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

by J. C. Williams

  “Are you not going to answer that?” asked Stan.

  “No, it’s a private number. Probably Molly again,” replied Frank.

  “You’re not speaking with her?”

  “No. Well, yes. I mean, yes, but not right now. She’s getting on my case. She means well, though. She’s been different the last few days.”

  “Different how?”

  “It’s hard to explain. She’s just being, well, nice. Like the Molly of old.”

  “That’s not good?” asked Stan.

  “It’s very good. I’m enjoying it, but she’s just been getting on my case a bit over the last couple of days like I said.”

  The Island was resplendent with the absence of cloud. The bright sunshine brought a happy glow to the fields and the cattle looked idyllic, like they’d been glued in position to cement the image of tranquil countryside. Frank and Stan joined the railway line at Quarterbridge, walking along where the old tracks had once been — and was now a lovely walking path — with the intention of taking a longer but more leisurely stroll to their viewing spot. The early stages of the railway line were largely under the cover of trees, with the River Dhoo meandering gently alongside. Two backpacks were filled with essentials and they’d acquired a radio to listen to the coverage of the practice session.

  “Why’s she been getting on your case?” asked Stan.

  Frank pointed out a grey heron on the riverbank, but his deflection tactic failed.

  “Frank?”

  “It’s nothing. I just told her something about my treatment that she didn’t like.”

  “What about your treatment?”

  Frank picked up a large twig and threw it on the water, watching as it floated downstream.

  “I’ve refused treatment.”

  “What? You’re joking, of course?”

  “I’m not joking, no. The doctor gave me all the available options and I’ve said I’ll let him know when I get back home.”

  “That’s lunacy!” said Stan, getting more animated. “I can see why Molly is getting on your case!”

  “Stan, I know you care, but this is why I didn’t tell you. It’s why I wasn’t going to tell anyone. I hadn’t meant to tell Molly, but her being nice and all just caught me off guard and it’d slipped out. Stan, I’ll know what I need to do when I get back. It’s not as if anything is going to change over the next week, right? So promise me we can leave it at that. If it turns out I’m being nagged by everyone, then I’ll end up just keeping things to myself again, yeah?”

  Stan looked down at the ground, as if he were studying the dirt intently. “Bloody sod,” he said, under his breath.

  “What?” asked Frank.

  “Okay, I promise,” Stan said after a few moments. “Please don’t block us out, though, Frank, because people care. Wait, what are you smiling at? I’m being serious here!”

  “I know, mate. Molly told me that her mum has kicked the fitness instructor into touch.”

  “And you’re happy? You don’t want her back, do you?”

  Frank looked offended. “I’d rather massage baby oil onto Monty and Dave’s naked torsos after they’ve completed the three laps, in this heat, than go back to Helen. I suppose I just receive some perverse pleasure in her having a hard time. Call it schadenfreude, I guess.”

  “Why?” Stan asked.

  “Because that’s what it’s called.”

  “Oh. Anyway, it’s understandable, I suppose, you should feel that way. I wonder what happened on her end, though. Maybe she finally realised she prefers geriatric blokes who’re past their sell-by date, rather than a toned Latvian Adonis?”

  “Thanks, Stan, you know how to make someone feel good. If you want, I can ask if she’ll put a word in for you with Boris.”

  Stan looked as if he were actually considering the suggestion for a moment, but then shook his head. “Come on, Frank,” he said. “We need to pick the pace up, we’ve got a few miles to go.”

  They pushed on through the Manx countryside, with two cans of beer opened to refresh the intrepid travellers. The perception of just how far they’d travelled, however, was somewhat confusing as great swathes were similar. “I remember this cricket club,” said Stan. “Is this not where we parked the other night?”

  Frank flicked the switch on the radio and the unmistakable enthusiasm of the commentators indicated the start of the practice session was imminent.

  “We’re going to have to run!” said Frank.

  “I’m not running. If I run, I shall perspire,” replied Stan, trying his best to sound posh. “And a gentleman does not perspire!”

