Gurriers (79 page)

Dangerous as racing motorbikes on a racetrack is, doing it on closed off public roads adds such extra parameters of jeopardy that only the bravest of the brave even consider competing. Of course, our lot were well represented at every road racing fixture - camping and partying with a fervour that lived up to the expectations that the Le Mans trip had left me with. Most of these fixtures were up the North, where they seemed to better appreciate the skill and bravery of the heroes of the road, but
Skerries and Kells were where we flew our flags later on in the season.

My first road race was Tandragee in early May and it blew me away. I did have some trepidation about the North - especially when I found out that most northern bikers were Protestants - but with the Good Friday agreement so fresh in everybody’s memory and none of my mates in the least bit concerned, these were short lived. And rightly so.

We were made feel welcome and respected by all and we buzzed off many at the campsite. They didn’t have motorbike couriers up North and we collectively played the novelty card superbly. They couldn’t believe that we had all driven all day in the snow as part of our jobs for a paltry 20 quid extra per day. They loved our stories - particularly the Le Mans ones - and were happy to share their beer with us as we shared our drugs with them. They were much more regimented by the RUC, and some paramilitaries also, when it came to drugs and seemed a little in awe of our attitude and plenitude of Persians. They would always look nervously around whenever one of us was skinning up and none of them ever took a joint without checking out the surroundings, even on a campsite full of bikers. And then there was the racing!

Race tracks are extremely exciting places, but the spectator is always a safe distance away from the speeding machines. Road racing is different because spectators can get so much closer to the action and thereby get a better thrill from it.

If you pick your spot well at the road races you are in for a spine-tingling experience, physically feeling the force of the air as bikes go past at top speed, close enough for your own adrenalin to pump into your system and make your heart beat that much faster, as the delicious smell of tortured engines makes your nostril hairs tingle almost as much as the ones on the back of your neck.

I can’t imagine that there is a more exciting sport to spectate anywhere in the world. Of course, there is an element of danger involved for the spectator too. All motorsports have some element of danger for spectators, but with road racing the extreme
danger that the riders put themselves in reciprocates to make it less of a risk to the spectators. You are very close to the action, but there is usually a solid barrier between you and the racer. If the racer does lose control of his machine the spectators in the line of fire will more often than not have a wall or some such obstacle that would be unthinkable on a track to take cover behind.

All road races are thoroughly marshalled so that the danger to rider and spectator alike is minimised. These expert officials do a great job in much more dangerous conditions than their race track counterparts, keeping the roads clear for the racers and certain areas free of spectators for their own safety.

Respect and admiration must go out to all who bring this amazing sport to us and exalted reverence of the highest order to those who have lost their lives in doing so. Tandragee was such a buzz for me that I was quite persuasive when encouraging those among us who had missed it to accompany us to the North West two weeks later, glad to be instrumental in gathering one of the biggest posses of couriers - 46 in total - that ever left Dublin together on a trip.

The North West, based around Portadown on the north coast - though not as far west as the name might suggest - is the biggest single sporting event on this entire island. Up to 150,000 people flock there from all over the world to revel in this wondrous occasion. The atmosphere is electric, the locals are brilliant, the event is splendidly organised and marshalled and the racing is outstanding.

We arrived late on Friday night, having met in the local at half seven and stopped for pints twice on the four hour journey up. It was 1 am by the time we set up camp in the main campsite - a mere ten minute walk from the town centre - and we were all knackered. We joined some northern bikers for a couple of cans and joints but were pretty much all crashed out by three.

A group of us - about 15 strong - were up early and went to town for a walk, relishing the superb surroundings every step of the way. The high point of this was near the pits area when the wave of a murmur that was going through the crowd, like
ripples on a lake that a stone has been thrown into, hit us.

“There’s Joey!” was the whisper amidst the throng as they parted to let the legend make his way unhindered towards his pits. As if part of this wave, I couldn’t help but move with it, turning in the process towards the centre of attention. And there he was, not ten feet away from me, the legend himself!

There were two things that everybody knew about Joey Dunlop: he was a phenomenal racer, second to none on the roads in Ireland and the Isle of Man and he was a very modest man, particularly for one with such amazing talent. Some people say that Joey is the greatest sporting hero ever to hail from this island and I won’t argue with them, which makes his aversion of fuss and acclaim all the more ironic. Many of his compatriots were quite the opposite when it came to things like media attention and reported glories and such like, but not Joey. He was about the racing, that’s all. He wasn’t one for playing up to crowds and preferred not to be harassed, harangued and heralded in the ways that many inferior sports people and personalities yearned for.

Everybody knew this about Joey, including me, but I just couldn’t help myself. From the middle of this appropriately reverend throng I just couldn’t stand there quietly and admire this hero of mine that was so close to me as the others around me did.

“Go on, Joey, give them hell!” erupted from me almost before I knew what was happening. This got me frowned at by the rest of the crowd, but Joey looked over and smiled at me. It was the tolerant smile of one who was facing a nuisance that he had to put up with all too often, but Joey Dunlop smiled at me and made my day!

There was only one negative incident in all of our forays north that year and that happened that Saturday night on the campsite. We were enjoying the hospitality of our hosts after an exhilarating day’s racing, a day in which we had been consistently drinking and smoking joints, saving the pills and coke for the night time session. Most of us were there, scattered around three big fires, set about 50 feet from each other in a triangular formation, mixing with 60 or so northern bikers as many others
ambled in and then out of the proceedings, rambling and socialising as you do in such wonderful circumstances.

