100 Octane 02


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.


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(Part 02)


"It was Yamaha's year wasn't it, what with a one/two in the rider's
championship and Yamaha far outstripping Honda among the
manufacturers? How do you see next year's GP going, Helene, another
dream run for Yamaha?"


The radio anchor gives me a nod to say my piece. The interview is
pretty much the same as the 3 I've already done this morning and just
a little longer than the TV one last night.


"We'll be strong next year, Glen, but you can never count out
Valentino Rossi and the Honda people. I think Capirossi will be
strong for Ducati and that Japanese guy, Ito had a very good season
for Kawasaki."


"And what about Patricio, your old partner with Yamaha? Going to
Castrol-Suzuki?


"Good luck to him," I answer sarcastically.


"Well, haha, no love lost there I see, well thank you Helene. That
was Helene Ritter folks, world champion and appearing this weekend at
Avenue Raceway here in the garden city."


The light above the door flicks to green and I'm able to escape the
little box of a studio. Prestco's, the big Yamaha dealership is
handling my engagements for the two weeks of my 'official' presence.
Then I have a week back home relaxing before I fly to Japan for
testing and more 'appearances.'


My agent, Ian, was keen for me to go to Australia for the end of
their season. He thought that maybe an appearance at Phillip Island
or Bathurst would be good publicity. However I demurred, I said for
'personal reasons.' Considering my behaviour when I was there two
years ago, there is too much potential for embarrassment.


Already some tabloids there had printed a story said to be from one
of my 'lovers.'


I've noticed lately there seems to be a propensity among certain
sections of the press to find some dirt on me. I don't think I care
overly much except there doesn't appear to be the same rigour in
pursuing top male riders. However the Aussie tabloid press are still
only amateurs compared to Britain.


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


I drove down to the 'The Ave' early Thursday morning in Joan's
little Fiat. My brother Karlie wouldn't let me have the big Ford GT.
The boot was too small to carry my gear bags so I had them piled on
the back seat. Prestco's had me booked in at the Intercontinental
Coastline, probably the best hotel in the city. No sooner had I
dropped my bags in my room, a contract media man turns up.


Ken told me he was here to 'support' me through the various media
engagements. He was very anxious for me to remember certain topics
that 'our employers' would not want discussed in any detail. Among
these were 'technical' and 'commercial' subjects and certain
'private' team matters.


"So is there anything I CAN discuss?" I asked him.


"Sure," he replied, "your favourite shops, perhaps or what make-up
you prefer."


"You're kidding me, right?"


"Absolutely!"


"Then I suggest you take a course in humour 101," I suggested.


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


After the media during the day, Ken drives me to the shop where my
bike had been re-assembled. The service and sales staff have put on a
little reception of snacks and beer and stand around with stupid
grins on their faces. I recognise Roger Preston himself, he's the CEO
of Prestco-Yamaha, and the person who had the confidence to set me on
the road to the GP.


He tells me he personally supervised the preparation of my bike and
asks me if I'd care to check it. 


"Nervous Roger?" I ask him.


"Petrified," he admits, "maybe a dozen of these built all by hand.
Probably $500,000's worth not including R and D costs. You tell me if
I should be relaxed about it?"


"Oh great!" I tell him, "and I could chuck it away on the chicane
tomorrow."


"In which case YOU can explain that to Mr Yamashiro, not me."


"You really ARE spineless aren't you Roger?" I laugh.


"Just give us a good race on Sunday," he says, "Honda have shipped
over a bunch of Aussies. They're determined it's not going to be a
Yamaha promotion. It's going to be pretty torrid out there, Helene,
you'd better watch your arse."


"They'll be watching mine," I reply, "from a distance."


"The numbers people expect a healthy increase in sales following
Sunday."


"Oh, so there's no pressure Roger, right?"


"Of course," he grins, "no pressure at all."


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


When we get to the circuit it's already a hive of activity. The
merchandising and refreshment areas are dotted with stalls, the pit
is coloured with the banners of the various manufacturers and teams.
It looks like some medieval jousting tournament.


