Gurriers (73 page)

“I love that fuckin’ smell!” he said to no one in particular, inspiring us all to savour the aroma of tortured engines.

“That’s the smell of bikes doing what they were made to do, boys!” Leo remarked.

We all murmured in agreement, although I didn’t feel that I had a right to, having never smelled that aroma before. None of my comrades knew that this was my first time ever at a race track!

“I don’t like the look a dem bleedin’ clouds.”

“Worse bleedin’ weather we could hope for, man: clear nights and cloudy days.”

“It’d be worse if it was pissin’ rain bu’ for temperature you’re rie.”

“Member las’ year, an’ us runnin’ around in t-shirts? None of that this year, man!”

“That’s the way weather is inland - huge fuckin’ differences. Y’know tha’ we’re abou’ twice as far from the sea here than we would be anywhere in Ireland? Well, it’s the sea that levels out our temperature – warmer in winter, cooler in summer and steady in spring an’ autumn, although rainin’ all the fuckin’ time. Las’ year summer here came in time for Le Mans, this year it’s still winter.”

We stayed close to the gate for the practice and then went back to our camp to get some drinking done before the main event, staying put until we heard the hornets pass by on their first lap. We then concealed as much beer as we could in our jackets to smuggle into the main stand for the end of the hornet race and the start of the 24 hour one.

Le Mans is truly a magnificent race track. The layout is fabulous, the accessibility to the amazing vantage points is perfect, the atmosphere is uplifting and the race goes on for 24 hours! This was Mecca for bikers and racing enthusiasts alike!

Each one of the 50 odd bikes is piloted by a team of three racers riding two hours on and four hours off. Effectively, each racer has to ride the equivalent of four standard races over 24 hours. They don’t call it endurance for nothing! Twenty-four hour endurance for the racers, a four day endurance for the French and a week long endurance for the Paddys.

The start/finish line was on the opposite side of the race track to our camp, which was great, especially for us virgins, because it gave the veterans the opportunity to show us the best spots on the way across, pausing to enjoy the thrilling exploits of the racers, all on the same bikes, as they desperately tried to prove their superiority over their peers.

The grandstand area itself was a hive of activity. The main entrance to the race track was just behind the huge concrete structure. This entrance was pedestrian only for this event with a manned row of turnstiles in place to ensure that all entrants had the appropriate ticket. An assorted row of stalls stretched away from the turnstiles in both directions, facing the back of the grandstand under which was cleverly split into as many retail units as they could possibly squeeze in. The concrete units sold a huge variety of mostly motorbike and particularly Le Mans related products from t-shirts to helmets to personalised saddles. The stalls facing them had some motorbike stuff but tended mostly to be food and drink orientated. They sold beer at the stalls also, but it worked out at five times the price of the supermarket stuff. The smells, the sights and the sounds were truly captivating, as we bustled our way through this packed
area towards the even more packed grandstand. This grandstand would have easily been the length of all of the seating of Croke Park stretched out in a straight line, with one maybe half the length on the other side - the “inside” of the circuit of the track.

We were fairly static in the throng of people when a big cheer signified the end of the hornet race. This installed a sense of urgency in the packed crowd that was tantamount to a wave of panic. The crowd surged as one to the nearest entrance to the grandstand, gaining momentum as the excited chatter of the loudspeaker system sprang to life for the first time that year. That chatter was going to be in our ears for the next 24 hours, but so would the sound of the best production bikes in the world being nailed by some of the best racers in the world. Without exception, whatever bike won the Le Mans twenty-four hour race went on to be the biggest selling bike in Europe that year.

Reaching the top of the concrete steps and witnessing the start finish line and the pit lane with the ferris wheel and the bungee jump crane visible behind the opposite stand, would have been a lot more enjoyable if there hadn’t been a couple of hundred anxious bikers behind me pushing me onwards.

In a moment of panic, I suddenly realised that there were none of my friends beside me. Somehow I had managed to isolate myself from my pack, but before panic could properly take hold, my left arm was grabbed and I was dragged by Leo to the left, following the pack, led by Shay who had spotted a less densely populated area to the left.

Unbelievably, after moving four rows down towards the track, the 19 of us pushed, jostled and bullied our way to an area to call our own in this so so crowded venue.

It was time to skin up.

There was very little space and a lot of danger to an open joint in progress, but with a bit of cover from the lads I managed to get the job done before the helicopters appeared in the sky - signalling that the race was about to start.

The start of the race was spectacular and unique. The bikes were lined up along the wall at the grandstand on our side in
order of ranking with the riders all lined up “on their marks” on the other side of the track. At 3 pm sharp, a starting gun was fired and the racers sprinted across the track to their bikes, started them up, and took off. This added so many elements of skill, physical ability, determination and danger that I think it’s a shame that all races don’t start like that (although not possible with racing motorbikes, which don’t have starter motors to save on weight).

The grandstand began to clear out immediately after the start of the race, with people making their way to their favourite places to watch the proceedings. We stayed put for about half an hour, smoked a few joints, drank a couple of cans and then headed for the pub.

The pub closest to the start/finish line was an isolated hostelry about a quarter of a mile uphill from the main entrance that many people converged on immediately after the race got under way. When we arrived we were warmly greeted by a group of English bikers that the lads met every year. While the two groups were catching up, we were all joined by some partying French comrades who recognised Leo from the time he had caused a huge panic amongst the security personnel by climbing onto the back wall during the race.

Then two Scottish headcases - upon hearing English been spoken - joined the session. Then a couple of Germans who had been out for a spin in a very fast car and ended up driving all the way to Le Mans, were welcomed to join us. Then more French. Then some Swiss bikers arrived.

