
100 Octane 08


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 8)


"Well, I have two Yamahas, a 2003 R1 sports and a 1979 DY80 trail; a 1964 BMW R65 I inherited from my father and a 1986 Ducati 900SS."


"And which one do you prefer?" Dr. Mohammed Anwar asks me.


"Definitely the Ducati," I answer, "it's not modern and smooth, doesn't go down creek beds nor is it rock-steady and impeccably mannered. But..."


"But..." Mohammed repeats, smiling in that way that has half the female staff at the hospital drooling.


"I wouldn't mind doing a spot of double duty with him," one of the nurses said to me on the day I arrived.


Dr. Anwar has been a frequent visitor to my private room and always finds the time to stop and chat. He has an easy, urbane and cultured manner about him and he's very smart. The son of a top neuropathic surgeon, Mohammed had the best of education in the manner of the immigrant family who's determined their children would not have the struggle that they had. To overcome social and racial prejudice they'd become more English than the English, overcoming through education that that they couldn't achieve through class connections.


And Dr. Anwar is a racing fanatic, both cars and bikes, and a frequent visitor to Silverstone. He loves his cars, being the proud owner of an Aston-Martin bought by his father as a graduation present.


"It's the Vee 12 model," he says, "you must come for a drive when you're back on your feet."


It's easy to say yes to Mohammed. The man is what could be described, crudely, as a 'babe magnet,' so utterly charming and good looking.


"Perhaps I'll give you a spin around Silverstone on the R1," I suggest, half serious.


"Delighted!" he says, clapping his hands together, "what a charming idea!"


---------------------------------------------------------------------


News travels fast and, after an enterprising reporter found his way into my private room, I have a huge West-Indian security guard called Peter. He's really an angel and wouldn't hurt a fly but the size of him is enough to deter any interloper. He comes in, beaming a row of white teeth, and asks,


"Is there anything I can get you, missy?"


"Call me Helene," I tell him.


"Sure thing Helene, missy."


Visitors have been kept to a minimum, by order of Dr. Anwar. For the first two days he was concerned about my recovery from the shock of the accident. He explained that I have a compound fracture and it could be at least two months before I can climb back on a bike.


Steve Kelly is yet to arrive from Australia also, so Rotol-Yamaha are facing the prospect of both their riders being out of commission before the season's even started. The manager's putting a brave face on it even though it's derailed the team's preparation.


"Jaguar has apologised for leaving their car there," he tells me, "they claim it was a breakdown in communication, but state that the Silverstone management were aware of it."


"I received an apology from Silverstone," I reply, "they state they're taking the matter up with Jaguar Officials."


"Typical buck passing," he says, "we'll have to wait for the Accident Investigation Branch before we can fix insurance claims."


"How's the bike?' I ask him.


"Motor's ok... as for the rest... we're going to have to rebuild it. It spun into the barrier." He adds, shaking his head, "I think the assessment will be something close to 100,000 pounds."


"Who's paying for me?" 


"At the moment, your personal injury insurance. No doubt they'll be waiting to recover their costs from whomever is considered responsible."


"All this fuss over a little spill," I tell him grinning.


------------------------------------------------------------------


My room is steadily filling up with flowers from well-wishers. Cards and letters are arriving by the score, it's all very humbling. At 8 that night I receive a call from Australia, from Steve.


"Bloody poms could never park a car properly," he tells me.


"Actually, Steve, I believe it was that Aussie driver. His electronics failed and locked up his gears."


"Pommie car... pommie electrics," he scoffs, "so how's the surf there?"


"You'll freeze. I understand down in the Bay of Biscay can be pretty good at certain times of the year."


"Want to check it out, Ritter?"


"Sure thing, Kelly... pack your Speedos."


"So what will YOU be wearing?" he asks me.


"A cast for the next 6 weeks. How's yours?"


"It's gone now. I'm walking with a cane and doing some exercises to regain my strength."


"Don't overdo it!" I warn.


"Nah, Rotols hired me a fitness therapist, a bloody tyrant she is."


"You love it," I joke.


"Yeah, well... can't wait till I get there," he says, "kind of... pick up where we left off... I'm glad you're alright."


"Hey, I'll see you when you arrive... we'll talk, ok?"


"Sure thing, bye."


My life really IS getting too complicated by half!


-------------------------------------------------------------------


I'm lost in thought when next Mohammed pokes his head around the door.


"Resting?" he asks.


"Thinking," I reply.


"You have a problem?"


"Men!"


"Ah! How many?"


"Just the two, despite what you've read in the newspapers."


"My father would ask, 'which one is from the better family?'"