Prestco's have provided a caravan for me and I happily escape into
it as a crowd begins to develop around the Yamaha garage. Through the
blinds I watch a throng stand in silent worship around the bike.


A little later there's a tap on the door. Peering through the
curtain I see a greying man wearing a pair of blue overalls. He holds
up an official photo ID to the window and nods towards the door.
Introducing himself as Gordon McBride, he tells me he's in charge of
my pit crew.


"I thought you might like to do a lap or two while we've got the
light," he says, "I want you to confirm we have the ride height set
correctly, the manual was a bit ambiguous."


"Sure," I tell him.


"Good," he looks relieved, "will you be going back to the hotel for
dinner? The boys were thinking of popping over to the Crown
afterwards."


"The Crown sounds a good idea," I tell him, "they do fish and chips?"


"The best for miles around," he confirms, smiling.


"My brothers should be coming up..."


"Aye, Wolfie's up here already," he reveals, "he came in with a
Husqvana Motorcross bike on a trailer, dropped it off then took off
over to the pub. When the other Ritter's get here, that's where
they'll head."


I thanked him and he left to get the bike ready. I wonder why Wolfie
didn't drop in say hello?


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


I do a lap of the circuit then come in. Past the stands I'm aware of
a line of spectators, mostly from other teams doing a bit of
'tactical research.'


"Height's ok," I explain to Gordon, "but compression and rebound are
too soft, I must have put on weight."


"My fault I think," he replies, "we didn't have the right nozzle to
set the pressure, so we had to take a guess."


"Have you got one now?" I ask anxiously.


"Aye, Prestco couriered one round this afternoon. 15 minutes and I
can have the suspension all set for you."


Such details are critical. Incorrect suspension settings seriously
affect cornering and could result in an accident. Sloppiness like
that doesn't impress me at all.


I must remember, though, that this is not Europe. There, the crew
could expect a proper hissyfit and would be scurrying around in panic
to rectify the problem. Here, the pit crew are all volunteers and are
not getting paid. Scream at them and they're likely to jump in their
cars and go home.


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


True to his word, Gordon adjusts the suspension to my satisfaction
and another lap confirms the bike's running well. That done, I slip
over the road and into the pub. It's crowded in the public bar, I
look through the solid phalanx for my brother. I'm relieved there
doesn't appear to be any of the Aussies in here, I don't feel like
meeting them yet.


There are, however, plenty of people I know, both crews and riders.
I have my hand pumped countless times before I can make it to the
dining room. Eventually I find Wolfie and with him Simon Hardy, his
salesman. Simon spots me and beckons me over to their table.


"All sorted for practice tomorrow?" he asks.


"Locked and loaded," I tell him, "I hear you've brought up a
motorcrosser, who's entered?"


Simon nods towards Wolfie.


"He is, didn't he tell you?" he asks in surprise.


"We haven't really had a chance to talk yet, have we Helene?" Wolfie
says.


"No, Wolfie, we must get together after the racing."


"Sure."


"So, what races have you entered?" I ask him.


"Just one, the Grand Prix on Sunday," he tells me quietly.


"What? Are you serious? On a motorcross bike!" I ask, incredulously.


"Why not?" he asks, " it's a good chance to promote the Husqvana
brand. Maybe you're afraid of a little competition, Helene?"


"Ha! Just stay out of my way when I lap you, Wolfie."


"Have you seen the Aussies yet?" Simon wants to know, "three were
brought over by Honda, another 2 by Suzuki. I hear there's that guy
Coburn coming, do you know him?"


"Kevin Coburn? Yeah I know him," I confirm, " he's a jerk. Crashed
me out in Adelaide... swears he never saw me on the outside...
bastard!"


"I remember that," Wolfie interrupts, "cut across you. He got
penalised though didn't he?"


"A stop and go. He still put me out of any chance at the
championship."


"Remember Helene, they have THREE Hondas. It'd be worth it to put
you out. Even if one of them is penalised it still gives the other
two a free shot at the podium."


