100 Octane 05 By Katzmarek --------------------------------------------------------------------- Author's note. This is a work of fiction. It may not be used for profit without the author's express permission in writing. If you're looking for wall to wall sex then I'd suggest you don't bother reading this. I *can* promise you an interesting story with the occasional spell of passion, however. The story is slow, but does heat up in later chapters. -------------------------------------------------------------------- (Part 05) "Bent clutch rod?" one of the local riders asks another, "yeah, piece of shit on those things. Come around to dad's garage tomorrow, he'll make you one up in silver-steel." The rider's tent after a race is the time to pick up the pieces, inspect the damage and enquire after casualties. Most of the guys bought and paid for their own machines rather than been sponsored by big companies. It's a cottage industry consisting of trades 'in kind.' "Cracked the head, mate," another says, "I knew something was up when she suddenly lost power on the 48th." "Yeah? I think I've got one of those in the shed, Rick. Tell you what, give us a crate of that homebrew of yours and you can have it." Kawasaki cylinder head about $400, crate of home-brewed beer, around $5. It's a fair trade. The bartender is being kept busy dispensing cool refreshment to the thirsty competitors. Everyone is busy 'yarning' with their friends, Aussies and locals, there's no distinction. Roger Preston is there, bantering with his Honda counterpart, the CEO of GoldWing. "Nah, we're happy Roger," the GoldWing guy says, "second and third... couldn't be closer... Bloody tyres, eh?" "Yeah, bad luck, Simon. I don't know how Kevin stayed on to the finish... that was some feat!" "He's good alright, Rog'. Be going to Europe next season... give Helene some competition..." "That right? Who's giving him a ride?" "The factory... he'll be off to Japan at the end of the month to have a look at the machine." "Still the same motor?" Roger asks, to chuckles from the Honda chief. "Another glass?" he asks. ------------------------------------------------------------------- Most of us are still wearing our racing suits in various states of disarray. Zips are pulled down to permit air through our sweaty bodies. Underneath, my T-shirt is soaked with perspiration. Clinging to my chest, it gets noticed by the male riders. There is a shower block, but by now it's been well used and I'm doubtful there'll be any hot water left. I'm starting to get tired of guys talking to my chest and make an exit to my caravan. The last of the public has been persuaded to leave. The pits are now a hive of activity as gear's packed up and loaded onto trucks, trailers and vans. Everywhere the tents of the stakeholders and teams are coming down, soon the area will be a dusty cluster of closed-up buildings and abandoned garages. Many will be heading to Spring Creek for the final round of the domestic season. Even though Kieran Ridgeway didn't finish today, he has an unassailable lead in the local championship. A young guy in his second year on the big bikes, Kieran is an able and courageous rider and I wish him well in the future. Kieran left early. His collision with Steve Kelly shook him up and I saw him wandering around in a daze before his mother and sister arrived to take him home. It'll be a test of his character whether he'll be able to pick himself up and race next weekend. Down the end of the line of garages, I see my brothers finishing loading the motorcrosser onto the trailer behind Karlie's Ford V8. As I wander down pit lane, most people are too preoccupied to notice me. At the Yamaha garage, Prestco's big transporter is backed to the roller door. Gordon McBride is there directing proceedings, ensuring the Rotol-Yamaha doesn't get a scratch on it. Seeing me, he comes, arms outstretched. Folding me into a hug, the expatriat Scot warmly congratulates me. "Well done lass," he says, "you're Wolfgang Ritter's daughter alright," he smiles. "Thanks Gordon... you made some good calls today," I tell him, "thank you." "Aye, well, it was pretty obvious they were going to be in trouble with their tyres," he says, "can't blame them, they never had long enough in the country to get a good look at the track... local knowledge, you can't beat it." "I heard Coburn's getting a ride in Europe," I inform him. "Not surprised," Gordon replies, "that was some race he ran," he adds, shaking his head in wonder. "The way everyone was talking," I tell him, " I thought the Aussies were going to run me off the circuit." "I did too," he says, "good thing you seduced their hit man." There's a twinkle in his eye and I blush like a silly schoolgirl. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- My brothers say goodbye. They need to get back home tonight for work tomorrow. Each give me a kiss and a hug before rumbling off, trailer bouncing over the ruts. In my caravan the power's still connected so I switch on the water heater and find my wash cloth and some soap. I struggle out of my heavy racing suit down to my soaked T-shirt and knickers. I'm privileged in that I have some privacy. Back in the old days I had to be content with changing in toilets, the back of trucks or dipped down behind a stack of tyres in the back of a garage. In this sport you soon learn to dispense with modesty. It's lead to some hilarious moments. I find a change of clothes, peel off my sodden underwear and give myself a flannel bath. I've just pulled on some fresh knickers when there's a knock on the door. Before I can say,'hold on,' the door opens and a head appears around it. "Hey Ritter... Jesus, mate, y'didn't need to dress up for me!" I turn my back to Kevin Coburn, snatch my bra, and quickly clip it into place. "Y'off," I say evenly, "won't be a minute, I'll just throw something on." "Go like that if you want," he says, " I'm sure Stevie won't mind." "Wouldn't want to frustrate the dear boy," I reply, laughing. "You couldn't frustrate him any more," Kevin says grinning, "he's had a boner for you since Bathurst." Pulling on some jeans I tell the big Australian, "So he told me... I didn't know he felt that way... I kind of feel a bit guilty." "Yeah, well, that's Stevie for you. Big and dumb!" "I wouldn't call him dumb," I tell him, slightly annoyed. "When it comes to the sheilas he is." "God, I hate that word." "Yeah, so I heard," Kevin replies. I look at him a little puzzled. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Kevin and I ride down to the hospital in a utility borrowed from the Honda garage. I ride in the cab, Kevin's other team mate Rod sits on the tray at the back. When we get to the hospital, there's already a little group of Honda officials and Leo Kearny waiting to see him. Steve's still in emergency, having his leg plastered. Kevin, Rod and I take some seats and wait. "I heard you're coming to Europe next season?" I ask Kevin. "Yep," he confirms, "they're sending me to Japan in a couple of weeks, Hamamatsu, y'been there?" "Honda's testing circuit," I tell him, "no, we use Suzuka, and a small track outside of Kobe. Nervous?" He nods. "Y'seen this guy, John Dixon? He's going to be my partner." I shake my head. "I think he came up from 250's. They're a new team, I guess that makes you the senior man." "Do you sometimes feel like... this big weight's just perched up there on your shoulders, Helene?" he asks. "Sure," I reply, " but you can't let it get to you. Get an agent like Ian, he's good at keeping the heat off." I give Kevin my Agent's card and he promises to contact him. --------------------------------------------------------------------- An hour later we're finally allowed in to see Steve. He's doped up with painkillers and the hovering nurse tells us not to be too long. "Hi champ," Kevin greets him. Steve raises his arm, he's looking pale and drawn. He tells us that they want to keep him in overnight for observation. "Brought you some 4X," Kevin tells him, pulling a couple of cans of beer from his bag. He smiles, but I think beer's the last thing on his mind. Kevin places them in the little cupboard beside the bed. Steve's too tired to converse in anything other than one word answers and smiles of acknowledgement. Eventually Rod and Kevin decide to leave and make their farewells. I lean over to Steve, give him a little kiss on the cheek, Tell him I can't wait to go surfing again. He smiles weakly and I leave. "So Roddy boy, which pub are we off to then," Kevin says, clapping his hands together. "Dunno Kev," he replies, "I'm beat... think I'll head back to the hotel for a feed and an early night." "What are ya?" Kevin asks his team mate, "y'getting old?" "Need some space, Kev. Stevie... it all happened in front of me, mate... almost hit him myself..." "Y'need a drink, mate," Kevin tells him. "Spacies, mate. That's what I need... couple of games'll take my mind off it." "You're addicted, pal." "Helps me relax... is all." --------------------------------------------------------------------- Rod Donaldson wanders off to the cab rank to go back to the hotel. He looks down and I'm a bit worried. Kevin says he'll be alright, that he's always been a bit of a loner and sorts himself out by himself. I think that one of worse things that can happen to a motorcycle racer is to hit another rider, killing or injuring them. It's a horror we don't talk or think about or we couldn't go on the track. No-one wants someone's life on their conscience, wondering whether they could have done something to avoid the accident, beating themselves up inside. But it's a fact of life that riders get injured, we just have to live with it. I remember them saying that the guy who hit my Robert had to be treated for depression afterwards. A promising rider barely out of his teens, I believe he never went near a racetrack again. He was at the funeral and I was introduced to him but he wouldn't look me in the face. I'm shaken out my thoughts by Kevin Coburn. "What you doing now?" he ask me. "I'd better be getting back to the hotel myself," I tell him, "I'm heading back early tomorrow, I've got a borrowed car." "Come for a drink first?" he asks, almost pleading with me. "I REALLY need an early night, I'm sorry Kevin." I wander away towards the cab rank. Turning back I see Kevin, still standing where I left him, looking lost. "Hey," I call to him, "give me a lift?" He raises his eyebrows, sucks in air and nods. --------------------------------------------------------------------- We