As the session snowballed it ended up that the pub was one big bunch of people joyfully celebrating mutual madness as one drink and drug-fuelled, party orientated unit. Great as the session was, I had my concerns about missing the race, which I voiced to Shay.

“Don’t be worryin’, man! Twenty-four hours is a long fuckin’ race, ye’ll see plenty of it. We’ll gerr owa here after a few more, then finish our first lap. Then back to the camp for a bit o’ that grub tha’ we got, stock up on beer and get some class A’s into us
and then out for our second lap, which will take in the concert. All is well, Shy Boy, there’s no better place in the world than here on this great day, and that’s where we’re at.”

“Concert?”

“Did ye noh see the fuckin’ stage across from the Dunlop Bridge?”

“I did but it never registered that there would be something happening there tonight.”

“Everything is happenin’ here tonight! This is Le Mans; this is the twenty-four hours!”

“So who’s playing?”

“No idea, but they’re usually big names. AC/DC played here a few years ago.”

“Wow.”

Things panned out pretty much as Shay had predicted and by nine o’clock we were all gathered at the hill beside the base of the Dunlop Bridge. We had put our leathers on over our tracksuit bottoms for the night session. This was beside the highest elevation part of the track, with us able to see down to the sweeping uphill left hand bend at the end of the start/finish straight followed by a nail biting uphill chicane to go past us, under the Dunlop Bridge and then around a right hairpin to bring them down towards the magic roundabout bend and then down past where we were camped.

This was the best spot at this time. Apart from being so close to the bikes as they manoeuvred themselves around one of the trickiest parts of the track, apart from the fact that now that it was dark they were racing with lights on, apart from the fact that bikes racing through uphill chicanes in the dark with their lights on looked pretty fucking amazing to somebody with a head full of acid, beer, mushrooms and ecstasy. The hill that we were on levelled out at the bottom into a field, which was where the stage for the rock concert was. So there we were, drunk, stoned, flying, tripping all of us in great form with bikes racing in front of us and a rock concert setting up behind us. How could it have been any better? Vinno, Gizzard and I were the
only three facing the stage when the band started walking on.

“Is yer man carryin’ a tin whistle?”

“No, Gizzard, that’s a guitar.”

“Beside him, Shy Boy, ye smart bastard. I know his face as well.”

“Sure what would a tin whistle be doing in France?”

“They get bands from all over the fuckin’ world to play here, man. Look, there’s an accordian, an’ I know his face as well… oh my God!”

This was the one and only time I had ever seen the Gizzard lost for words, but I can’t blame him. Vinno and I were also stunned for seconds, seconds in which the three of us looked from one to the other in wide-eyed open mouthed disbelief. Shane McGowan had just walked on stage.

The spell broke loudly, with the three of us snapping back to full motor functions the same way in the same instance.

“Yeee-hah! Woo-hoo! The Pogues. the fuckin Pogues!” The three of us screaming attracted the attention of our comrades a couple at a time as the sound of racing bikes faded slightly before the next wave. A couple at a time joined us in celebration. Before long the whole compliment of paddys were screaming, dancing, laughing and hugging each other with joy before the band even played a note.

Then we all stampeded down the hill towards the stage. There were a few thousand people there before us but it wouldn’t have mattered had it been a few million, nothing was going to stop us from getting to the stage to cheer on our musical heroes and to make sure that they knew that there was some of their own here cheering them on.

We were at the front of the stage before they were half way through their first song – “A Pair of Brown Eyes.” The only Irish flag we had with us was flying over the camp, but Mick was wearing an Ireland rugby jersey, so he was unjacketed, picked up and waved at the band above all of our heads. It did the trick. After the song was over, Shane came across towards where we were standing at the barriers 20 odd feet away from the stage. All of the burly looking concert security guards were
in front of us at this point.

”Hello Le Mans. Great to be here. Looks like we have some Irish down here; how’s it goin’, boys?”

“Yaay Shane!”

“Rainy Night in Soho!”

“Grab this.” Paddy had got Gerry to turn his back on the stage and drop his hands in front of him to give a hoosh to Paddy. When Paddy was up in the air, head and shoulders above everybody - including the increasingly wary security staff - he flung the lighting half-joint that he held between index and forefinger towards the stage.

Shane McGowan saw the joint from the start and followed it with his eyes to where it landed on the stage, a little to the left and behind him. There was a moment’s silence as he stood there, looking at where it lay. Then he picked it up and took a drag out of it. The crowd - and especially us - went ballistic!

“That’s a good smoke, man! Let’s do Rainy Night in Soho for the Irish lads here in the front.” He kept the joint, and seemed to really enjoy it while belting out one of the best songs that he’s ever written.

Sometimes when Paddy tells the story, he jokingly calls Shane McGowan a joint bogarter and complains about the joint not being returned to him, but I saw Paddy’s reaction while that beautiful song was being performed and I know tears of pride when I see them!

The gig was the best one that I have ever been at in my life. We would have been happy with any band, complimented so wonderfully by the sound of motorbikes racing a couple of hundred yards away, but being surprised by The Pogues being there was a gift. They played their hearts out also, no doubt picking up on the tremendous amount of energy about the place and maybe inspired just a tad to see a bunch of their own give it plenty in front of them, which is where we stayed all through their hour- plus long set, all of us screaming at the top of our voices for encores every time they looked as if they were about to leave the stage until they eventually did.

We stayed put hopefully until the next band - some French rock group that we neither knew nor cared about - came on stage. I was delighted to see one of them make a watch tapping gesture backstage, his dissent at the time The Pogues had obviously run over a comforting indication that our boys had looked after us.