Chapter 3

Steve Kelly seems shy around my brothers and Simon Hardy. Karlie tries to engage him in conversation but he answers in monosylables before staring back down into his beer.

"You boys went very well today," Karlie tells him.

"Yep, not bad."

"Going down tomorrow to watch the 250's?"

"Nah... day off, mate."

"I'm going to check out the classics race, I hear Bob Coleman's entered that Aermacchi," Wolfie contributes.

"Yeah, don't you just love the sound of those old singles?" Karlie says.

"Plenty of Manx Nortons," Wolfie says, "Gold Stars, G50's, AJS 7R's and Reg Button's Velocette Thruxton."

"Aw, that's a beauty," says Karlie, "not a speck on that bike. Better than when they rolled it out of the factory..."

While my brothers enthuse over vintage motorcycles I notice Simon's gone quiet. He's no longer trying to grope me and sits wearily watching my brother's faces as they talk. He gradually flickers to attention, straightens in his chair and says,

"Think I'll be getting along... bit tired..."

"How are you getting back to the motel?" asks Wolfie.

"Walk... nice night... walk off the bourbon..."

"Yeah, you'd better watch that stuff," says Wolfie, concerned, "it'll sneak up on you. Have a glass of water."

"I'll be ok..." he mumbles, getting to his feet.

"Yeah, well, take care!"

He gives a little wave as he stumbles to the doors. After he disappears Wolfie shakes his head, clicks his tongue.

"Poor bastard's got a crush on you, Helene."

"As if that wasn't obvious," I reply, "he's only been leaning all over me for two hours."

"Well, you'd better straighten him out, sis."

"I thought I was pretty obvious," I respond, "how does he need it, written down in triplicate?"

"Well you encouraged him..." Wolfie reacts.

"The hell I did!"

"You were all over him at the Carlton, back home."

"Oh bullshit!"

"Yes you were!"

As Wolfie and I set into an argument, Steve Kelly pats me on the shoulder.

"I'll leave you to it," he says.

"No..."

But he insists. I ask him to drop by later to my room for a nightcap and a chat about old times. He tells me he might, it all depends on what Kevin Coburn and Rod want to do.

"What? You're their keeper?" I ask.

"Nah," he replies, "got to hang out with them... they're me mates."

"Ok," I tell him, "I might see you later?"

"Yeah..."

He wanders off.

Some time later Wolfie has moved onto the subject of mum.

"The trouble with you, Helene, is that you only ever think of yourself, always have."

"Aw don't start on that one Wolfie."

Karlie is trying to play mediator, like he always does. Ernie pretends nothing is happening, again like HE always does.

"Well for Christ's sake, what did you do when I told you mum died? Went straight on to a bloody race track!"

"So what was I supposed to do?" I protest, "I was in Japan!"

"Well Giancarlo said you weren't prepared to miss out on championship points."

"He's a bloody liar... it had nothing to do with that."

"It's a wonder you could understand what he was saying, Wolfie," intervenes Karlie, "especially on the phone."

"There's another guy you fucked around with," snarls Wolfie.

"WHAT?" I respond incredulously, "I've really had enough of this..."

I leap to my feet and start towards the door. Wolfie's still raving.

"Go on, piss off. It's what you do when you can't stand the truth."

"I can't stand YOU at the moment, brother."

"Aw, get fucked!"

"You too, arsehole!"

I crash through the doors to the astonishment of the bar staff.

'What a way to end a brilliant day' I think to myself. I throw myself onto the bed, still in my clothes. Despite having been drinking I'm completely sober. Wolfie and I had been arguing so much tonight that my last drink lay forgotten for half an hour.

I notice there's a bouquet of flowers on the dresser. I check the card, it's from Simon.

I don't know! I didn't consciously flirt with him, maybe I just sent out the wrong signals? He's a sweet guy but not my type at all.

Then again, what is my type? It's not something that's particularly preoccupied me. I guess the physical stuff is fairly important, but above all I like a sense of humour. That kind of wry, laconic stuff really gets me going.

Giancarlo was beautiful, too beautiful for a guy. He was also egotistical and way too intense. Additionally I found his casual sexism just too much to take. He was never short of women, either, but it seemed to me they were mostly your classic 'groupie' type. No, Giancarlo liked his women in the background and to keep quiet, and woe betide if they upstaged him.

I have to admit I kind of like the Aussies. Most of the riders I met were so incredibly well-built, they made the Europeans look like boys. Besides their bodies, they have this natural earthy humour that sees everything as a bit of a 'lark.' The only thing I'd change is their desire to drink every bar dry between Perth and Port Pirie.