"Really!" Simon says, shocked, "surely no rider would deliberately
cause someone to crash? How would they feel if Helene was
hospitalised, or worse?"


Wolfie has a wry grin on his face. He looks at me, saying,


"Of course, you're right, Simon. Every competitor is a perfect
sportsman."


"Team orders Wolfie?"


"Right, Helene. They'll try and hassle you from the start to the
chicane. Honda's sales are slipping worldwide. I've noticed even in
motorcross, they're starting to take competition very seriously
indeed. GoldWing need a good result on Sunday to push up their
profile."


"Somehow I get the feeling I've been brought here to slug it out
with Honda. Preston hinted at some follow-on sales expectation."


"Of course. That's always the bottom line and why manufacturers
support motor-racing. That's why the rules were changed from Formula
1. Because you can't sell high performance two-stroke motorcycles in
many countries because of exhaust-emission standards. There was
little point in the factories pouring money into Formula 1 when there
was no sales spin-off for them."


"Yes, I know. So they changed the regulations so the factories could
construct a more marketable product, but surely it hasn't got down to
shoving each other off the track?"


"I don't know, Sis. All I know is that there's some folks who want
to see you crash and burn."


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


Simon and Wolfie tell me our local radio station has organised half
the town to come up in Steve Tickner's two coaches. A City station is
talking about the 'Trans-Tasman Clash' and the 'little home-town girl
who carries the whole Nation's pride on her shoulders.'


'No pressure, right? No, none at all.'


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


After a meal with Simon, Wolfie and my two other brothers when they
finally turn up, I have a quick drink with my pit crew. Most look so
achingly young I doubt they're legally allowed to be in here. They
are, though, absolutely delighted to be included in the pit crew of
the current world champion.


"We could have had a crew of 150," Gordon tells me smiling, "we're
still getting enquiries."


"So do you all work in the dealerships?" I ask.


Most nodded except Gordon himself.


"I'm president of the Central Districts Motorcycle Club," he says,
"I knew your dad when he first settled here. Great man for the bikes,
your father. I was sorry to hear of his death, it was way too early."


"Yes," I nod sadly.


"I couldn't make the funeral," he continues, "the missus, y'know,
she was dying of cancer at the time."


"I'm sorry..."


"But I CAN see that his daughter has a good ride in the Grand Prix.
It's the least I can do."


"Thanks..."


"None necessary," he goes on, "look, despite the little glitch
today, I HAVE been doing this for thirty years. I ran my own team
Y'know, we had the first TR1's in the country, no-one could touch us."


"The TR1?" I arch my eyebrows, "my dad said they were lethal to ride."


"Tricky to be sure, unbeatable in the right hands, though. I've
still got one in the garage at home..."


"What's a TR1?" someone asks.


"First of the Jap screamers," Gordon tells him, "put the British out
to pasture, what in about 1969, 70?"


"Yeah, 2 stroke 350cc twins," somebody else adds.


"Made those old Nortons and Matchless's look like farm tractors,"
adds Gordon.


"LADS!" a loud voice overwhelms the chatter in the bar. The noise
dies down.


"There'll be a special meeting of all the GP riders 9 sharp tomorrow
morning. A notice has been sent around to all the team managers and
individual riders. No show, no race."


"Wonder what that's all about," someone muttered.


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


My brothers take me back to the hotel, apparently Prestco's had sent
a taxi, but it ended up in the wrong place. Well, you got to love it
here!


It's been a long day and I retire early, perhaps I might not have
had that extra glass of ale.


One thing you need to be able to do in this profession is get a good
night's sleep. It's an art in itself, with so many expectations
riding on your shoulders. I had a good fitness trainer in Europe who
coached me about mental attitude. He describes it as the ability to
'bracket' your emotions to ensure you're mentally sharp. I practiced
it and it works.


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


After breakfast the next morning, I ride down to the track with
Karlie in the big Ford. He's helping Wolfie in the pits with the
Husqvana but promises to look in on me if he can.


