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

by J. C. Williams

  Stan scowled at her. “Stella! You’ve ruined my bloody surprise!”

  “You’ve not got us a helicopter?” said Frank, eyes wide like a child at Crimbo.

  “I bloody well have, Frank. Molly spoke with your doctor and he’s fine with it. We leave at tea-time in our very own helicopter!”

  “Oh, Stanley,” said Frank. “Stanley, Stanley. This is another really fine mess you’ve got us into. You little beauty!!”

  If the Island was glorious at ground level, it was captivating from the air. Fortunately, the pilot was a TT enthusiast and frequent flyer to the Isle of Man. He took them on a gentle detour and followed the TT course to give them a sense of perspective from their unique vantage point. They’d set off early as the sidecar race was the first on the schedule for the day’s racing. Senior Race day was the culmination of the fortnight, with the festival closing, at the very end, with the Blue Riband event: the gruelling six-lap Senior TT for the solo machines.

  The contrast between the lush, tree-covered roads at sea level, and the rolling green, open landscape of the mountain section was apparent. Frank and Stan absorbed the view in wonderment, and, happily, the weather had played its part with brilliant blue skies and vibrant sunshine glistening off the still Irish Sea as they landed at Ronaldsway Airport in the south of the Island.

  “You need to put these on,” said Stan, handing Frank a set of rather unattractive blue overalls.

  Frank stared blankly.

  “We’ve got passes to watch the races from the pit area and we need to wear these for safety. Dave was eager to sign us up for his pit crew, but I didn’t think we were cut out to fill our own petrol tanks, let alone his in the middle of the race.”

  “That’s going to be amazing!” said Frank. “I’m lactating like Pavlov’s dog!”

  “Don’t you mean saliva–?” Stan replied, but stopped short. “You know what, it doesn’t matter. Lactating like Pavlov’s dog it is, then,” said Stan giddily, unwilling to break the spell.

  The journey from the airport took a leisurely twenty minutes, but the traffic was amplified by those taking advantage of the roads before they closed for most of the day. As they approached the Quarterbridge roundabout, the sight was breathtaking.

  “Holy shit!” said Stan. “That’s absolutely crazy!”

  “Fooking mental!” Frank agreed, mesmerised.

  Every inch of pavement outside the pub was crammed with spectators soaking up the morning sunshine. The field opposite where the temporary campsite was erected was peppered with anxious heads peering over the stone wall, and as the lads progressed through the junction they saw hundreds more sat on a grass bank which formed a natural earthen seating area. The familiar dulcet tones of Chris Kinley filled the atmosphere once again, and the sound waves held in the air were comforting and welcoming, wrapping around Frank and Stan like a warm blanket on a cold evening.

  They knew Dave and Monty would be otherwise occupied, but hoped a quick detour would give them the opportunity to wish them well.

  For a man who was about to go racing around the TT course, Dave was remarkably relaxed as he sat in what might be best described as the Lotus position… assuming you viewed him a certain special way. It was like one of those picture books with the hidden images that can only be seen if you look at them without really looking at them, and it’s only then that the image forms, but if you look straight at it then it’s gone.

  “Monty, good luck, mate!” whispered Stan. “I wanted to say hello to Dave, but I think he’s meditating… or something.”

  “No,” said Monty. “The fat bastard has been eating cheeseburgers all week. He’s trying to stretch the leather so he can get fasten the—”

  “Ah, Stan,” said Dave. “Give us a hand, will you? Get yourself over here and help me with this zip, yeah?”

  Dave remained on the floor with his shoulders arched forward, with Stan standing over him, crotch-to-face, straddling him with legs on either side.

  The TV coverage team were moving around the paddock to try and convey the electricity for those watching the highlights from home. They panned the camera onto Stan’s back, where his hands were hidden in front as he grasped Dave’s zip. “It’s coming,” said Stan. “I’m almost there!” Dave’s head was inches from Stan’s waist, and, though mostly obscured by the camera, could nevertheless be made out quite clearly bobbing like a Nodding Donkey in a Texas oilfield each time Stan pulled at the zip.