  “But we’ll miss the start!” Frank protested.

  “Frank, you’re past your expiry date — no offence — and I’m chronically unfit. We’re not running. There’s no way an ambulance could reach us here, and do you really want to carry me over your back? Or, me, you?”

  “Okay, point taken,” said Frank, taking a mouthful from his can. “We’re not exactly athletes, hairy muff, but let’s ramp it up a notch?”

  They were within sight of the wooden gate that spanned the width of their path, ahead.

  “There it is,” said Frank pointing just further on. “We turn right after that, and we’re there. Listen, I can hear them coming!”

  The monstrous roar of screaming engines once again disturbed the still, evening air, causing the hair on the back of their necks to stand to attention. The impending arrival of the first bike on the road felt like a summer storm; even though they couldn’t see it yet, they could feel it in the air, sense the change in pressure.

  The wind seemed to develop a chill, suddenly, and the lads waited in anticipation for the first bike to strike in like a crack of lightning.

  “I love this!” shouted Stan, as they ran to the familiar piece of rope up against the road, and, once there, embracing it like an old friend. This piece of rope, sturdy as it may have been, was the only thing separating the fans from the racers, and Stan and Frank clutched it tightly with excitement.

  Frank pressed the radio close to his ear. “I think they just said Number Thirty-Two is away?” He stuck his finger in his other ear, trying in vain to drown out the roar of thunder passing a few feet from where they stood.

  “Thirty-Nine, Forty, Forty-Two — they’re away! Go on, Dave, go on, Monty!” they screamed, jumping like teenage girls at a One Direction concert.

  “Easy, remember your condition!” Stan shouted.

  “What condition??” Frank yelled back.

  “I don’t know!” Stan replied. “You’ve never told me!”

  “Well, then!” Frank shouted, and, with that, they carried on screaming and jumping like the aforementioned teenaged girls.

  Any other sporting spectacle of this magnitude would have hundreds of people jostling for position at a prime viewing spot like this. They were touching-distance away from bikes passing in a blur at 150 mph. It was exhilarating, and they were on their own with only a pocket radio to keep them company.

  “I feel like I’m going to shit myself again!” announced Stan. “And it’s not kebab-related this time!”

  You didn’t have a moment to think, to breathe — even blinking became an unwelcome distraction.

  “Any second now!” shouted Frank, as Outfit Number Forty passed quickly but safely through.

  Frank and Stan stared at the brow of the hill like hungry dogs by the dinner table.

  “That’s Forty-Three and Forty-Four!” said Frank.

  Several more outfits made their swift arrival — and just-as-swift departure — but Dave and Monty were not among them.

  “Where the hell are they??” said Frank.

  Stan took the radio and listened intently, but there was no mention of Number Forty-Two.

  More of the higher numbers came into view on the road, and then passed by. Frank checked his phone to see if Dave had texted with any problems, but there was nothing.

  The road fell quiet, which revealed how loud their radio was. There was
always a delay in information from around the course, filtering back to the commentary box.

  They heard:

  Outfit Number Forty-Two has pulled into Quarterbridge to make adju–

  … but the sound of the commentator on the radio was drowned out as Dave and Monty burst into view in a glorious blur of blue and yellow.

  Frank and Stan waved their arms furiously, and just as they reached the dip in the road, Dave’s head bobbed, and he managed a wave in return as he overtook the outfit that was on the road in front of them.

  “Holy shit!” shouted Stan. “They’re bloody motoring there, that was amazing! Turn that thing on your phone so we can watch when they go through the checkpoints!”

  Dave and Monty were on a charge, but the delay at the start of their lap had severely hampered them. They soon broke the timing beam at Glen Helen, and, although it was only practice week, the timings at the top of the leaderboard were impressive. This put additional pressure on those further down the rankings — including Dave and Monty — and the lap time of the all-important, third-quickest qualifying lap would have been on all the racers’ minds.

