Trigger has broken down. Not mentally, but what I mean to say is, Trigger's van has broken down. Near Six Mile Bottom, forty-ish miles from the circuit. I put down my second pint and start trying to think what to do now. Trig has a tow rope, so we agree that I'll tow him in, and then he can call the AA from the circuit. I run to the office to ask Karen's permission to miss the rider briefing, the same Karen I've been harrassing all day over the missing tickets. I quickly explain the problem and bless her, she gives me a big smile and tells me not to wory, she'll sort it. What a star.
Did I mention that it was raining? And cold? Well now it's dark as well. Trigger is in a layby on the A11/A14 interchange somewhere, in a van the same colour as the night sky. I find him from the other carriageway and tun around at the next junction. Heading back up, the layby is empty. I'm mystified, did he manage to get it started? Fortunately I've pulled in one layby too early, one more mile and there he is, bored rigid. We set to roping the vans together, the only way we can join the tow rope to my van (approx 2000kg) to his (approx 2000kg, plus his bike, tools, himself, 2500kg all up I'd guess?) is with a ratchet strap. I look at the label. “Breaking Strain 250kg. SWL 500kg” it declares. Well, this can only go one of two ways, I shrug inwardly, laughing at the concept. Trigger's van won't start, so he has no brakes and no power steering. The tow rope is about six feet long. I mentally kiss my rear bumper goodbye. The A11 / A14 is a fast straightish stretch of dual carriageway, mostly uphill fortunately. I mentally kiss my clutch goodbye. Soon we're rolling, 40mph and Trig can cope once I stop blinding him with my hazard lights. It's getting late and the traffic is light. No-one at the first roundabout, so we truck on through and I breathe deeply and try not to tense up. Trig is running at a slight offset so he can try to read the traffic ahead, which means I don't spot the Police car behind us..........isn't it illegal to tow a van on a rope? I don't know, and I still don't. I'm too pretty to go to jail, Big Vern will ruin me. PC Plod gives me a brief Paddington stare as he passes without pulling us. I guess he's thinking along the lines of “I can pull these two jokers, stand in the freezing wet and get a load of paperwork for my trouble, or I can get back to the station for coffee and donuts, maybe I'll chat up that lovely new WPC and ask her out instead”. The rounabouts miraculously quiet, we make good progress and the miles are slowly ticking away. On the approach to one, my view is obscured by a car in lane two, the southbound Fiesta isn't indicating and looks to me like he's shaping up to carry on southbound. Arse. I'm about forty percent committed when I realise Fiesta Boy is going to cross my path, I've got to brake. Trigger is on the case, and my rear bumper lives to fight another day.
At the track, the wally on the gate stops us. “You might struggle on the bridge mate”. I'm so stressed that I want to leap out of the van and tear his face off. I just laugh at him. What a prick. Trigger and I get to the garage, I crack open a beer and pass him one, slumping in my chair. I look into his face properly for the first time and I know that he doesn't want to ride tomorrow. We chat and he clues me into what's been going on in his world. I try to hide my disappointment, but I'd rather quit knowing what he's just said. If I coerce him into riding when his head isn't right and something goes wrong..............I don't want that. It's been epic already, let's quit while we both have all our limbs attached and most of our sanity. We agree to sleep on it. I've been awake for about twenty two hours, I can't think straight. I'm done, so I head for my luxury bedroom, a camp bed in the back of a Transit van, at minus godknows degrees. What a day.
2AM and a middle aged man is cursing, looking for his clothes whilst an all too full bladder pushes on his enlarged prostate gland. He sprints to the toilet half naked, fortunately the paddock is deserted. I of course have no idea who this idiot is, doesn't he know the first rule of camping, always keep your pee bottle close at hand? What a fool. (At least the sprint warmed me up.)
“The morning is over, the dawning is over, and I can't look into your eyes” sings Siouxsie into my ear. It's a sad lament, but I wake with hope and an idea. Kettle on, I'm at the front of the queue for scrutineering. I've taken to bringing Andy's bike with me to races. I was carrying so many spares, it made more sense just to bring the whole package in two wheeled form. I get Trig to ring Andy and break the news that instead of being crew chief, he's riding. He rings me, reticent, he hasn't ridden for nearly a year, but it doesn't take much to talk him into it. We're on. I'm ecstatic.
“Look Andy, let's just give it a go and see what happens” But I don't have a functioning motorcycle. I check the obvious but find nothing wrong. I need to go through the engine management diagnostics, I need a clear head and to be in familiar surroundings to fix it. Warm dry garage, cup of tea, Mary-Anne Hobbs. Obviously it ain't gonna happen, so we're hotbiking. Two riders, one bike. We won't be challenging for any trophies, as we'll have to refuel and change tyres on the bounce. We're not set up for this, but I just want to be back in the saddle, even if it's on an unfamiliar bike. I say unfamiliar, I know every inch of it, I built the thing. But I haven't ridden it since January 2013, and it's seen many a gravel trap since then.
The rain stops for qualifying, but the track is still soaking. I'm normally nervous at this point, but I've let all the stress go. Pete, Rob, Tess and Tel show up, suddenly the garage feels warmer with friendly faces around. I go out on Andy's wets, Dunlops. Wet tyres make the bike feel heavy and uncommunicative, and historically I hate Dunlop tyres. Up through Richies, everyone is taking it very steady and I feel good on the bike, talking to myself, keeping count of the gears, gentle braking, smoothly does it. By Coram I'm confident enough to pass other riders Buffalo Girls style. Hammering up the straight, into Richies, knee down in the wet at Montreal. It's not a 160mph but I feel Speedy Sie watching over me. It's magic, motorcycles me feel so alive. The pace is coming up quickly, but I keep a cool head and a steady hand. The last thing I want to do is bin it. Back in the pits for Andy's go, I'm hammering the tank with my fists and roaring in my crash helmet in a combination of sheer joy and relief. I LOVE THIS. Pete gives me the look of a concerned father but I'm buzzing and I don't care. I give Tess a giant bear hug, poor girl must've felt like I was crushing her to dust. Sorry Tess but I was elated and in love with the world. Andy really knows how to make this bike sing, like she complies with his every wish. Unlike me, he rides with a combination of skill and fearlessness that I've never been able to muster. He'd look graceful and fluid, but the effect is spoiled by the fact he's wearing Trig's leathers, maybe a touch too large? I ponder the aerodynamic effects of the flapping cowskin. Andy keeps her lit, regardless. We qualify 36th out of 52 teams. Marvellous.
The rules of Mirage Racing Endurance are that the fastest rider in quali gets to do the start. It's been that way since day one with Spike. It's my way of making me try harder as I really want do do the start, but I haven't been that man since Anglesey 2014. And I'm not the man today, I'll never beat Andy in a million. Put me on Rossi's M1 and him on a C90, and a betting man would back Mr Gooding every day of the week , and rightly so. But Andy doesn't want to do the start, so the privilege is mine. Thanks Bud. Leathers off, to the cafe for lunch. Our race starts at 3PM ish, three hours or so. I've though about it, but I can't really specify what I did in that time, maybe the stress lifting has got me a little giddy?
Race prep time. I give myself a good long time to get ready slowly and methodically. I struggle to put them in with no mirror, but I wear my new contact lenses for the first time, my new chest protector, my new crash helmet, but I opt to stick with my old leathers, boots and gloves. Something old, something new, something borrowed..........I don't have anything blue. Lucky I'm not superstitious. The bike is ready, Andy is ready, the team is ready, I'm ready. Never more ready.
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