Chapter 5

"Bent clutch rod?" one of the local riders asks another, "yeah, piece of shit on those things. Come around to dad's garage tomorrow, he'll make you one up in silver-steel."

The rider's tent after a race is the time to pick up the pieces, inspect the damage and enquire after casualties. Most of the guys bought and paid for their own machines rather than been sponsored by big companies. It's a cottage industry consisting of trades 'in kind.'

"Cracked the head, mate," another says, "I knew something was up when she suddenly lost power on the 48th."

"Yeah? I think I've got one of those in the shed, Rick. Tell you what, give us a crate of that homebrew of yours and you can have it."

Kawasaki cylinder head about $400, crate of home-brewed beer, around $5. It's a fair trade.

The bartender is being kept busy dispensing cool refreshment to the thirsty competitors. Everyone is busy 'yarning' with their friends, Aussies and locals, there's no distinction. Roger Preston is there, bantering with his Honda counterpart, the CEO of GoldWing.

"Nah, we're happy Roger," the GoldWing guy says, "second and third... couldn't be closer... Bloody tyres, eh?"

"Yeah, bad luck, Simon. I don't know how Kevin stayed on to the finish... that was some feat!"

"He's good alright, Rog'. Be going to Europe next season... give Helene some competition..."

"That right? Who's giving him a ride?"

"The factory... he'll be off to Japan at the end of the month to have a look at the machine."

"Still the same motor?" Roger asks, to chuckles from the Honda chief.

"Another glass?" he asks.

Most of us are still wearing our racing suits in various states of disarray. Zips are pulled down to permit air through our sweaty bodies. Underneath, my T-shirt is soaked with perspiration. Clinging to my chest, it gets noticed by the male riders.

There is a shower block, but by now it's been well used and I'm doubtful there'll be any hot water left. I'm starting to get tired of guys talking to my chest and make an exit to my caravan.

The last of the public has been persuaded to leave. The pits are now a hive of activity as gear's packed up and loaded onto trucks, trailers and vans. Everywhere the tents of the stakeholders and teams are coming down, soon the area will be a dusty cluster of closed-up buildings and abandoned garages.

Many will be heading to Spring Creek for the final round of the domestic season. Even though Kieran Ridgeway didn't finish today, he has an unassailable lead in the local championship. A young guy in his second year on the big bikes, Kieran is an able and courageous rider and I wish him well in the future.

Kieran left early. His collision with Steve Kelly shook him up and I saw him wandering around in a daze before his mother and sister arrived to take him home. It'll be a test of his character whether he'll be able to pick himself up and race next weekend.

Down the end of the line of garages, I see my brothers finishing loading the motorcrosser onto the trailer behind Karlie's Ford V8. As I wander down pit lane, most people are too preoccupied to notice me.

At the Yamaha garage, Prestco's big transporter is backed to the roller door. Gordon McBride is there directing proceedings, ensuring the Rotol-Yamaha doesn't get a scratch on it. Seeing me, he comes, arms outstretched. Folding me into a hug, the expatriat Scot warmly congratulates me.

"Well done lass," he says, "you're Wolfgang Ritter's daughter alright," he smiles.

"Thanks Gordon... you made some good calls today," I tell him, "thank you."

"Aye, well, it was pretty obvious they were going to be in trouble with their tyres," he says, "can't blame them, they never had long enough in the country to get a good look at the track... local knowledge, you can't beat it."

"I heard Coburn's getting a ride in Europe," I inform him.

"Not surprised," Gordon replies, "that was some race he ran," he adds, shaking his head in wonder.

"The way everyone was talking," I tell him, " I thought the Aussies were going to run me off the circuit."

"I did too," he says, "good thing you seduced their hit man."

There's a twinkle in his eye and I blush like a silly schoolgirl.

My brothers say goodbye. They need to get back home tonight for work tomorrow. Each give me a kiss and a hug before rumbling off, trailer bouncing over the ruts.

In my caravan the power's still connected so I switch on the water heater and find my wash cloth and some soap. I struggle out of my heavy racing suit down to my soaked T-shirt and knickers.

I'm privileged in that I have some privacy. Back in the old days I had to be content with changing in toilets, the back of trucks or dipped down behind a stack of tyres in the back of a garage. In this sport you soon learn to dispense with modesty. It's lead to some hilarious moments.

I find a change of clothes, peel off my sodden underwear and give myself a flannel bath. I've just pulled on some fresh knickers when there's a knock on the door. Before I can say, 'hold on, ' the door opens and a head appears around it.

"Hey Ritter... Jesus, mate, y'didn't need to dress up for me!"

I turn my back to Kevin Coburn, snatch my bra, and quickly clip it into place.

"Y'off," I say evenly, "won't be a minute, I'll just throw something on."

"Go like that if you want," he says, " I'm sure Stevie won't mind."

"Wouldn't want to frustrate the dear boy," I reply, laughing.

"You couldn't frustrate him any more," Kevin says grinning, "he's had a boner for you since Bathurst."

Pulling on some jeans I tell the big Australian,

"So he told me... I didn't know he felt that way... I kind of feel a bit guilty."

"Yeah, well, that's Stevie for you. Big and dumb!"

"I wouldn't call him dumb," I tell him, slightly annoyed.

"When it comes to the sheilas he is."

"God, I hate that word."

"Yeah, so I heard," Kevin replies.

I look at him a little puzzled.

Kevin and I ride down to the hospital in a utility borrowed from the Honda garage. I ride in the cab, Kevin's other team mate Rod sits on the tray at the back.

When we get to the hospital, there's already a little group of Honda officials and Leo Kearny waiting to see him. Steve's still in emergency, having his leg plastered. Kevin, Rod and I take some seats and wait.

