Gurriers (75 page)

Shay, Leo and Eamonn were with us by the time I had finished, all unshaven, bleary eyed and scruffy looking. I was wondering how badly I looked as Paddy was passing me the joint.

“Do I look as bad as everybody else, Paddy?”

“Worse. What about me?”

“Death warmed up and then covered in shite.”

“Charming. I’m glad Ellie isn’t here to see me so.”

“I’m sure she’d still love ye.”

“Course she would. I really miss her, ye know.”

“For fuck’s sake, Paddy, look around ye! This is our heaven, take your head out of your hole and enjoy it; sure you’ll be back with her in a few days, man.” He was physically taken aback, both by what I said and the way I said it. Paddy knew I was a sensitive man and I was the first one that he came to when he needed someone to talk to, which was great when he needed advice or encouragement, but in this case I perceived him to be in search of somebody to whinge at because he was lucky enough to care so much about somebody. I was having none of that, not when I had nobody to miss.

I had to get up and walk over to Leo to pass him the joint. While I was up I visited my tent and got the joint making paraphernalia from my jacket pockets, sticking the skins together in the shelter of the tent before rejoining Paddy.

“Here, hold onto these while I burn in. Maybe another joint will help you to stop missing someone that you’re practically on your way back to and help you to enjoy the last of this magnificent occasion.” I said this in a much softer tone, which prompted smiles all round.

By the time everybody was up and fed, it getting close to one o’clock.

It was decided that instead of doing another full lap, we would make our way to the grandstand for the finish of the race and then take the shortest route from there back to pack up and go. Our destination for that night was the town of Bayeux, about 15 miles on the Cherbourg side of Caen, roughly 140 miles from Le Mans.

Those who had been drinking all morning were advised to stop now, or stay another night on the campsite and do the whole trip to Cherbourg the following day for the boat. This sparked off a debate. There were those that argued in favour of a free night on the campsite as opposed to the expense of a hotel. The boat was leaving Cherbourg at 6 pm, which left plenty
of time to make it from Le Mans in one go.

The debate, however, was won by one single argument: three nights on a campsite was more than enough.

There were whole lot of bones, young and old, in our company that longed for the comparative luxury of a bed, indoors, clean.

We would all go to Bayeux that night.

The atmosphere in the grandstand for the end of the race was like a subdued version of the start. It wasn’t as packed and the vast majority of the spectators were as fatigued as we were.

We arrived at the grandstand earlier, somewhere around the two o’clock mark, in order to work out what was happening. We knew that the SP1 was still in the race, we could all hear it, but had no idea how it was doing. There was no way for me to understand the constant chatter of the loudspeakers, so the plan was to get some French bloke to tell us who was where and then do our best to follow it from there.

We were all delighted to find out that the SP1 was well ahead on its own at that stage and the only thing that would prevent him from winning would be a DNF (Did Not Finish).

The Gizzard was ecstatic. He developed a mantra during that hour, the final of the 24, which I heard him mumble whenever the bike with the same engine as his was almost due along the straight in front of us.

“Don’t be crashed, don’t be broke down!” he cheered every time the bike passed us.

The SP1 didn’t crash and didn’t break down. It won. The Gizzard was so happy that his celebrations rejuvenated us all. He jumped around hugging us all so much that it was suggested that maybe he should take down all of the tents and wrap them up for us. He even took a drag of a joint that Joe passed to him by mistake.

We spent 20 minutes celebrating, as the racing bikes spun their back wheels in front of us until the tyres blew. What a thoroughly enjoyable end to a thoroughly enjoyable experience! I believe that race is too small a word for what Le Mans is, even when it is preceded by the word endurance.

The camp was disassembled with the same level of efficiency
as it had been assembled only three days earlier, although it felt like a lifetime. It felt like I had squeezed a lifetime’s events into those three days, but it was just that the events of a lifetime had occurred, events that will be with me until my dying day.

We left a lot of crap behind us, which concerned me. There were even a couple of tents and sleeping bags that were deemed destroyed and not worth the effort of carrying back. Vinno put my mind at rest.

“Y’know what one of the family hobbies is in these parts, man? Campsite combing! Tonight and tomorrow there’s going to be hundreds of local families picking through everything here, salvaging anything useful that people leave behind. Then on Tuesday the army come in and clean the place thoroughly. This campsite will be brand spankin’ new for the French GP here in a few weeks. Okay, boys, you know the route to take?”

The last part of his rhetoric was aimed at Dave and Ollie, who were setting off before the rest of us because Dave was going to attempt to tow Ollie’s Bros all the way to Cherbourg with the Super Tenere. They left everywhere before us and arrived everywhere after us, but made it. I would be very surprised if that 200 mile tow was not the longest that one motorbike ever towed another!

Ollie left the Bros in the petrol station in Rosslare, went home on the back of the Super Tenere and got a loan of a van to collect his bike the next day. Dave’s brother-in-law was advised to sell his bike before the clutch packed in.

The French people had one more surprise in store for me after I left the track.

I had heard the lads mention about people on the streets on the way from Le Mans, but it hadn’t registered as significant and I had forgotten about it.

Every lay-by, every over pass, every little village street for miles and miles out of Le Mans was thronged with people, from toddlers to grannies, cheering and waving at the thousands of bikes as they left Le Mans.

I was exhausted, suffering from after effects of many drugs, sad that the race was over, hung over and ultimately, extremely
emotional. In the villages, young people all lining the streets held out their hands to slap the hands of the bikers passing through. This would be great over here, where we would be able to keep a little bit of throttle in low gear while holding out our left hand for the greetings, maintaining the same slow speed. In France, however, where they drive on the wrong side of the road, it’s a different story.