I've always felt a little closer to Karlie. He is the nearest to me
in age, only some 2 years older, and we always had a mutual friend in
Robert.


He shows me the official program, they're calling the big race, 'The
Robert Helden Memorial Grand Prix.' A short dedication at the bottom
of the page explains how he was a promising young talent who was
killed on the verge of a shining career. I throw the program back at
Karlie, I really can't stand any more of this shit.


All this 'us against the Aussies' hysteria is driving me crazy. Talk
of 'team orders' and grudge matches, Yamaha versus Honda duel and
even the bloody 'battle of the sexes' bullshit has only surfaced to
draw in the crowds. I'm pretty sure it's not the riders who are
talking this thing up, but the jabbering media and bloody radio
stations.


"Promotion and marketing," Karlie explains.


"Christ it's worse than the bloody GP tour."


"Parochialism," Karlie goes on, "we don't have Italians in British
teams or Spaniards riding for the French. It's far more nationalistic
here. As far as the public are concerned, you're not riding for
Rotol's or Yamaha, the average punter couldn't give a toss what
marvel of engineering is better than the other. No, you're
representing the country and all ambitious young women."


"Thanks Karlie," I tell him sarcastically.


'Fuck the lot of them and just enjoy yourself, my advice."


"Yeah, Jeez. I thought this was going to be a holiday."


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


It's already crowded in the room when I get to the meeting. It's
being held in an old 'demountable' classroom bought from the
Education Board some years ago. As well as riders, I notice there's a
fair number of team managers, officials and media present.


"Riders only, would everyone else please leave!" Leo Kearny, track
marshal, calls into the microphone.


There's a chorus of complaints and much shuffling as the officials
inspect ID's and guide the interlopers to the door. After a couple of
shouting matches the doors are closed with a brace of hefty officials
standing outside. I spot Wolfie, resplendent in a yellow Husqvana T-
shirt standing, arms folded, at the side of the room.


"Hi," I sidle up to him.


"Leo's going to read the riot act, so I hear," he says.


I spot Kevin Coburn and the other two Australian Honda riders posing
in a little group, away from the rest. You could describe him as
having a sneer on his face.


The officials on the little raised stage in front are still sorting
themselves out when Coburn spots me.


"Still meeting guys in dunnies?" he asks, smirking.


"Still pushing riders off the track," I reply, ignoring Wolfie's
warning squeeze of my hand. 


"Hey! At least you're still alive," he says, arms outstretched.


It's Wolfie who snaps first, I'm still reeling in shock.


"You fucking Aussie prick!" he snarls, rounding on Coburn, "I'll
slap that grin 'round the other side of your face..."


"C'mon then," Coburn challenges.


His companions don't seem too sure about supporting their loud-
mouthed colleague and step back. Recovering from the shock, I feel
the anger boil white hot. The room appears to darken, there's rushing
sound in my ears. Brushing past Wolfie, I launch myself straight at
the Honda rider.


Before I can reach him, a body blocks my path. I'm oblivious to the
shouts and commotion around me, I only want to get past this
obstruction and smack that Australian as hard as I can. I'm
struggling, but the guy who's holding me is strong. He holds my face
and looks into my eyes.


"Helene!" he says urgently, "Helene!"


I experience a flash of recognition, it's the guy I invited into my
bed that first time in Australia. The spunky young rider from
Bathurst.


"Don't," he continues, "he's just trying to wind you up."


Wolfie intervenes.


"Get your fucking hands of her..."


"It's alright," I tell him, almost in a dream, " I know him."


"I'm sorry," he shrugs, "for... everything."


I'm still staring into his face when I become aware of the shouting
going on around me. I hear Coburn's voice rising above the noise.


"Looking for a re-match, Stevie?"


The rider holding me spins around.


"Shut the fuck up Coburn, or I'll plant you myself!"


"Hey!" he says in mock apology, "didn't mean to get in the way of
true love."


"CALM DOWN THE LOT OF YOU!" the speakers blare out.


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


Wolfie guides me back to the side of the room. I'm still in a daze
and he puts a protective arm around me. Other local riders, too,
group around. If there's going to be any trouble, they let it be
known they'll be alongside.