"I heard you're coming to Europe next season?" I ask Kevin.

"Yep," he confirms, "they're sending me to Japan in a couple of weeks, Hamamatsu, y'been there?"

"Honda's testing circuit," I tell him, "no, we use Suzuka, and a small track outside of Kobe. Nervous?"

He nods.

"Y'seen this guy, John Dixon? He's going to be my partner."

I shake my head.

"I think he came up from 250's. They're a new team, I guess that makes you the senior man."

"Do you sometimes feel like... this big weight's just perched up there on your shoulders, Helene?" he asks.

"Sure," I reply, " but you can't let it get to you. Get an agent like Ian, he's good at keeping the heat off."

I give Kevin my Agent's card and he promises to contact him.

An hour later we're finally allowed in to see Steve. He's doped up with painkillers and the hovering nurse tells us not to be too long.

"Hi champ," Kevin greets him.

Steve raises his arm, he's looking pale and drawn. He tells us that they want to keep him in overnight for observation.

"Brought you some 4X," Kevin tells him, pulling a couple of cans of beer from his bag.

He smiles, but I think beer's the last thing on his mind. Kevin places them in the little cupboard beside the bed. Steve's too tired to converse in anything other than one word answers and smiles of acknowledgement. Eventually Rod and Kevin decide to leave and make their farewells. I lean over to Steve, give him a little kiss on the cheek, Tell him I can't wait to go surfing again. He smiles weakly and I leave.

"So Roddy boy, which pub are we off to then," Kevin says, clapping his hands together.

"Dunno Kev," he replies, "I'm beat... think I'll head back to the hotel for a feed and an early night."

"What are ya?" Kevin asks his team mate, "y'getting old?"

"Need some space, Kev. Stevie... it all happened in front of me, mate... almost hit him myself..."

"Y'need a drink, mate," Kevin tells him.

"Spacies, mate. That's what I need... couple of games'll take my mind off it."

"You're addicted, pal."

"Helps me relax... is all."

Rod Donaldson wanders off to the cab rank to go back to the hotel. He looks down and I'm a bit worried. Kevin says he'll be alright, that he's always been a bit of a loner and sorts himself out by himself.

I think that one of worse things that can happen to a motorcycle racer is to hit another rider, killing or injuring them. It's a horror we don't talk or think about or we couldn't go on the track. No-one wants someone's life on their conscience, wondering whether they could have done something to avoid the accident, beating themselves up inside. But it's a fact of life that riders get injured, we just have to live with it.

I remember them saying that the guy who hit my Robert had to be treated for depression afterwards. A promising rider barely out of his teens, I believe he never went near a racetrack again. He was at the funeral and I was introduced to him but he wouldn't look me in the face.

I'm shaken out my thoughts by Kevin Coburn.

"What you doing now?" he ask me.

"I'd better be getting back to the hotel myself," I tell him, "I'm heading back early tomorrow, I've got a borrowed car."

"Come for a drink first?" he asks, almost pleading with me.

"I REALLY need an early night, I'm sorry Kevin."

I wander away towards the cab rank. Turning back I see Kevin, still standing where I left him, looking lost.

"Hey," I call to him, "give me a lift?"

He raises his eyebrows, sucks in air and nods.

We drive through the city streets, trying to figure out how to get back to the hotel. It's the blind leading the blind with lots of, 'hey, I thought you had to turn back there, ' and, 'nah, that's the way, I remember that big shop on the corner.' After a while we're completely lost and stop and ask the way at a tavern.

"Hey, while we're here we might as well have a beer," Kevin says, and I resign.

Having found a table, I ask him,

"So why do you do all the bullshit, you're much nicer than that."

"Me? Nah, I'm not nice at all. Nice guys come last, didn't you hear that?"

Although Kevin Coburn is in his mid twenties, there's something compellingly young about him. It's as if parts of him haven't grown up.

"I'm not making excuses," he tells me during his second beer, " but we had it all over you today, the better bike... everything except tyres. That's what let us down. Bloody tyres!"

"Kevin, you're a great rider," I tell him, "everybody knows it. But you must admit that tyre strategy is as much a part of racing as going fast."

"I'm not a 'great' rider, Helene, I'm the best and next season you're going to find that out."

The beer's starting to loosen him up, his bragging is becoming a bit much. I tell him I need to visit the bathroom, I intend to slip out of the bar and catch a taxi. As I come back out through the door, Kevin's standing there, blocking my way.

"Want a date?" he asks, "back in there?"

He has that smug, sneering look on his face. The kind of thing that really riles me up.

"Get out Kevin," I tell him, "you've had a skinfull."

"Just started babe... hey, Stevie won't mind... just a quick one, I won't tell."

"Find a keyhole!"

He punches the wall just by my head, his face bores in close to mine, I can smell beer fumes.

"Fuck you bitch!" he snarls, "I see you haven't changed. You were always a little slut."

Kevin shoves me backwards against the wall, I hit my head on the corner of a picture frame. A searing heat radiates out from the point of impact. Rage jolts through my body. Growing up with three older brothers, however, I've learnt to stand up for myself.

My balled fist hits him just below the ribcage sending the air out of him with a whoosh. I can hear shouts near me, arms grabbing, pulling me away. Two patrons have Kevin pinned against the opposite wall, he's struggling and swearing.

"You alright honey?" somebody by my right ear says.

Collecting myself, I ask the bar staff to call me a cab.

As I lie on my bed in the hotel room, I can feel the egg on the back of my head where it hit the frame. It throbs with a dull ache. I try to think of happy moments, Robert's smiling face looming above me, stroking me on the cheek. As soon as his face forms in my mind it dissolves into the sneering visage of Kevin Coburn, snarling with hate and resentment.