In order to slap a row of pedestrians’ hands there, it is necessary for a biker to use his throttle hand. In order to take his hand off the throttle long enough to slap pedestrians’ hands and get back to the throttle in time to stop the bike cutting out a biker has to give it some. In these situations it is very easy to give it too much, which I did a few times.

I would know each time I throttled too much the minute I hit the first hand. Each time I looked in my mirror to see one or two young French men jumping up and down, shaking their hands. Each time they were still laughing. There can be only one outcome when many thousands of people cheer adoringly at an emotional Irish man: I bawled my fucking eyes out.

The motorways in France are free for bikes after Le Mans. Each Péage we came to was like the east link, with a free lane for the bikes. After about 20 miles of teary goodbyes to the French public, Shay led us on to the motorway. There were still people lining the overpasses, cheering and waving and being beeped at, for another 80 miles but I composed myself by the time I joined the fast bikes outside the hotel in Bayeux.

The three lads had arranged rooms for us all, but six of us were going have to bunk down in a sister hotel around the corner. That didn’t bother us a bit; once we all had beds, we were in luxury. We did go out that night, but it was a pretty subdued affair compared to the usual night out. We still made an impression among the locals, of course!

The journey from Bayeux to Cherbourg was a lovely bike ride that was pretty much full speed all the way. The glorious sunshine also helped matters. We had a couple of beers in a bar close to the port in Cherbourg that the lads went to every year.

We all arrived at the boat in plenty of time. Refreshed as we were by the night in the hotel, the session on the boat back to Ireland was another pretty subdued affair, although the mood was good.

The holiday was declared a roaring success, with everybody and every bike making it back in one piece. Every one of us virgins vowed to return the following year.

Ooh yeah, I like this! I thought while grinning from ear to ear inside my helmet, full of that tingle of excitement at the drive ahead; nine couriers about to nail it the 20 odd miles of fast road between here and the local on a dry bright day. I was sitting on my bike outside the Kilpedder Inn just about ready to fire up the engine. It was thoroughly enjoyable to just take a moment to myself to soak it all in, surrounded by the hustle and bustle of eight of my work mates putting on jackets, helmets and gloves, taking off locks, ‘hurry up’ ing girlfriends and generally preparing themselves for the rip ahead. The air of activity of a group of motorbikes about to depart was truly second to none. I pushed the start button. The engine fired obediently first time.

I had a grown accustomed to this faithful response and had come to expect it, but today I genuinely appreciated the reliability of my wonderful machine. My appreciation was pretty much due to the mood of the day (helped greatly by the few pints and joints that had been consumed) but mostly sparked off by the sight of poor Naoise jumping up and down repeatedly on the kick-start of his CG 125 and getting nothing but a stubborn “bleuh” out of the engine. Of course, Vinno was the first one
over to him to give him a push start. By the time the CG fired up (after three running bounces in gear), it was the last engine to do so. A big cheer rose above the sound of the eight bigger engines that were ticking over. Naoise gave Vinno a thumbs up, as he jogged back to the XBR. It was time for some motion – some serious motion.

It wasn’t as if everybody specifically waited for him, but Shay always seemed to be the first to pull off from every departure. This bunch were a gang of equals, but Shay seemed to be the navigator. I had seen him in action on the way to and from Le Mans, like a proud sheepdog that never led his flock astray. The same attitude seemed to carry over here (although we all knew the way we were going in Ireland) and Shay tore off on the big 650 (throttle wide open, of course - this was pack driving) with everybody else accelerating to the limit of their machines after him like a big line of angry turbo charged ducklings chasing after the monster that was their mother duck.

I allowed myself a little grin at this misplaced simile, a grin that was very quickly replaced with the frowning glare of concentration. I, too, was at full throttle, a man on a mission. I had buzzed with these boys long enough, but now was the time to make a name for myself. I was going to arrive at our destination first! I had the bike, I had the ability and I had the balls. Today I was going to prove myself to these wild and wonderful people that I admired so much.

The pack wasn’t long about jostling itself into the order of engine capability (with one or two exceptions due to girlfriends on the back). Naoise was, as always, last in the pack on his 125. Next came Ray with his ex, Linda clinging onto the back of his RS 250, not quite wide open and kind of keeping Naoise in his mirrors just in case anything happened to him. Mick on his GN 250 alone was a fair bit ahead of Ray and giving it everything to try to keep up with Paddy and Elaine, which he was just about doing, despite the fact that Paddy’s FZR 250 could have left him for dead, even with Elaine on the back. Paddy was in love with the girl and entitled to drive as slowly as he wanted to with her on the back without getting any stick over it.

Next came the XBRs with Vinno and John having a right dice of it, as you’d expect when you have two top class pilots on the same type of machine tanked up and going hell for leather. There was a little bit of a gap and then me on the CB wide open nailing it to the limit, stretched across the tank, ducking down so much that my balls were being crushed, trying desperately to offer a smaller target to the decelerating effect of the wind in order to make some ground on Charlie, who was wide open on the RVF 400 in a similar pose as me to gain on Shay. Shay didn’t seem to be trying at all, but I knew that was just because of his riding position and that he was nailing it just as hard as we were.

The first ten miles of our journey was on a wide open motor-way (the N11) and at this time on a sunny Saturday, the traffic into Dublin was very light (traffic out of the city was a different story altogether) so this stretch was covered at the highest speed possible with the bikes more or less configured according to top end speed.

After the motorway was the Loughlinstown roundabout, with the first set of traffic lights we would encounter about half a mile further down the road heralding our arrival at Dublin city traffic. This was where we were all experts, where less powerful bikes could out manoeuvre the big bikes, where judgement comes into play, where chances were taken or dodged, where in your own head you saw yourself as great or shite (depending on who you over took or who over took you). Now it was time for the fun to begin - the start of the Stillorgan Road, and today I was well up for it.