I refocus myself quickly, feeling the anger dissipate. Wolfie's
still muttering alongside me.


"Shoulda knocked his fucking block off... fucking little cunt..."


There's a rumbling of approval around us.


"Slap that big guy," somebody's saying behind me, "I can take him
down, you handle Coburn."


"Will you stop now, ok?" I tell them, "no-one's going to hit anybody."


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


Leo's large presence seems to fill the little stage. He taps the
mike, asks one of his officials whether the sound is on, and begins
his speech.


"Gentlemen, and of course, Helene."


There's a little chuckle from somewhere.


"It's come to my attention that there's a lot of hot air going on
around the Grand Prix on Sunday. Let me say this," he glares around
the room, "I will not tolerate... NOT TOLERATE team instructions to
obstruct other riders. Any team... ANY TEAM pulling such stuff on
Sunday will be black flagged... BLACK FLAGGED gentlemen. Disqualified
straight away. The whole team... the WHOLE team will be put out of
the race."


Leo stops for effect. He scans the faces in front of him daring for
someone to complain. He's clearly had enough of the hysteria. 


"I want a clean race," he continues in a milder tone, "responsible
riding, no crack ups and a good race. I'd also like to extend a
welcome to Helene Ritter, our world champion."


The crowd breaks out in applause, someone urges me forward to
acknowledge it. I note out of the corner of my eye that the Aussies
are also clapping, even Coburn, though not very enthusiastically.


"And I'd like to acknowledge our brothers from across the Tasman,"
Leo continues, "the Honda and Suzuki factory teams from the Asia-
Pacific Championship."


The Australians step forward to accept the applause. Despite the
tension, it's enthusiastic and they break out in smiles, raising
their arms in a victory salute. For a brief moment I think that
sportsmanship is still alive and well.


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


We are each to get two flying laps, the fastest of the two determine
our grid positions. Being the champion, I get to go last,
approximately 10.30am, after the Australian riders. The next session
begins at 2pm, in reverse order.


The course is about 2.5 kilometres long, featuring 2 straights of
reasonable length, but otherwise it's quite tight. The factory GP
bikes should be able to do around 40 to 45 secs, in the region of
230kmh average speed.


We use a special set of qualifying tyres, they have been 'scrubbed
in' for maximum performance. We are allowed to do one lap to warm
them up before the time trial. These are all standard international
rules.


At about 10.10am the GP teams begin to fire up their bikes. A GP
bike warms up relatively quickly, because of the finer internal
tolerances in the motor. Typically the bikes are liquid cooled, using
various Glycol formulae often kept secret from the competition.
Because there's no cooling fan on the radiator, they can't be left
running in a stationary position for too long or they start to
overheat.


There's no battery or kick starter. The bikes are either 'bump'
started or run up on a roller placed under the back wheel. The roller
is then spun, usually by an electric motor, cranking over the bike.


Gordon McBride starts up the Yamaha on a roller. It's considered the
safest method, rather than pushing it along holding the clutch in the
'bump' start. It's sounds terrible when it first fires, crackling and
coughing like a smoker in the morning. It settles into an idle
quickly, however, unusually fast by road bike standards. After a few
seconds to warm up the oil, Gordon revs the bike from a bellow to a
scream and back to idle. He thus ensures the engine management, fuel
metering and throttle control are working properly. The motor should
spin freely without any lags or missfires.


I'm geared up and ready to go by 10.15. Two boys roll the bike off
it's cradle and I throw my leg over it. I feel the bike for comfort,
flexing my arms and jiggling the handlebars. It's a little routine
I've always done. I then roll the bike forward, slipping the clutch,
to the end of the cue on the 'dummy' grid.


It's a cacophony of howls and screams as the riders rev up, more for
something to do and to ease the tension.


The vee 5, 750cc engine of the Yamaha has a tinny whine when it's
idling. As it revs into the 'power zone' it adopts a more lusty growl
before reving through to a screaming 20,000 rpm plus limit. The exact
performance details of the engine are, of course, highly confidential.