drive through the city streets, trying to figure out how to get back to the hotel. It's the blind leading the blind with lots of, 'hey, I thought you had to turn back there,' and, 'nah, that's the way, I remember that big shop on the corner.' After a while we're completely lost and stop and ask the way at a tavern. "Hey, while we're here we might as well have a beer," Kevin says, and I resign. Having found a table, I ask him, "So why do you do all the bullshit, you're much nicer than that." "Me? Nah, I'm not nice at all. Nice guys come last, didn't you hear that?" Although Kevin Coburn is in his mid twenties, there's something compellingly young about him. It's as if parts of him haven't grown up. "I'm not making excuses," he tells me during his second beer, " but we had it all over you today, the better bike... everything except tyres. That's what let us down. Bloody tyres!" "Kevin, you're a great rider," I tell him, "everybody knows it. But you must admit that tyre strategy is as much a part of racing as going fast." "I'm not a 'great' rider, Helene, I'm the best and next season you're going to find that out." The beer's starting to loosen him up, his bragging is becoming a bit much. I tell him I need to visit the bathroom, I intend to slip out of the bar and catch a taxi. As I come back out through the door, Kevin's standing there, blocking my way. "Want a date?" he asks, "back in there?" He has that smug, sneering look on his face. The kind of thing that really riles me up. "Get out Kevin," I tell him, "you've had a skinfull." "Just started babe... hey, Stevie won't mind... just a quick one, I won't tell." "Find a keyhole!" He punches the wall just by my head, his face bores in close to mine, I can smell beer fumes. "Fuck you bitch!" he snarls, "I see you haven't changed. You were always a little slut." Kevin shoves me backwards against the wall, I hit my head on the corner of a picture frame. A searing heat radiates out from the point of impact. Rage jolts through my body. Growing up with three older brothers, however, I've learnt to stand up for myself. My balled fist hits him just below the ribcage sending the air out of him with a whoosh. I can hear shouts near me, arms grabbing, pulling me away. Two patrons have Kevin pinned against the opposite wall, he's struggling and swearing. "You alright honey?" somebody by my right ear says. Collecting myself, I ask the bar staff to call me a cab. --------------------------------------------------------------------- As I lie on my bed in the hotel room, I can feel the egg on the back of my head where it hit the frame. It throbs with a dull ache. I try to think of happy moments, Robert's smiling face looming above me, stroking me on the cheek. As soon as his face forms in my mind it dissolves into the sneering visage of Kevin Coburn, snarling with hate and resentment. There's a soft knock on the door, I look at the clock beside me, it's 1am. "Who is it?" I call through the door. "Rod, y'seen Kevin?" I open the door with the security chain on. I tell him I left him at a tavern a couple of hours ago. "He supposed to be back, we've got an early call tomorrow." "Call lost and found, I don't know where he's gone." I tell him sharply. "Hey, sorry," he says, putting up his hands, " I thought you two..." "Us two what, Rod?" "Nothing," he says sheepishly and leaves. --------------------------------------------------------------------- A world superstar in motorsport and I still have to load my gear into the little Fiat myself. Many people are checking out after the weekend and the staff are being kept busy. I see Rod wandering around but no Kevin, for which I'm grateful. I don't care to see him again. I head back up north and home. The tinny little engine of the Fiat hums happily to itself as I set a leisurely pace. I reap in the comfort of the familiar, the conifer wind breaks, gorse covered hillsides and the pine plantations. Joan's waiting for me when I get back to Karlie's. She has lunch prepared, home made breads, fresh ham and salad vegetables from the garden. Joan makes stuff. Quilts, tapestries, little dangly things with old bent cutlery and kitchen utensils. She's happy here doing her own thing, putting up wall lining with her Karlie, banging in wall studs. I've never met anyone so utterly content with life. We go for walks together in the afternoon, down the country lanes and observing what 'so and so' has done to their barn, watching the water trickle over the rocks in the little creeks. The air is refreshing, just a hint of the smell of manure in the breeze. After dinner, Karlie and I head down to the pub. Karlie tells me Joan doesn't drink and can't stand the smoke. As usual Ernie is there, with Simon. It's a bit awkward, Simon feels foolish in front of me. "Wolfie's absolutely buggered," Ernie tells me, "he left work early, he's having trouble with his back." "So what was he doing roaring round the Ave' with a back problem?" I ask him. "You tell him," Ernie says, " he won't tell anybody. He just moves around like he has a steel rod up his arse." Later on, Simon tells me he's sorry for making an 'utter ass' of himself. "Had a little too much to drink," he explains, sheepishly. "Oh, just slightly," I