Kevin Coburn is a possible exception. He IS, though an exceptional bike rider. At Oran Park he blew out his front tyre at 250kph. He brought the bike to a stop and rolled it into the pits. Now that takes incredible upper body strength, I doubt there'd be many riders who could control a bike in those circumstances and at that sort of speed.

In the pits I heard him tell his crew chief,

"Mate, I think it's time we changed our tyre sponsor."

Now THAT'S wry humour!

Saturday morning I'm awake at about 10am. It's another bright, cloudless, summer's day. I never did have that nightcap with Steve Kelly, I didn't really expect him to turn up.

I have breakfast brought to my room. With Prestco's picking up my expenses, I don't feel inclined to go down to the dining room. I'm on to my second cup of coffee when I receive the first phone call.

"Helene? Roger," the caller announces, "sorry I wasn't there yesterday but Gordon tells me you broke the course record."

"By.06," I tell Prestco's CEO.

"Well that's marvellous," he says, "well done! We have three other Yamahas in the top 6 too. It's been a good day for us."

"I'm pleased for you, Roger," I tell him, slightly sarcastically perhaps.

"Have you seen the final grid yet?" he asks.

"No," I admit, "I got a bit carried away with the celebrations, I didn't think to check."

"Well," he says, "you've got Steve Kelly on the outside."

"Steve?" I ask in surprise, "where's Coburn?"

"3rd, right up your date. He had a disaster of a second lap, apparently, ran onto the grass off the chicane. The other Honda guy, Rod Donaldson is on the outside of him."

"That's not like Coburn," I tell Roger, " he doesn't usually make that kind of error."

"Something put him off concentration. Better have a good start, Sunday," Roger advises, "he's always very quick off the line."

"Fifth and sixth?" I ask Roger.

"The two Dunlop guys, Don Fleet and Kieran Ridgeway, we supplied the bikes and support. As I said, it's a good result for Prestco's."

"Kieran's good, " I say, "maybe he'll be able to box Coburn in till the first turn. The Hondas are very quick in a straight line, at least in Europe they were."

"In Aussie too. With those wide open circuits, Honda ran us very close, much closer than in Europe. Of course we didn't have you and Giancarlo..."

"Flattery Roger? Not like you?"

"I mean it, Helene. You're the best, I'm sure you can pull off a win."

That's right Roger, tell me the entire company's fortunes depend on me!

As soon as I hang up the phone rings again. It's my brother Karlie, apologising for last night and telling me not to worry about Wolfie, he's been in a foul mood for a week.

"Maybe he and Karen aren't getting along," he suggests.

"Don't make excuses for him, Karlie. He's always had these grumpy spells, you remember?"

"Sure... but. Oh, what the hell... I'm going with him to watch the classics this afternoon, I talk to him then."

No sooner do I jump under the shower than the phone goes again. I wrap a towel around and pad, dripping, back to the bedroom.

"Helene? It's Steve Kelly, what are you doing?"

"Taking a shower, you?"

"Thought I'd pop over," he says.

"Where are your mates?" I ask him.

"Kev's gone to see some family over here, Roddy's playing computer games in the lobby. He'll be there all day. Want to hang out?"

"Where do you want to go?"

"Dunno. Do you know if they hire surfboards?" Steve asks me.

"Black's beach? I don't know," I tell him, "I've never been surfing."

"Check it out?"

"Why not? give me half an hour."

"Sure."

An hour later I'm standing in a surf-pro shop while Steve inspects a row of surfboards. He looks pretty good in a track suit, I think. Hair, bleached blonde, eyes concealed behind Raybons. Every inch the surfer dude.

I've decided to go in 'mufti' also. Usually I feel compelled to wear my sponsor's advertising on my T-shirt or cap, but today I go for a billowy beach top and knee-length shorts. On my head I chose a straw hat with a long red band and, like Steve, sunglasses. I hope I don't look too much like a 'beach sheila.'

"Hey, this one's for you," he announces, showing me a red-white-blue board, "see, it's even in Rotol's colours!"

"I'm not getting on that thing," I tell him, aghast, "no, you get wet, I'll pose on the beach."

"Can you swim?" he asks.

"Kinda."

"Then I'll show you how to catch a wave, C'mon!"

Steve Kelly loves surfing almost as much as motorcycle racing. He won't take no for an answer and soon I'm carrying the damn surfboard down to the beach.