The riders are released onto the track at intervals for their warm-
up lap. Once they complete the circuit they roll up to the timing
lights and wait for the ready, go.


My brother is one of the first in the cue. I can't pick out the
throb of the motorcrosser's big single cylinder engine above the
general racket. I do however catch a fleeting glimpse of him as he
makes a left from the front of the cue towards the pit exit.


After that the cue moves quickly towards the track. Next ahead of me
is the red and white Honda of Kevin Coburn. He turns back to me and
blows a kiss before dropping the visor of his helmet. It's part of
what we call 'sledging' an opponent, to put me off-focus. I choose
not to respond.


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


Once on the track it's all business. I focus on the red back-fairing
of Kevin Coburn in front of me and visualise it growing larger in my
sight. After the warm-up I have worked up that sharpness of vision
that my European trainers taught was so important to a top
sportsperson.


Coburn gets a clean launch with only a hint of the front wheel
rising. When all's said in done, he sure know's his business on the
track. I roll to the mark and rev the engine to 7000rpm. The light
goes out and I feed the clutch in in my practiced method. Once I'm
rolling, I snap on full throttle as quickly as I can keeping the
front wheel on the ground.


I do a good round, but .3 of a second slower than Kevin Coburn. The
talk is that it's a good track for the Hondas but I'm disappointed
with myself. I KNOW I can beat that grinning ape but I got slightly
crossed up exiting from the chicane and that threw it.


Gordon suggests he might lower the pitch angle by a millimetre to
increase cornering sensitivity but I'm against it. It's too late to
fool around with the basic set-up.


I shut myself away in the caravan, lie down on the bed in my
leathers and will myself to rest.


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


I wake around lunchtime and have a light meal in the van. My
brothers knock on the door around one and I let them in.


"What did you do?" I ask Wolfie.


"55.34 seconds," he grins.


"Wow!" I tell him, "that's an amazing time on a motorcrosser. What
did you do to it?"


"Not much," he shrugs, "lowered the suspension, changed the bars and
fitted her with racing slicks. Never touched the motor."


"Boy that's incredible!" I tell him.


".03 off the pace I hear?" he says.


"The chicane, damn it!"


"You should know to go in low, you've raced here often enough. How
come you let that Aussie through?" Wolfie asks.


"I let him get to me, I think!" I explain slowly, "I don't know what
else it could be."


"That's what he does," Karlie says, "he rattles his main opponents."


"Yeah," adds Ernie, "try fucking him up if he tries it again."


"No, I'm not playing that game," I tell them, "I'm going to do a 39."


"No-one's done under 40," Wolfie explains doubtfully, "the course
record's 40.1."


"Well I'm going to fucking break it."


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


As I return to the garage at 1.50, the bike is just being rolled
out. Gordon beckons me over as I go to climb on.


"It might be a little quicker through the chicane," he tells me, "go
in low and drive it out, trust me."


"You've played with the pitch?" I ask, angrily.


Before he can answer there's a roar from the neighbouring garage as
a couple of Suzukis warm up. Gordon just grins and nods towards the
Yamaha.


It wails into life, the boys roll it off the cradle and I climb on.
I'm now at the front of the cue, with Coburn on the Honda large in my
mirror. I see him arguing with a white-coated official, waving his
arm in my direction. Holding up his arms, the official gets him to
roll his bike back a metre. Walking back to me, he leans towards my
face and shouts,


"That silly bugger was going to ram you with his front wheel!"


He looks outraged, I'm not alone.


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


The Official waves me through and I turn left into the pit exit.
Down past the main stand I see a group of blue-shirted boys holding
up a large Yamaha banner, my pit crew. In response, I gun the bike
and set it up on the back wheel, front wheel spinning high into the
air. The crew go wild, yelling and cheering enthusiastically. I'm
feeling positive.


On the line I see Coburn weaving up behind. I focus on the red
lights, 5,4,3,2,1,go!


