may get a few more speeding bikes overtaking. Hopefully we’re ahead of the adverse weather coming in, so try and enjoy the scenery at the top — it’s wonderful.”

  The mountain section of the course rose majestically from Ramsey at sea level, up to the Island’s only mountain, and highest point — Snaefell, at 2,034 ft. Fortunately, the heavy covering of cloud to the north of the Island had yet to make landfall, so, as Andy had promised, they had an uninterrupted view of the picturesque yet rugged landscape — though Stan was in no condition to notice.

  “It’s pretty special up here!” said Frank. Then, looking over at Stan, said, “Yes, anytime you might be able to make that stop. It’s just… there appears to be some urgency in the matter.”

  Stan squeaked in agreement.

  Green hills overlapped each other in whichever direction you looked. A vibrant yellow from the sporadic patches of gorse bushes was complemented by a peppering of white sheep scouring the terrain for an easy meal. It was breathtaking, so much so that Stan, dumbfounded by the beauty of this place, forgot his discomfort if only for a moment.

  “We’re going to pull in over there, on the left,” said Andy. “Just before the sharp right-hand bend.”

  Ironically, considering Stan’s current predicament, their photo opportunity was at a part of the course called Windy Corner.

  The instant the bike came to a stop, the helmet was off and Stan was gone…

  Stan had no firm plan at this stage, but his stomach was making noises like a volcano about to erupt and Stan wanted that eruption to be on his terms. He walked as fast as he could with his buttocks still clenched, his thighs pressed together, and his lower legs motoring quicker than the passing bikes. “Ow, ow, ow,” he said on repeat.

  Fortunately, there was not a soul to be seen. He quickly navigated a small wooden stile into a field surrounded by an ornate stone wall, making sure his travelling companions were out of sight as he began to pull at the gloves.

  “Come on!” he screamed in frustration, pulling at the Velcro, dancing on the spot like a madman at a disco.

  He eventually released his right hand, and fought a battle with the left-hand glove which proved even more elusive. He gripped it and pulled with every ounce of strength before his hand finally came free… with such energy that his hand recoiled, smashing him full-force on the bridge of the nose.

  “Bastard!” screamed Stan, as a thin trickle of blood seeped down his face.

  The zip on the leathers was secured by a button at the top, but Stan’s hands were freezing from the bike ride and the howling wind, making purchase on the fastening difficult. He pulled at the leather suit like a lunatic escaping from a straitjacket. His vision was blurred by a flood of tears from the whack on his nose, and this did nothing to further the cause. The button eventually burst, and he was able to pull the zip down to his waist. As instructed, he only wore underpants and a t-shirt, so the bottom half of the suit fell to the ground with little resistance. Stan crouched down a split-second before the volcano burst to life in an explosion of biblical proportions…

  “What the hell was that noise!” shouted Frank.

  “That’s the new Ducati,” said Andy, pointing at the gleaming red machine speeding by.

  “That sounds amazing!” said Frank…

  Stan was in rapture; the relief was instant, although he was unsure what to do next. He pulled a clump of grass behind him but there wasn’t enough to create sufficient density t
o be able to wipe effectively. He pulled the insurance waiver from his pocket and considered that for a moment, before dismissing it.

  He scoured the field for inspiration. He noticed clumps of brown wool flapping in the wind, secured to the barbed wire that ran along the perimeter of the stone wall. He looked at the wall above where he crouched. Fortunately, the wire that prevented sheep from escaping may now come to his rescue. He stretched his arm up and began to pluck like it was a toilet-paper tree. He was hopeful, but the strands simply parted whenever he applied any pressure. He remained crouched as he tried to reach out for another patch of wool. It was just out of reach and he was reluctant to stand without wiping. He shuffled his feet but there was virtually no grip on the damp grass and his feet gave way causing him to fall face first. He lay on the ground and knew there was only one solution: his t-shirt would have to make the ultimate sacrifice.