  Stan’s knuckles were white from gripping the rope so tightly. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this nervous! And I bet Dave is taking it in his stride — probably singing to himself! Does the lap time look good?”

  “I’ve no idea,” replied Frank. “I’m not really sure how to interpret what I’m looking at. If they stopped at Quarterbridge, then I’d imagine that it won’t be that quick, but at least it’ll be one of the three laps completed. If the bike holds out, they’ve got at least two more laps if they can get out before the session closes. Hopefully one of those laps will be quick.”

  The brief lull in traffic was burst in spectacular style with the arrival of the lower-numbered outfits on view in front of Frank and Stan. Their arrival meant that Dave and Monty would likely be in the vicinity of the start line and at completion of their first lap of the week. Like a child on a long car journey, Stan pestered Frank to know if it’d arrived.

  “No,” said Frank. “But I don’t think the mobile data is particularly good here.”

  Frank held the phone aloft, walking up and down the length of the rope barrier, hoping he could find a signal that had penetrated the dense canopy of trees.

  “Has it worked?” asked Stan.

  “Only I wouldn’t know, would I, as it’s above my head,” Frank replied.

  Stan stood on his toes to get a better look, but then dropped back down. “Hang on, I’ve just had a thought,” he said.

  “Did you?” Frank teased.

  “It happens sometimes!” said Stan. “The thing of it is,” he continued. “Even if it has got better signal up there, it’s of no bloody use to us if we can’t see it. There’s nothing for it, then — you’ll have to climb on my shoulders.”

  “You must be bloody joking!” said Frank. “If we’re not capable of running a few hundred yards, what makes you think we’re circus performers all of a sudden?”

  “Well I said I had a thought. I didn’t say it was a good one, did I?” replied Stan with a shrug.

  Frank hit the refresh button and slowly the updated lap times appeared. “They’ve completed a lap!” said Frank. “Eighty-two-point-six-seventy-eight miles per hour!” he shouted. “It’s well off the pace, but at least that’s one lap marked off!”

  For fear of losing signal, Frank didn’t move a muscle and they once again focussed their attention on the right-hander at the top of the road. Never did they think they would spend so much time utterly fascinated by staring at a tree — or for the bikes to come round it, at least.

  “It’s quite a lovely tree, that,” Stan offered, as there was not much else to say at the moment.

  “It is,” agreed Frank.

  The marshals moved their heads, and the sudden increase in decibel level indicated the arrival of the next wave. Dave and Monty came first into view, and were visibly quicker than the bikes around them. Dave was either being unsociable, or his concentration was absolute, as he passed like a bullet discharged from a pistol. There was no wave this time, but the lads didn’t seem to mind.

  “Shit! He’s moving quicker than a scalded cat!” said Stan, dancing on the spot like a young child that’s got to pee. “They’re going to do this, Frank!” he said. And, then, turning to Frank for confirmation, “They’re going to do this??”

  “Do they need to stop for fuel?” asked Frank. “Because surely that’ll slow them down, if they do?”

  “No,” Stan assured him. “Monty said they’ll be good with the one tankful for three laps, and that the tyres should also hold out okay as well. So, no pit stops. We just need to hope that whatever happened on the opening lap, whatever that might’ve been, doesn’t happen again.”

  Such was the progress the boys were making that Chris Kinley gave them a special mention as they advanced through Glen Helen. Frank and Stan watched the app on the phone through closed fingers — willing them to make it to the next timing beacon. They were safely indicated through Ramsey and began the climb up the mountain section, which must have afforded a magnificent view with the glorious weather conditions if they weren’t too deep in concentration to notice.

  “Come on, Dave,” said Stan. He couldn’t settle, struggling for something to do with his hands.

  “I bet you don’t get this feeling watching the F1,” said Frank.

  Stan nodded his head. “I know what you mean, this is a different league. Most of the guys doing this don’t have pots of cash or a team of mechanics — it’s just pure racing. It’s truly wonderful. Imagine trying to explain this feeling to anyone else who wasn’t here — it can’t be done. I guarantee we’ll be here next year, and with a load of people who want to experience it for themselves.”