"And you would ask?"


"I would take them both out, then choose."


"But they're both nice."


"In that case, I'd take them out again... and again, until I can make up my mind. Have you met their parents?"


"One set," I tell him, "haven't met Steve's."


"Remember you're marrying his family as well," he explains, "I know you're not Pakistani and things are different... but then... maybe not so different. You know, you can tell a lot about a person from their parents."


"I guess so... are you married Mohammed?"


He shakes his head.


"I'm still looking," he smiles, "she would have to be an exceptional woman to put up with me."


"You're being modest," I tell him, laughing, "I don't think it'd be too hard to live with you."


"Ah, but you haven't seen me in the morning before I've shaved. That might be quite a shock," he jokes.


"Would your parents have to approve of the match?" I ask him.


"They would like to make the final decision. But it's not compulsory... we're English y'know," he smiles.


"You were born in Pakistan?" I ask.


"Luton... it's now a suburb of Karachi," he grins, "my grandparents immigrated in 1962. They worked very hard and sent my father to the London Medical School. He had no choice, he WAS going to become a doctor."


"And did YOU have a choice?"


"Sure, London or Manchester. But really, it's all I've ever wanted to do, there was no pain. And you, Helene, did YOU always want to race motorcycles, like your father?"


"Since I was 6."


"There you go... a chip off the old block, as we English say."


I laugh, my broken leg sends me a reminder not to move too much.


"My father would like to meet you," he goes on, "he likes meeting famous people, especially motor racers and pretty women. Two rolled into one, see, you can't go wrong!"


"Pretty? Me?" I protest.


"I sent him a copy of Vogue," Mohammed continues, "I rather think he's jealous of me!"


"Vogue? You didn't!  But I'm not like those pictures... they're all doctored and enhanced... and I'm wearing tons of make-up and I posed for hours..."


"Au contraire," Mohammed interrupts, "it is a most surprising likeness. In fact, I'm not sure they've done you complete justice."


"Get out of here!" I exhort, blushing furiously.


He leaves, skipping with boyish glee.


---------------------------------------------------------------------


It's a week before I'm able to take my first faltering steps with the aid of a nurse and some crutches. I now have metalwork in my leg to screw the two bits of bone together.


"It can stay there," Mohammed tells me, "it won't rust. If you keep falling off your bike, they'll be calling you Borg."


"As in Star Trek?"


"Yes! My father can do the neural implants. I'll reconstruct your skeleton, although I don't think there's much room for improvement."


Dr. Anwar's flirting really cheers me up. It never gets out of hand and he always follows some comment with that disarming smile of his. It's certainly a damn sight more refined than some of the comments I've received down at the race track.


"I ran off into the dirt, mate. There was Ritter's arse in front of me and I lost control."


"That'll teach ya to keep both hands on the bars."


Oh yeah! Real charming!


--------------------------------------------------------------------


By the end of the week, I'm allowed home. Dr. Anwar is satisfied I have sufficient mobility with the aid of crutches and that the pain can be managed. As I leave the hospital, there's a small knot of photographers waiting.


"This way love... give us a smile, love," I hear a familiar voice.


"Got any fish and chips today, Paul?" I call back.


"Depends on the view, Helene," he calls back to general laughter.


Rotols provide a minibus all the way out to Essex for me. My companion Wendy tags along. She tells me she'll fetch and carry for me and not to lift a finger. She's becoming iritating, I'm not looking forward to the prospect.


She's so 'old public school' for my taste, too prissy and stuck-up. She goes on about 'daddy this' and 'daddy that' and 'you must come down to the country house.'


"Did that Indian look after you well? It's SO hard to find a decent English doctor these days, isn't it," she babbles.


"He IS English," I tell her, "his father is SIR Aswan Anwar, the neuropathic surgeon and he looked after me very well!"


"I see," she replies flatly and falls silent.


I have to admit, talk of Dr. Mohammed Anwar got me dreaming a little, he's such a dish. Something tells me I haven't seen the last of him. Although the next time it won't be because I've broken a bone.


----------------------------------------------------------------------


Wendy's going to commute, for which I'm grateful. It means I only have to put up with her during the day. She makes up a bed for me downstairs, so I don't have to climb the stairs. Otherwise, there's nothing to do except sit outside when it's fine, watch TV and generally mope around. I'm desperate for some visitors by the second day.


So desperate, in fact, that I invite the photographers outside to have some lunch with me out the back. By now they've thinned out to two, my old pal from the 'News of the World,' and a freelancer called Dave.