reply laughing. "I'd thought you'd stay down in the city for a while?" he asks, "what with Steve Kelly in hospital." "I'm not his nurse," I tell him. "I thought you and he were... well, y'know... there was talk." "Well we're not, ok?" "Oh sure, sure..." he replies, visibly brighter. --------------------------------------------------------------------- Walking back home in the night air, I tell Karlie about what happened in the tavern with Kevin Coburn. "Good thing Wolfie wasn't there, he'd have killed him," Karlie says. "Do you think I lead guys on, Karlie? Do I flirt?" "Helene... I don't know. Y'know you're very sexy... look at yourself? A girl on a bike is a very erotic image too." "Me, sexy?" I ask him in surprise. "Yes, haven't you noticed? I guess some guys want the reflected glow, y'know, your groupie type. And some may see you as a challenge, a prize to be gained or maybe a bronco to be tamed." "You think Coburn was trying to 'tame' me?" "Conquer you more like. Put you in your place... shove this uppity female back down to where she belongs... Wives and whores, Helene. To guys like Coburn, that's all you are." "Oh I can't wait until next season in Europe," I tell Karlie, rubbing my hands together and grinning maliciously. --------------------------------------------------------------------- We watch the sports news on TV. There's an interview at the airport with the Honda team saying how happy they were with their stay, people friendly, all the usual stuff. Steve was there in a wheelchair, having decided to fly home with the team. Kevin has bags under his eyes, looking a little worse for it. At the sight of him I feel a surge of anger and I have to leave the room. --------------------------------------------------------------------- The next morning I arrange with Ernie to take the little Yamaha trail bike into the workshop to have the forks seen to. I take the opportunity to ride the back roads, the bike hasn't been registered for years and I don't want to get stopped by the police. "They're buggered," Ernie informs me, "not worth trying to fix... shit's got down past the seals and scoured out the sliders. I think I'll have to get a secondhand set, they haven't made these for years." It feels good to be at the shop again. My father used to bring me here since I was a baby, it was his idea of 'babysitting.' It's a little updated, of course, and it now has a line of Vespa scooters in the window. Simon's all aglow when he sees me and gives me the guided tour. I spot a very tasty Ducati SS, gold with white detailing. "1986, one owner, low km's," Simon informs me, "we normally on-sell them to Stoddards, the Ducati dealership, but this one... well I HAD to have it in the shop." "It's a beauty alright. You know, these are a classic in Europe now... one like this could sell for twice what you have it for." "Well, that'll be a good deal then, Helene. Ship it back to the UK and double your outlay, minus shipping." I have to say I'm tempted, except for selling it in the UK. I have a vision of me making that trip up the west coast on it. Maybe Karlie can store it for me in the shed with the KTM. "I'll shout you some lunch," he suggests, "I'll bring the paperwork... just in case." I can see why Wolfie hired him. --------------------------------------------------------------------- Over lunch Simon tells me he used to be a carpet salesman before being hired by Wolfie. He says he can still get me a good deal on a wall to wall because he knows so many in the trade. "I'll bear that in mind," I tell him, "do you ride yourself?" I ask. "A Moto-Guzzi cruiser. Wolfie gave me a good deal on one. Maybe you and I can go out riding?" he suggests. The thought appealed to me and Simon's very persuasive. Unthoughtful of any 'wrong signals,' by the time we've finished lunch, I've bought a classic Ducati and agreed to a ride following the weekend. He tells me he's sure Wolfie will give him a few days off. I'm absolutely sure he will! ---------------------------------------------------------------------- An hour later I'm rumbling back to Karlies on a beautiful old gold Ducati. I asked Karlie about storage and he grumbled that he should call the shed, 'the Helene Ritter motorcycle museum.' "Repressed sexuality!" Joan explains on the veranda of their old farmhouse, "he's probably a closet gay and is trying to prove to the world that he's straight." Apparently Joan was a trained 'relationship counsellor.' Karlie told me once that she thinks everyone suffers from 'repressed sexuality.' I told her about my encounter with Kevin Coburn, I'm still trying to figure out the guy. --------------------------------------------------------------------- Next weekend will be a much more low key affair. The main race itself is a sprint of 30 laps. There'll be no need of pitstops. Spring Creek is a wide open circuit based on the site of an old WW2 aerodrome. It's very fast but the circuit is a little rough in places. I ask Karlie to take my gear up with him in the Ford. I want to try out my new bike and Simon volunteered to accompany me in the big heavy Guzzi. I must admit the beat of the two motors together sounds great through the foothills of the main ranges. These lovely curvy roads were just made for the