It wasn’t too late - maybe ten o’clock or so, about an hour after the class A’s had been introduced - when Sixteen Seamus from Quicksilver turned. He had been drinking a bit faster than those of us who were pacing ourselves, possibly to compensate for the fact that he had never been on a trip like this one before. I’m sure he was well received when drunk in his local in Ballyfermot and believed himself to be a great character when he was drunk, as most of us do, but he wasn’t in his local now, or even in his home town or- in the opinion of most of the people who were making us feel so welcome - his home country!

Seamus was well and truly plastered by the time the cocaine was produced and pigged out on it when it was offered by his workmates. Such greed with drugs will always have negative consequences, as it did that night with him. I don’t know what it is about cocaine that makes people - especially people that are very drunk - turn, but Seamus turned good and proper on us, doing the absolute worst thing that he could have done for the situation.

After getting extremely loud and boisterous for a while he went quiet and transient for about ten minutes, just staring into the fire he was seated at with a menacing glare. The sight of him made a lot of people edgy, but the couriers and the northerners alike were assured that there was nothing to worry about by his workmates. Unfortunately, there was something to worry about.

Without warning Seamus was up on his feet and marching around the fire singing “A Nation Once Again” with intensity that didn’t belong in this situation any more than the antagonistic musical declaration that we had a right to govern the soil that we were on. An uncomfortable hush came over all within earshot of his ranting.

Gizzard was the first to act. He jumped up and grabbed Seamus by the back of his collar, cutting him off mid-verse, as he unceremoniously dragged him backwards towards our camping area. We could hear snippets of what the aggressor was bark
ing at the other as he manhandled him towards and into a tent, “...fuckin’ get us all killed...of all the fuckin’ times for crap like this....d’ye noh fuckin’ like yer mates to fuckin’ enjoy themselves!...gobshite ye...don’t you fuckin’ dare come owa there!”

He was out of breath and still fuming with anger when he got back to the eerily quiet fireside, where he had everybody’s attention. He took in a huge lungful of air and then cast his words amongst the congregation, moving like an agitated evangelist to accentuate his spiel.

“Do ye want to know about my politics? It’s parked over there beside my tent! Do ye want to know about my religion? It’s parked over there beside my tent! We’re all brothers on two wheels and if the rest of this fucked up world could learn to have a fraction of the respect and consideration for each other as we do for our own kind, this planet would be a better place for all! That shit was disrespectful to you people after you being so good to us and I apologise for it, he’s been knockin’ them back all day and just isn’t able for it.”

One of the northern bikers was on his feet by the time the Gizzard was finished, with a can of beer in his hand. “Weyll said, brather. Suyre ‘at’s jast the drank and the Persian rugs, as youie call tham, tha’ haus hem that waay. Get thas inte ye, maun, ther’s nae bather herr.”

We were all friends, and even more so after having dealt with an awkward situation. It was a great speech by the Gizzard in those circumstances and so effective for the occasion and we partied with our friends until the early hours, with promises from them that they would follow our directions to Joe May’s Bar in Skerries for the races there and session with us at our bash. Gizzard, an egomaniac at the best of times, truly revelled in the accolades he received from both groups for the remainder of the proceedings. Still, fair play to him!

Seamus had packed up and gone by the time we got up the next day. Most of us were still drunk as we set off that Sunday afternoon for the long drive home, watched and waved by many of our northern brothers, most of whom had been drawn to our impending departure by the wheelspins that most of us
performed prior to our exodus.

We were true ambassadors on two wheels saluting our new friends as we parted company.

THE GOOD

Braking, braking, down a gear, easy does it, coast a little, opposite light orange - get ready to nail it! Down one more gear, hold clutch, perfect time to get between the front two cars; just about to turn.

GREEN, go, go, go - nail the fucker! Speed click up a gear, full throttle. Up another one, full throttle again, up another gear. Pedestrian ahead, thinking about it. Beep now!

Up another gear. Pedestrian staying there - full throttle again. Coming up behind traffic, quick mirror check. Nothing near me. MORTALS!

Swing over to the outside for overtaking. Only one or two cars coming the other way. Swing out, throttle, swing in. Perfect.

Again - out, throttle, in, out, throttle in.

“Whoohyaa!”

“Four Sean.”

“Go ahead.”

“Where are you now, Sean?”

“Just making my way through the traffic on the North Wall heading for the docks.”

“Call me from the docks; I have another four in there goin’ your way.”

“Yippee!”

“Jammy Bastard.”

Out, throttle, in, clear road –nail it!

Go, go, go – bad surface-ease a little, swerve around one pothole, other way to avoid metal manhole cover- another pothole-BASTARD!!!

Swerve again – rough tarmac…fucking dumbass construction workers…poxy ‘that’ll do’ merchants and their lack of pride in their work.

Fuck them; I’m making loads of money today. Clear line, nail it!

“Four Sean.”

“Go ahead Sean.”

“All eleven on board on the docks, ready to head west.”

“Nine…ten…eleven…Roger, Sean, get crackin’.”

“Roger, headin’ for the gap in the wall for the minis, Rathgar then Terenure”

“Roger.”

“They’re all handy, I’ll shout ya when I have my three Terenures dropped.”

“Roge.”

This car is a bit close, better indicate early.

Right indicator on.

C’mon man, back off, I’m turning right for the gap in the wall as soon as we clear this bend.

Easing off now. He’s still too near. Swing wide, let him through, gentle brake.

Fuck, that was close! Where’s this gobshite from? TN - Tipperary North. Dumb ass muck savage.

You’re lucky that I have so much work on Mr TN or I’d be after you to give you a lesson in city driving.