It's a good start, the bike shudders momentarily then leaps forward
towards the first sweeper. It flicks lightly into the turn,
effortlessly and I'm able to keep most of the power on through the
apex. The line takes you close to the kerb as you exit for the long
straight. I feel it brush my kneepad as I climb into 5th gear on
maximum power.


GP bikes don't usually carry a speedometer. The largest instrument
on the panel in front of me is a digital Tachometer, measuring the
engine revs. As I snap into top gear, it climbs to 14,000 rpm and
rising. The chicane ahead hurls towards me in seconds. Remembering
the drill, I move to the left of the track and enter it low, or the
inside of the first turn. Snap one way, then the other and out again,
power down and flashing towards the left-hander.


The scream from the exhaust sounds strange through the kevlar
helmet, almost disembodied. It's only when you twist the throttle
grip are you aware the sound is from your own bike.


This feels like a fast lap, very fast. I turn into the home straight
and howl past the timer. My support group are going wild, throwing
their arms in the air. I think I've cracked the magical 39 seconds.


As I return the bike, wailing, to the pits a crowd are waiting to
greet me. Not only are there the Yamaha people, but other teams and
officials all smiling and coming towards me. Gordon McBride steps
forward and flicks the kill switch, shutting down the engine. I open
my visor and he yells,


"Quiet!... Listen, listen!"


The loudspeakers on the tower above my head say,


"A... Helene Ritter... 39.95 seconds... a new course record."


A surge of well-wishers almost tip me off the bike. Gordon grabs the
bars and supports the machine until I'm able to dismount. Two yellow-
shirted men push through the crowd and sweep me off my feet in a big
hug.


"You've done it, you crazy bitch!" yells Karlie, excitedly.


".06 under, my God, Helene!" adds Ernie.


Down pit lane, I see the first of the Aussie Hondas come in, stop
outside their garage and switch off. The rider dismounts and pulls
off his helmet. He hurls it through the roll door then turns and
kicks the rear wheel of the red and white machine.


"Hey!" one of the crowd yells, "a poor workman blames his tools."


"Fuck off!" Coburn yells back before stalking off.


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

Back at my hotel the party is in full swing. We have pushed together
a couple of tables to accomodate the various well wishers who wished
to sit and have a drink with me. The stalwarts are, as usual, my
brothers and Simon Hardy. Simon's looking a bit worse for the
bourbon, decidedly red-faced and putting his arm around me all the
time. I think the lad's convinced his luck is in.


"That was simply awesome," he tells me for the tenth time.


Gordon McBride was here for a while but left, saying he needed to
get back to feed the cat. I think I've been kissed by every
motorcycle rider this side of the main ranges. Not many of the pit
crew could get in the door, however, I was right in suspecting that
most were younger than 18. Moving over to dislodge Simon's arm once
more I nudge someone kneeling beside me. I see it's the Aussie rider
who prevented me from punching Coburn, my ex-'lover,' the one they
called, 'Stevie.'


"Helene," he says, "congratulations, that was a fantastic ride."


"Thanks, ah..."


"Steve, Steve Kelly. We probably never got properly introduced," he
says abashed.


"No," I agree, "hey... ah... thanks for stopping me..."


"No worries, mate. I wanted to smack him myself." he tells me
grinning.


"Um... you staying here?"


He nods.


"Rod and Kevin have pissed off somewhere," he says, "you met Rod?
he's a good guy, a Victorian, but don't hold that against him."


"You're from..."


"Queensland, Townsville, actually... you... ah... remember Bathurst?"


I nod.


"I made a dork of myself..."


"We both did," I tell him.


"Yeah..."


He looks tongue-tied. The soft light catches his bronzed features
making him look like some Greek God.


"You want to pull up a chair?"


He looks conflicted, uncertain. Eventually he makes up his mind and
grabs a spare seat from a neighbouring table. I introduce him round
the table. Steve notices Simon's inability to leave me alone.


"Is he your boyfriend?" he says in a low voice.


"Wants to be," I tell him, smiling.


"Yeah..."


Katzmarek (C)