V twins, gentle sweepers you just power around, the boom of the motor coming back at you off the hills. The Ducati has a lovely muted rumble, the Guzzi somewhat more muted, but together they make lovely music. The Ducati has a half or 'bikini' fairing. The great stonking alloy V-twin motor is as naked as the day it was born. Simon's Moto-Guzzi is an Italian attempt to build a Harley-Davidson. Alas the build quality was not that great and it had to be VERY good to break into the American cruiser market. Nevertheless, it's a pleasant bike to ride if you're not in a hurry. Lacking any real competition at Spring Creek, I win the sprint with ease. Don Fleet turns up with his Dunlop-Yamaha but Kieran decides to call it a day for the season. I don't think he's mentally recovered from the accident with Steve Kelly. My brothers and Simon book themselves in to a local motel, I decide to sleep in the caravan parked by the Yamaha garage. Simon's being very correct in everything he does with me. He's seems afraid of putting a foot wrong. I think my brothers have been schooling him on how to treat me, it's kind of flattering being the object of his desire. It's also a dillemma. Theres no doubt that the few days I've agreed to spend away riding with him are far more important to him than to me. He has expectations that I'll 'come around' eventually, maybe a walk in the moonlight or a sandy beach somewhere. I made my feelings clear to him before agreeing to go together, but I don't think he really took it on board. I should pull out but I feel I've committed myself. Joan told me my need for approval is coupled to my perfectionism. She said Karlie has it too and she finds it frustrating sometimes. Perfectionism? Need for approval? All I need now is a bout of depression! --------------------------------------------------------------------- In fact it's hard to wind down after a season of racing. After all the high excitement and tension, not to mention the frequent doses of adrenalin, leaves one mentally and physically exhausted. As I ride up country on the Ducati, I keep getting mental flashes of people and objects whizzing past, turns hurtling towards me and split-second decisions to be made. I have to remind myself to slow down and take it easy. Simon's carrying most of the camping gear on the cruiser. His machine has boxes and panniers hanging from every hook. Riding along beside me he looks blissful. We book into a motor camp at the close of day. It's near a beach where there're a lot of surfers. We pitch our tent and cook some cutlets over a BBQ. It's a beautiful warm night and I stretch out watching the fire while leaning on one of the bags. Simon carried up a guitar on the bike. As I drift away beside the fire he retrieves it and starts to play. 'Tuesday afternoon, and I'm beginning to see, now I'm on my way.' He sings my all time favourite song. A fair rendition of the Moody Blues' song. His voice is a tenor, not unlike Justin Hayward's in quality. This is too much! 'It doesn't matter to me, chasing clouds away.' When I was little, my dad had all the Moody's albums. I loved that song the moment I first heard it, I think I played the album, 'Days of Future Past' a million times. I've never stopped loving that song and my brothers well know it. It reminds me of my father, sitting by himself in the old armchair trying to keep secret the pain he was feeling from angina. I'm feeling manipulated. 'Something calls to me...' "Simon, stop it!" I tell him, sharply He looks startled. "What's the matter?" "That song... who put you up to it?" I demand. Puzzled, he replies, "No-one, what's wrong?" "My brothers told you to sing that to me." It was more a statement than a question. Nevertheless he denies that anyone told him anything and that it's one of his favourite songs too. I don't buy it and go for a walk down to the beach, telling him I need to be alone. The surfers have bonfires along the beach. They dot the sweep of the bay at regular intervals. Around each are groups of them drinking and partying. Some are even out surfing in the moonlight, relying on the fires to guide them to shore. As I walk along the tidemark, some of these young guys call out, inviting me to join them. By the flickering light, some look so young I could be a mother figure to them. A young guy runs down the beach to me as I pass one of the fires. He carries a can of beer in his hand and offers it to me. He doesn't look any older than 16, but nevertheless I take the proffered drink. "Where're you from?" he asks me. "Down south," I tell him, "small town." He tells me he's from that way too, but I'm sure it's bullshit. "Are you a student?" he asks me. "No," is all I'll say. "Want to hang out with us?" he asks, "my name's Shades." "Shades?... ok, Shades, you can call me 'Spikey." "Cool, Spikey, come over, we've got some fish cooking in tin foil on the fire." Shades introduces me to about half a dozen kids about the same age. A blond girl is attending to the cooking and hands me some fish on a paper plate. It smells and tastes delicious. They're actually a nice bunch. I notice I round out the gender ratio among them. Shades sits himself in the sand beside me, I guess he was the one who hadn't been paired up. Katzmarek (C)