  With the paperwork for the job sorted out, he smiled to himself, and began to raise himself up into a more dignified position... and found he had an audience. “Hello?” he said, startled.

  A fiendish-looking sheep with entirely too many horns stared directly at him. Judging by its colouring, it might very well have been the source of the wool he’d just used in an attempt to conclude his business.

  The sheep, for its part, looked wholly displeased.

  “Nice sheep?” asked Stan, tentatively, although he had no idea what sort of sheep this was, exactly, staring him down, as he’d never seen one quite like this.

  It began making aggressive gestures, and Stan had no desire to hang about for an introduction. It was soon joined by another, and then another, and Stan was now faced with a dizzying number of aggressive-looking horns he didn’t care to stop and count. He leapt to his feet and clutched the trousers of his leather suit. The trousers were still round his ankles, and he did a combination of a hop and a run as he stooped to pull them up to his waist. The first sheep didn’t even have to break into a trot to inflict its first assault.

  “Help me!” screamed Stan. “I’m being attacked!”

  The animal was inquisitive and placed its cold nose on Stan’s bum. “Nice sheep?” he said again, in his calmest voice. But before waiting for an answer, he gathered himself up, once again, and hurdled the wooden stile like Daley Thompson.

  He had to let go of the trousers to cushion his fall with his hands as he landed on the other side of the wall, out of harm’s way. He stood with the leather trousers crumpled at his feet, and, as he’d found another use for his t-shirt, only had his (formerly) white underpants on.

  “Are we going to have a problem here?” said a marshal who’d turned up in response, presumably, to his cries for help. “One blast on this radio and the police will be here in minutes.”

  “No,” said Stan, struggling for breath. “But thank goodness you’re here. I’ve been… I’ve been assaulted by devil creatures. Just there!”

  “Those are Loaghtan sheep,” she said flatly.

  “I’ll probably just, ah, go… then… shall I?” said Stan, pulling his suit back up, attempting to restore as much dignity as he could muster, which, it turned out, was not an awful lot.

  The marshal, staring Stan down in much the same way as the Laughton devil-sheep, kept her radio in hand, thumb hovering at the ready, as he made his exit…

  “Thanks for your help, Frank. I could have been killed!” said Stan, upon his return.

  “I thought it best to leave you to your own devices, surely?” said Frank.

  “Yes, well…” said Stan.

  “Well, what?” asked Frank, and, then, after turning round, “What the hell happened to you??”

  Frank had been using his camera to record the splendour of the panoramic view, but he couldn’t resist taking several shots of Stan in his current state as this was, after all, what friends were for.

  “I needed the toilet, but there was no paper, and then…”

  “And then what?” Frank asked, not overly concerned with the answer, happily snapping a few more photos of Stan instead.

  “Well, let’s just say things got a little woolly!” Stan said in angry exasperation.

  “Alright, alright, calm down, mate,” Frank said, before taking one last picture. “No need to get shirty.”

  There’s no way are we getting out,” said Dave.

  The adverse weather that had threatened for most of the afternoon now gave the evening light an angry, bruised effect. The practice session for the solo bikes had commenced on time, but the sidecars were scheduled for later in the evening.

  Like most of the impatient sidecar crews, Dave and Monty looked longingly toward the sky, but it was inevitable as they felt the first few drops of rain falling on their faces.

  “For fuck’s sake!” screamed Dave.

  The public-address system gave its very familiar BING-BONG, announcing that the clerk of the course had an announcement to make. Dave had already started pushing his machine; he knew what was coming.

  “That’s us, Monty. The dream is over for another year. There is not a snowball in hell’s chance that we’re going to get out for three laps tomorrow night.”

  Harry McMullan was also furious. He had two laps under his belt, but he needed the valuable lap time to fine-tune the set-up of the bike. He forced his way past the young spectators who were eager to add his signature to their caps and shirts.

  “Piss off,” he said, marching through them. He stopped and turned on a six-pence. The children could be forgiven for thinking he might be coming back to apologise, but he marched straight through them once again.