Much to Wendy's disgust, I get Dave to fetch some lunch from the nearby 'chippie' and we sit down to a feed in the grass accompanied by half a dozen 'Newcastle Brown Ales.'


Dave is a 'Brummie,' from Birmingham, Paul, from the News of the World is a 'Nothin' from Nottingham.


"What's the chances of Nott's Forest next year, Paul?" Dave asks.


"'Bout the same as Aston Villa's," he snaps back.


I watch them banter on about football and it's so diverting, funny and unpretentious. At one point Paul calls to Wendy,


"Have you got a drop of vinegar, love?"


To which Dave adds,


"And tomato sauce too, please, love."


It's worth it to watch Wendy squirm with fury as she drags herself reluctantly inside to the kitchen.


--------------------------------------------------------------------


"Where in the blazes is Little Newtington?" Mohammed asks over the phone, "it doesn't seem to be marked on my AA map."


"You go north from Chelmsford on the A something until you come to a little bridge then left," I tell him.


"Gawd, I'm glad you're not my taxi driver!" he chuckles, "I'll find it, see you about two."


I'm looking forward to his visit. He told me he needed to do a little 'post-operative examination,' and perhaps he can bring a little afternoon tea. I jumped at the chance to break the monotony and, well...


Dead on the dot of two he pulls into my drive in his Aston-Martin. I suggested to Wendy she take the afternoon off, to which she enthusiastically agreed. She's just as bored as I am. He comes straight around the back as instructed, to where I'm holding court in the sunshine.


"Where are your photographers?" he asks.


"Gone home, they're bored too," I tell him.


"Oh dear," he says, "lets see if we can cheer you up a bit."


He opens a hamper containing, fresh rolls, pate' and a demi of wine.


"And for the lady," he says, bowing, and pulls out a single bright yellow rose. "White is for mourning, violet is far too pale and red is... well... a wee bit premature, wouldn't you say?"


"Just slightly!" I tell him, flummoxed, "I'm sorry, this is so... unexpected!"


"Clearly my dear you're in need of fluids," he pronounces, "where are the glasses?"


---------------------------------------------------------------------


"I'll always be 'that Pakkie doctor'," Mohammed's telling me some time later, "never mind that I was born here, never been to Pakistan and wouldn't know it if I were."


"I guess, my dad would've had the same trouble when he arrived in NZ."


"Yes. But he was white and blended into the landscape. I'll always stand out because of the colour of my skin."


"I think we're more accepting back home," I try to tell him.


"It's a matter of scale, my dear," he replies, "imagine a whole suburb where you never see a white face. All the street signs written in Urdu, or Hindi... Cantonese even, with English written in subtitles. Imagine those suburbs extending over half of one of your citys, then imagine the white reaction."


"I guess... we have Polynesian suburbs now..."


"Yes, but the Pacific islanders were there when you arrived, or were your neighbours. YOU were the immigrants... it's not the same thing at all. My grandparents travelled half-way around the world to a completely alien culture who, for the most part, didn't want them there. Then," Mohammed grins, "it's 'close the door, don't let any more of those Pakkies in.' That was my grandfather's reaction... he says he's now an Englishman, you see. Quite common, the last one to arrive wants to close the door after themselves. 'We're now English'... very funny!"


It's so nice sitting in the sun listening to Mohammed talk. He's so animated, using his hands a lot to emphasise points. He inspected my cast, got me to wriggle my toes and asked me a few questions. All that over a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc... very civilised!


About 6 he tells me he needs to get back to Northampton because he's 'on call.' Mohammed gives me a little kiss on the cheek before tripping back to his car. I honestly don't know where the time went!


------------------------------------------------------------------


At least Wendy is able to take me out in my car. It's not easy depending on others. I eventually agree to 'go down' to her family's country house, mostly because there's nothing else to do. It's in Oxfordshire, not that far from Silverstone and about 50 miles southwest of Northampton, where Mohammed lives.


As befitting a seriously well-off family, the house is a 15 room mansion set in a 100 acres of parkland and gardens. It has a 19th century style maze, manicured croquet green, tennis court and around the back, a collection of classic cars. We have 'tea on the lawn' waited on by Bernard the butler like some William Thackeray or Jane Austin novel. It's all a bit much for a country girl from the other side of the world. The sandwichs are cut into neat triangles and I have a hankering for a beer and some chips.


Sir Guy Stockton is the financial controller and a director of the Rotols empire. The MotoGP team is but a tiny part of his business interests, which span the world. The team is more of a personal hobby for him, there's little in the way of a tangible financial return. It's interesting, though listening to how things are organised on the financial side of a major GP racing team.