  “Of all the pre-race rituals we’ve witnessed,” said the commentator. “That’s certainly the most, ahem… friendly… we’ve seen. No judgement. Good luck, guys!”

  Later, with Dave’s costume sorted, Frank and Stan felt like celebrities as they flashed their pit passes, allowing access to the starting grid. They stood on Glencrutchery Road — a few yards from the start line — as the earlier-numbered sidecars were wheeled out to their starting positions. It was still early, but the heat was radiating from the tarmac below.

  “They must be bloody boiling in leather, sat on them bikes,” said Frank, wiping the sweat from his face.

  “That’s got to be Chris Kinley,” said Stan. “I feel like we know him already from listening to him.”

  “He’s smaller than I thought,” replied Frank.

  Chris bobbed and weaved around the grid like a bantamweight boxer. He appeared from nowhere, thrusting his microphone into the faces of unsuspecting racers, before quickly moving on to the next. Frank and Stan followed, listening intently to a consummate professional, getting as close as they could.

  Chris did a quick change direction, once again, but Frank and Stan didn’t react in time and ploughed straight into the back of him.

  “If you two don’t stop following me, I’m going to stick this microphone right up your…”

  “… and Dave Quirk, Number Forty-Two and a top local prospect,” he said, on cue, back into the mic, remaining composed.

  Frank and Stan retreated, offering Dave and Monty a wave of encouragement. “We sponsor them,” said Stan, to anyone within earshot. “That’s our name. On the side. Just there,” he continued, beaming. People smiled and nodded, humouring the crazy person.

  The sound of the klaxon, followed by an announcement from the clerk of the course, saw the road cleared, apart from the racers. In an instant, dozens of press, sponsors, and officials left the riders alone with their thoughts. The focus on the racers’ faces was intense; it was difficult to comprehend how they felt moving toward the starting arch, waiting patiently for the green light and a tap on the shoulder from the official. For the first rider away, there was clear tarmac in front and three laps of the 37.73 miles of the course — which was, without question, the most challenging motorsport event on earth.

  Frank and Stan were stood on the opposite side of fuelling stations on pit lane as the race began. Nearly on top of them now, as they were, the sound of the screaming engines was both deafening and exhilarating, and the vibrations reverberated through every bone in their bodies.

  “Here’s Dave!” shouted Frank. “Go on, son!” they both shouted, waving their fists. They didn’t realise it, but they were holding onto each other’s arms like a young couple at a horror movie.

  As soon as the visual stimulation of the bikes leaving was complete, a few minutes later and the first bikes away were approaching Glen Helen.

  In race week, the two timing points also became commentary positions on Radio TT, with Dave Christian at Glen Helen and the stalwart of the TT, the legendary Roy Moore, at Ramsey Hairpin. They didn’t have the time to announce all of the riders through, so spectators were also glued to the mobile app on their phones to monitor the progress of their favourites. The riders themselves had to rely on strategically-placed friends or associates holding out boards around the course to understand their current position. In a tight race, the position could change several times in a lap so information around the course was vital for those vying for a spot on the podium.

  The front six riders on the opening lap w
ere separated by only a smidgen over two seconds, which, considering the distance travelled, was remarkable. The commentary team around the course did a spectacular job bringing the race to life, and the enthusiasm over the radio waves maintained the proper tension.

  “I’m buying a house over here,” said Frank, matter-of-fact.

  Stan gave him a look, unsure if he was being serious.

  “I mean it,” said Frank. “This is the most unbelievable place I’ve ever been to, and it’s only twenty minutes away from home. Oh, and I’d like to put my holiday request in for two weeks leave, this time next year.”

  Stan smiled. “The thought had crossed my mind, also. About the house, that is. I expect we’ll have to let Stella know we’re both going to be off on holiday at this same time, next year.”

  The klaxon sounded to announce the imminent arrival of the first riders to complete their opening lap. Most had enough fuel onboard and so were unlikely to pull in, but the pit crew were like coiled springs, at the ready to refuel or make adjustments at a moment’s notice should the need arise.

