Chapter 2

"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.