  “You’re optimistic about my prognosis,” said Frank, laughing.

  “We will be here!” insisted Stan.

  “How long is there left of the session?” asked Frank.

  “Ten minutes or so,” replied Stan, looking at his watch. “Shit, this is going to be really tight.”

  Chris Kinley was reaching fever pitch on the radio as the close of the session drew in. He knew how important the lap time was for all concerned, and that, for many, their hopes could easily be dashed for another year. Frank and Stan listened intently to the commentary:

  Just a reminder folks, that after this session we’ve got a full schedule for the solo bikes. That’s outfit Number Forty-Two — Dave Quirk and Shaun Montgomery — passing the start line and it looks like they’re slowing. That’s a real shame as they’re one of the teams still on two laps, I think. I’ll wait for them to come up the return lane and see what the problem was. Tim in the tower, can you shout out a lap time for Number Forty-Two for me?”

  Yes, Chris. Number Forty-Two, their first lap was eighty-two-point-six-seventy-eight, and their second lap, bearing in mind they were slowing coming down the return lane, was nevertheless a quite impressive one-oh-one-point-four-three-eight. I can confirm that they have only completed two laps.

  Thanks, Tim. And I’m here with Dave. Dave, you’ve got your team looking at the bike. Now, you pulled in on the first lap, is it a recurrence of that problem?

  Dave remained on the bike and now had a microphone pressed into his face. Two mechanics worked furiously on the front fairing, but they shook their heads in frustration, forcing the front down.

  “I think so, Chris,” Dave said in answer to the question. The front fairing came loose on the first lap. We pulled in and we thought we’d fixed it, but coming over the mountain it came back again — something must have broken. We were off the pace, so that’s us I suppose. We’ll just have to call it a day and look forward to next year.

  “That’s a real shame, Dave. I don’t know about you being off the pace,” said Chris Kinley. “With that last lap time, you would have qualified. Tony Dearie and Harry McMullan are third-quickest, and with your time, you would have been right quick enough, no
problem.”

  “You’re fucking kidding me?? Why am I sat here, like a lemon, then, talking to you, when I could be fixing the bike???”

  Dave jumped off the bike and began attacking the front fairing. He didn’t care if it looked pretty; he just needed it to hold in place, safely, for the final lap. After not very long at all, he knelt down, gripped it, and said, “Right. That bugger is going nowhere fast. Chris, how long have we got left?”

  Kinley raised his hand, indicating one minute, meaning the gate would soon close and that would be the last opportunity to get out on the bike.

  Dave jumped aboard the bike and hit the starter button. The engine turned over, but it wouldn’t spark back into life. Dave jumped up and down as he tried once again, hoping to shake back into life whatever was causing the problem.

  Chris Kinley pointed out the marshal, who was preparing to close the gate.

  “Fuck!”

  Dave tried once more, but the engine wouldn’t fire into life.

  “Give me a push!” he screamed at anyone stood nearby. His two mechanics ran behind and furiously pushed as Dave did everything he could.

  “Quicker!” shouted Dave.

  Kinley, who was live on air, dropped his microphone and ran behind them, giving them an extra burst of speed. They were reaching the perimeter wall when the engine burst mercifully back into life and they eased back onto the circuit before the gate closed. Dave glanced over his shoulder to check for traffic, before accelerating up Glencrutchery Road for the final qualifying lap.

  “Sorry for the silence,” Chris said into his mic. “I dropped my microphone helping the lads jumpstart a stalled machine. Amazing scenes here, as outfit Number Forty-Two has made it away with five seconds to spare. Go on, Dave and Monty! Fantastic scenes!”

  Dave kept his head down on the final lap. The bike hadn’t missed a beat and they’d hit every apex. It wasn’t the time for heroics; they had a lap time that should be sufficient to qualify. If they pushed too hard, they could make a stupid mistake or risk a mechanical failure. He was relaxed, and for the first time really believed they could truly qualify.