  The grandstand, which had been relatively subdued for the last few minutes, was violated as three outfits went over the start line, inches apart. Frank and Stan felt punch-drunk as they watched in awe.

  “They’re going quick!” said Stan. And, then, looking at his phone, he added, “They’re in fourteenth place!” He jumped on the spot, dancing a jig. “That’s bloody amazing!”

  “It must be those leathers being a bit too tight — maybe it’s helped the wind resistance!” said Frank. “Hang on, here they come!”

  Like a big fast boiled sweet, Dave and Monty hurtled past the grandstand and, with the goosebumps on Frank and Stan’s skin, it felt like they’d fallen in a nettle bush.

  “They’re currently quicker than Harry McMullan!” shouted Stan. “Imagine they get their hundred-and-five-per-hour lap and beat that arsehole!”

  “No way,” said Frank. “They can’t have done. No offence to Dave, but McMullan must have pulled over to make adjustments or something. Still… COME ON, DAVE!”

  They waited impatiently for the mobile app to update and the timing to refresh.

  “You know, Stan, I’m really pleased about Lee. I’m ashamed to admit that I’d written him off, and, from what he’s said, that’s what most people have done all his life.”

  “You’re not alone, Frank. He’s a good ’un. But with the information we had, what else were we supposed to think? I quite like the old boy as well, Arthur. Lee’s eager to get him on board to help out with the charity, and I think he should?”

  “I totally agree,” said Frank. “Plus, Arthur has done what many people have failed at, and made a friend out of Stella! I think this charity is going to grow quickly, and, without being morbid, in some ways I see it as a legacy. It’s helped Lee and Arthur, and I can see this going national. It’s really given me something to focus on.”

  “What I want right now…” said Stan… “What I want right now is for you to focus on us coming back here next year and staying in your new holiday home, and us watching Dave and Monty breaking a-hundred-and-ten miles an hour.”

  “I can’t hardly argue with that,” replied Frank.

  Dave was taking advantage of every horsepower the bike gave him. She was running like a dream and the gearing and suspension — despite the lack of practice — were perfect. The conditions on the mountain section were faultless and as he slowed to negotiate the bend at the Creg-ny-Baa, about three miles from the start line, he knew it was going to be a quick lap, and Monty was playing his part as well — he’d been as reliable as the bike.

  There was sufficient fuel in the tank to fly through the start line and onto his third and final lap without stopping. He kept his head tucked in and couldn’t help but smile, glancing at the iconic scoreboard as he powered through the grandstand and into the sharp descent on Bray Hill.

  He could usually relax into a race, but this was on a different level. The extra horsepower in the engine required even more intense concentration and his eyes were as wide as saucers. He’d negotiated Ballagarey with pinpoint precision on the previous two laps, but that didn’t stop him holding his breath as he resisted every urge in his body that told him to slow down. The momentum he retained in the corner propelled along the stretch to Crosby, where he caught a fleeting glimpse of an outfit at the top of the road.

  “McMullan,” he said to himself.

  He retained his composure and as much as he wanted to catch him up, he knew he had to ride his own race. Also, if he was coming up on McMullan on the road, he knew that McMullan’d had some sort of issue that’d slowed him down. Dave knew that if he were patient and maintained his pace, he’d have no problem in reeling them in.

  Dave had visibly caught Tony Dearie and Harry McMullan on the run through Greeba Castle and Appledene, and he thought he’d be able to pass on the stretch coming up to the sharp right-hander at Ballacraine, but unfortunately the road ran out before he was able to safely overtake.

  Dave dropped the bike down the gearbox and applied the brakes as he watched the line that Tony Dearie took, hoping to exploit the slightest error.

  “Shit!” shouted Dave as the bike weaved for a moment as he entered the corner. He thought he’d lost control, and for a split-second he headed directly to the grass bank on the left-hand side. For a moment he thought perhaps the tyre had burst, but, luckily, this was not the case. He eased off the throttle, just enough, and wrestled with the steering, muscling the bike into a straight line once again. He glanced over his shoulder and caught sight of the sun glistening off an enormous oil slick trailing in his wake; he knew the leak was terminal. He raised his left hand to indicate to any outfit behind that he was slowing to pull over, but, as he did, noticed the trail of oil was stretched out in front of him as well.