Basically, they sell advertising and it's serious money. The bike, my racing suit, is all space to be rented out. Even so, it doesn't nearly cover the costs and that's where tax write-offs come in. Contributing to the arts and sciences is something of a tradition and ,'the duty of capital,' a 'gift to the community as a thank you for their support.' Motor racing becomes, 'arts and entertainment,' and thus attracts the same sort of tax relief as, say a donation to the Royal Shakespeare Society.


"Fair enough!" I tell him.


I think it's sophistry but it pays me a good living.


-------------------------------------------------------------------


Towards the end of January, Steve Kelly arrives from Townsville Australia. He spends a couple of days resting and seeing the sights before he arranges to come over to Essex to see me. By now I'm crawling up the walls in frustration and even the attentions of Dr. Mohammed Anwar no-longer is sufficient relief. I look forward to seeing him again, albeit with mixed feelings.


"Gidday," he says, stepping out of his rental car. "Shit, you're buried away here. Did you know you're not even listed on the map?"


"I prefer it that way," I tell him, "it's good to see you. How's your leg?"


"Bitchin', how's your's?"


"Plaster off next week... at last! It's itching me to hell!"


Seeing my car up the drive, his eyes pop out of his head. Striding with a slight limp, he walks up to it and caresses the back of it, like a prize cow.


"Shit! Is that yours? I've really got to get me one. They gave me a bloody Vauxhall to drive, piece of Pommy crap!"


Laughing, I tell him he'd better change his attitude a little while he's here.


"Chill out, Steve! The 'Poms' are paying you a good salary, the least you can do is show them some respect."


Steve Kelly still resembles a big, blond Adonis. Tanned, muscles bulging through his tight shirt, sunglasses, he's wearing a reversed baseball cap and tight track pants. I notice, when we go out to the patio, that Wendy's gone all quiet and fidgety... hmm.


In fact, Wendy immediately starts to fuss over him, in the process losing some of her cool composure. She sits at the table and it feels she's trying to compete for his attention, laughing at everything he says like he's a famous comedian.


I think Steve's completely unaware of how powerfully magnetic his sexuality is to women. The guy is a fantasy for every cold-climate woman with a dream of sun-drenched beaches and bronzed macho-men in tiny swimming briefs. As Wendy, once more, scuttles back to the kitchen to fetch more beers, I tell him,


"You're going to love it here!"


It's more like a thought, out loud.


"Y'reckon?" he answers.


"The women here are going to love you... and wait till you get down to Spain and Italy... even France!"


"Why? What happens there?" he asks innocently.


"You'll see!" I answer enigmatically.


------------------------------------------------------------------


"So, what do you say, Ritter?" Steve asks me as we limp to his rented Astra.


"About?"


"You and me... y'know..."


"I don't know, Steve... let's just play it cool for a while, eh? See what happens..."


"You know how I feel..."


"I know, Steve... But I... got a few things to sort out, emotionally."


"What the hell does that mean, Helene? Have you got a boyfriend?"


"Yes... and no... I've got three on the go at the moment."


"Three! Shit, Helene, who?"


"You, a guy back home... and I've been sort of seeing a guy here," I tell him, embarrassed.


"I'm on the list... that's something," he says miserably.


"What's the hurry? You could meet someone tomorrow... or on the tour. Y'know you're very beautiful. Wendy likes you and there'll be lots of others."


"Are you giving me the brush off?"


"No, Steve... I'm just asking you to wait and see what happens, that's all. Give yourself some space... and me. Then, who knows? Perhaps it might seem right after all."


"I guess!" he mumbles, unconvinced.


I palm his face and turn his head towards me for a kiss. His lips are warm, moist and passionate, three years of unrequited lust put into one long, lingering exchange. His arms encircle me, his hands stroke the back of my head. He presses his hard body against me flattening my breasts to his chest. When finally he lets me go, I stumble backwards in shock and arousal.


In that kiss, the promise of long nights of passion and desire. Burning moments of frantic coupling followed by whispered adoration and sweaty bodies. Pressed, he could take me now, unprotesting, upstairs to my bed, and peel me like a grape. I stand, itching at the loins as he climbs into the car with a boyish grin of satisfaction.


He know's what he's done to me. Behind that innocent act, he knows what he's doing. He's playing my emotions like a fiddle, inveigling me into the web of his love for me. I stand there long after his car has disappeared down the country lane to the main road.


"What would you like for dinner?" Wendy breaks the moment, "we have a nice piece of hot roast beef!"


"That's fine, Wendy," I tell her, not really understanding.


(C)Katzmarek