  “That’s the quickest that piece of shit is going to go this TT week!” McMullan said, pointing at Dave, who was still pushing his bike, and then stomped off in a sulk.

  Dave didn’t break his stride and simply extended a one-finger salute.

  “Oops, sorry about that, kids. I didn’t see you there,” said Dave. “Would you like me to sign that?” he asked, stopping and pulling a pen from his pocket.

  “Not really,” said the oldest of the three kids. “But you may as well finish, seeing as though you’ve started.”

  “You’d do well to steer clear of Harry McMullan,” said Dave, providing the kids with some fatherly, sage advice. “He’s a miserable git, and leaves a trail of nasty in his wake.”

  “Yeah,” said one of the children, a beautiful young girl with sun-bleached blonde hair and an angelic face. “Yeah, he’s a dickhead.”

  Dave was shocked to hear that sort of language issued forth from such a pretty little face. Shocked, but proud.

  “Then why—?”

  “We get twenty quid on eBay for his signature,” the older boy explained, and, right afterwards and with interest, “Are you famous, then?”

  “Just you wait, lad,” said Dave with a grin. “Just you wait and see.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Friday – Final Day of Practices

  Today’s weather brought to you by Radio TT. It’s been a mixed bag for weather on the Island this week, but it’s going to be dry with long sunny spells and temperatures due to touch mid-twenties in parts. As we turn to the evening, it should be very pleasant conditions for the final practice session. Race Control has announced a change to the practice schedule, with the sidecars due to head out first, at six-twenty p.m.

  D ave groaned in pain. “I think we need more oil, Monty. It just doesn’t feel right.”

  “I’ve just done that. What’s wrong, overheating?”

  “I think so. Maybe I just need to top-up with water. Try the oil first and we’ll take it from there.”

  “The handlebars are a bit loose.”

  “Good point, don’t be shy with the oil, that’s the bit I always miss.”

  “Okay, but, Dave, I can’t get the angle to get stuck into it.”

  “You’ll just need to climb on, Monty. And take your time, if it burns we could be in real trouble for tonight.”

  “I’m struggling to get the lid off, Dave.”


  “Monty, do I need to do everything? Improvise! Use your mouth.”

  “I am, I’ve just nearly broken a bloody tooth and I’ve got it all over my face.”

  “Stop your whingeing, Monty and climb on. And they’re not handlebars, they’re love handles — the ladies love them.”

  Monty straddled Dave’s back. “I think these swimming trunks are a little neat, Dave.”

  “Get the cream on the cheeks, Monty — you don’t want me getting sunburn down there when we’ve got an important race tomorrow.”

  “Preparation going well?” asked Frank, as they approached the awning.

  Monty looked up and cream was now running down his chin.

  “I think we’ve interrupted the boys at an awkward time,” said Frank, chuckling to Stan.

  Monty and Dave were both naked apart from swimming trunks — trunks which would be best described as modest, bordering on offensive.

  “Lovely shorts,” remarked Stan.

  “For some reason, they seem to keep the autograph-hunters away,” said Dave. “The bike is running like a dream, so we’ve decided to have a bit of rest and recuperation ahead of the practice session.”

  “It’s great that they’ve brought the practice session forward,” said Frank. “Are you confident for three laps?”

  “Nope,” replied Dave immediately. “But we’ll give it a go. You guys couldn’t do me a favour?”

  “Of course,” replied Stan. “What do you need?”

  “Move a bit to the left. You’re in my sun, old son,” said Dave.

  Frank and Stan shuffled to the left. “We just wanted to drop by and, you know, wish you the best of luck.”

  “Where are you watching?” asked Monty. “I’ve got a couple of spare pit passes if you want to watch there?”

  “Thanks, but I think we’re going to go to that place where Henk took us the other night. It was a great spot,” said Stan.

  “I’ll wave as we go past,” said Dave. “Anyway, don’t mean to be rude, chaps, but Monty, can you finish up with the sun cream, and while you’re there, that knot in my shoulder isn’t going to work itself out.”