  “Bloody hell. It’s Dearie that’s leaking!” he said aloud.

  Monty had raised his head when the bike slowed, but soon returned to his position when Dave pinned the throttle once again.

  Dearie and McMullan were unaware of the oil leak, and pressed on with their bike running below optimum. Dave soon caught him on the winding section into Glen Helen and began to furiously wave to McMullan. As Dave pulled as close behind as he could, McMullan misread the gesture and, like the previous time, extended his arm and raised his middle finger in salute.

  With the amount of oil that was flowing out Dearie and McMullan’s bike, Dave knew that a few drops on the front wheel of his own would have catastrophic results. He pulled out from behind them and the oil trail, and he accelerated until he was alongside. The road was narrowing, and Dearie didn’t expect an overtake in this position. Dearie turned his head for a moment, and, since he’d got his attention, Dave continued to motion with his hand.

  They were travelling at about 135 mph. “Pull over, you knob!” Dave shouted, but there was no chance the other team could hear.

  Fortunately, Tony was not as stupid as his passenger and eased off the throttle for a moment and lifted his head. Their speed dropped quickly, and, like Dave just before, Tony raised his hand to signal his intentions.

  Before either of them were able to progress, Dave heard a sound like a cannon discharging and witnessed a cloud of black smoke erupt from Dearie’s machine. At the fantastic rate of speed they were travelling, neither had time to react.

  Dearie’s bike smashed into Dave and Monty.

  Monty was thrown from the bike as it flipped sideways, and he careered out of control through the air and onto the grassy bank, his head just having missed an ornate stone wall.

  Dave came to rest in the centre of the road and, by the grace of God, Tony Dearie’s machine missed him — by only inches.

  The marshals on duty responded immediately, and professionally. They ran towards the carnage with red flags being waved furiously to warn the other riders, and to bring the race to a halt.

  Sidecar Number Forty-Two tumbled over and over in a trail of sparks, leaving gouges
in the tarmac, coming, finally, to a sickening halt. It sat, upside down, with the wheels still spinning and petrol spilling onto the track.

  Dave still lay on the road, and Monty on the grass shoulder. Neither of them were moving.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Red Flag on track! Racing has been suspended due to a red flag on track! We’ll bring you more information as soon as we have it…

  F rank and Stan didn’t need the radio to tell them what they could already see, the red flags waving. It was like a punch to the stomach.

  “It’s probably nothing. Maybe a sheep on the course, or something daft like that,” said Stan, although the furrows on his forehead couldn’t hide his concern.

  The bikes nearest to the grandstand were instructed back via the return ramp, and although Frank knew Dave was miles away, he still watched every bike, willing it to be Dave.

  The vibrant atmosphere had turned sombre, and the classic rock anthems on the radio failed to lift the spirits.

  Minutes seemed like hours, as Stan and Frank stood in silence. They watched the faces of anybody who looked official, desperate for any indication, until finally the music was interrupted by the commentator:

  An update on the red flag incident. We’ve had notification from Race Control that there has been an incident involving two bikes — Number Forty-Two, Quirk and Montgomery, and Number Eight, Dearie and McMullan. The riders have been flown to Nobles Hospital, but there is no update on their condition at this time. Race Control has confirmed the Sidecar Race will not be restarted, and all bikes are being escorted back to the grandstand by the travelling marshals.

  The blood drained from their faces and Frank and Stan stood there, stunned.

  “Shit,” said Stan quietly, putting his hands to his face. “I don’t know what we should do. Bloody hell, guys, please be okay.”

  Frank couldn’t bring himself to even speak.

  Frank and Stan delayed their return leg on the helicopter and took a taxi to the hospital. They waited for hours but as they weren’t family the staff were unable to tell them anything. A flurry of visitors hurried through the waiting room, but as they were unsure if they were related to any of the riders, or simply visitors, Stan and Frank didn’t want to upset anyone by interrupting.