"Is this you're idea of team orders?" I tell him, "trying to drown me."

He smiles, a row of white teeth across his suntanned face.

"Surf's small here," he notes, "you should try the Reef, back home. 15 footers, curls beautifully about 100 yards out."

"You'll tell me what that means sometime?" I ask sarcastically.

Steve's very attentive and stays close as I learn to paddle out beyond the break. Once committed I'm determined to get the hang of it and Steve shows me how to rise over the waves without being tipped off.

The surf is low and we have to wait some time before Steve announces there's a suitable wave arriving. I miss it completely and he paddles back out to me.

"Piddled out, that one," he says, "don't you have any decent waves in this country?" he adds in frustration.

"Wrong coast, I think," I tell him.

"Must be," he grumbles.

By early afternoon, I've learned how to stay on the board and at least catch a wave. I've even managed to kneel, although I'm not confident enough to stand yet. All in all, I'm really starting to enjoy it and before long I'm discussing with Steve about buying my own board.

We pick up a couple of kebabs and sit on the beach watching the other surfers. Steve puts lotion on my shoulders, his touch is gentle.

"You're fair," he comments, "don't you ever get out in the sun?"

"In Europe your whole day was planned for me. What with the 'superstar' bullshit, it's difficult to get around in public."

"I guess," he replies, "you're quite toned around your shoulders and arms, do you do weights?"

"Some, I have a personal trainer and a nutritionist."

"Yeah, well, hasn't done you any harm, you're looking good."

"So do you," I tell him.

"You got someone, Helene?" he asks, his voice going softer.

I shake my head,

"You?"

"Nah... haven't found the right one. Y'know something?" his voice drops, adopting a serious tone, "back then... in Bathurst... I really liked you, y'know. I wanted... shit, I dunno..."

He falls silent for a moment, thinking.

"I just wanted to talk, y'know. When I went into your room, I never..."

"What are you trying to say, Steve?"

"I didn't mean to sleep with you... but then you said ok and I was a bit drunk so I thought... why not?"

"We both were blotto, Steve," I tell him.

"Yeah," he chuckles, " as fucking newts... wished I hadn't done it though."

"Why not?"

"You wouldn't talk to me anymore, afterwards. I was pissed off about that."

"I'm sorry, I didn't know you felt..."

"Yeah, well... I'm not very good at all at this emoting shit," he says, "truth is... The truth is I've been crazy about you ever since I saw you that day in the pits in Bathurst."

I'm dumbstruck. I can see it took a lot of courage for him to tell me that. He hangs his head down as if expecting rejection, or out of sheer embarrassment. I put my arm around his broad shoulders.

"Oh Steve," I manage to say, "you've been holding on to that all this time?"

"Yeah, well, it's not as if we've seen much of each other these past three years. Y'know, I've got all your videos... at home... all of your races... every one."

"Shit Steve!" I tell him, rubbing his shoulders, "I never knew..."

"No, well you wouldn't, would you?" he says, stating the obvious.

After a long pause I ask him,

"So where do you want to go from here?"

"Dunno... maybe hang out some more... after Sunday? I don't have to fly home until the 25th. We're all off for a month."

"Lucky buggers, " I tell him, "I have to go to Japan in three weeks. I'm booked to race the next weekend at Spring Creek, then a fortnight off."

"Cool," he says, "maybe we can hook up sometime?"

"Come up to the Spring?" I tell him, "maybe we can hire a car after and go up the west coast. I know that's where all the surfers go."

"Cool!" he brightens up.

We return to the hotel about 4.30pm. The first person we see is Kevin Coburn in the lobby. Completely ignoring me, he addresses Steve,

"Hey, champ, y'seen Roddy?"

"Playing spacies, through there," Steve indicates towards the games parlour.

"Looked there, he's done a bunk... hey, team talk, my room, after dinner... don't be late," he glares at me then wanders off.

"Hi Kevin," I call to his retreating back.

"Hi Helene... don't be late Stevie!" he replies without turning back, "where IS that wanker?" I hear him say.

"I'd better go," Steve says.

"Yeah."

He doesn't move and we stand together, lost for words.

"You use a tactician?" I ask him after a while.

"Kevin," he replies.

After a long pause, Steve says in a low voice, full of urgency.

"You be careful tomorrow Helene. Kevin, he wants to beat you..."

"That's what we're all here for," I tell him, lightly, "to win."

"Yeah, sure, but Kevin... he takes no prisoners, understand?"

"I know what he's like," I tell him, "he put me out, remember, in Adelaide?"