Chapter 9

100 Octane is racing fuel. In England it's still sometimes known as 'Benzine' from the days when Karl Benz made cars in his own garage and 'Mercedes' was the name of Gotlieb Daimler's niece.

It has a unique smell, instantly recognisible from the exhausts of highly tuned racing engines. It never fails to illicit a tickling in the back of my neck when I catch a whiff in the air. My heart beats faster, my hands tingle and want to grip the bars of a racing motorcycle. For those who love the sport, no further discussion is needed. For those who've never been to a racetrack, there's still time.

Steve Kelly is living in an apartment near Silverstone. He's having to shoulder the responsibility of Rotol-Yamaha's preparation for the forthcoming GP season. He phones every day, but is unable to visit me in my cottage in Little Newtington, Essex.

I am, however, getting stronger every day and I'm itching to get back to the circuit. There's still an annoying stiffness in my leg and I'm exercising it as much as I can. I regularly go down to Chelmsford for private Physiotherapy.

Simon called a while back and wanted to rush over, using the airline ticket I gave him last Christmas. It took some convincing, but I put him off.

"I'm fine," I told him, "save it for Italy and Monza. I'll maybe book us an apartment in Monaco for a while."

The promise of exotic nights among the rich and famous finally convinced him to stay at home.

It's getting more difficult juggling my men. I had this dream last night that Steve, Simon and Mohammed were slugging it out in my front room. Steve fought with his fists, Mohammed with his charm and, well Simon rode through the middle on his bloody great Moto-Guzzi. It was surreal and I wonder what Robert would have made of it all.

I go for long walks and I'm now becoming a regular down at the 'Duck and Bell'. The pub is known to the locals as the 'Duckbill' which shouldn't surprise me. They pronounce the little village's name as 'Little New-in'. Don't look for 'Big New-in' because there isn't any.

The local historian tells me that this was once a large parish and Little Newtington described the village as opposed to the surrounding pastoral area. He says that as far back as he can research it was called, 'Newthunoringatun' by the Saxons, or 'The thunder God's followers' new farming settlement'. I think 'Little New-in' will do just fine!

Mohammed has invited me over to Northampton for the weekend. I'm looking forward to his enchanting company but the visit is bristling with sexual innuendo.

"On Sunday we might visit my father. Bring your bike, perhaps we can go for that ride round Silverstone?" he suggests.

"You're still game? You're not afraid I'll bump into another Jaguar?"

"I don't expect you'll make a habit of it," he replies, "you wouldn't want to be responsible for ending a brilliant career in medicine!"

"True, and I don't want to clank around like a Borg."

"Y'know, I still have my Meccano set from when I was a child? Ironic, isn't it?" he laughs.

"Is that what you use?"

"Oh no, no, no. A special alloy, most expensive. We can't have Ferrous Oxide leeching into your bloodstream or the plate buckling or snapping. Most unfortunate!"

It takes me about an hour to get over to Northampton on the bike. His house is a modern semi in one of the nicer suburbs, white stucco and red brick. He has a double garage in which inhabits the Aston-Martin and an early fifties Armstrong-Siddeley Sapphire Six.

"It used to be my father's," he tells me, "a most interesting car. It's all leather inside with wood panels, you must take a look."

I inspect his vintage car. Highly polished, he keeps it immaculate. An internal access leads the way into the house. It's kept in the same condition as his car.

It is the home though, of an English bachelor. On the wall, a framed photograph of a group of traditionally dressed dancers is the only thing recognisibly Pakistani. Otherwise the wall art consists of colour photos of racing cars and bikes. I notice a picture that is instantly familiar.

"That's me!" I exclaim.

"Assen, last year, crossing the line. A good capture is it not?" he says, "I think you were doing about 160 miles per hour. Notice there's no blurring to the shot?"

"Yes, is it digital?"

"No," he shakes his head, "very fast film and shutter speed... through a telephoto... I took it myself. I used a motordrive to snap off 12 frames. Only one of which captured the moment. While you're here I must take a shot of you and put the two together. That would make a nice presentation don't you think?"

Mohammed tactfully shows me to the spare room where I change from my leathers into something more comfortable. He suggests that I should find this room 'to my taste' but I doubt his intention's that I should spend the night in it. To be honest, I'm not sure it's my intention either.

I don't know how I feel about Mohammed but I find his attention flattering somehow. I'm learning to cope with the interest displayed towards me solely because of my fame. It's wise to keep people at arms length until I can be sure about them. I can't be sure yet whether Mohammed merely wants me as a trophy or is seeking some reflected publicity.

Being idolised is fine, but no-one can know the real me from magazines or a chat show. On the other hand, I don't see any reason why I can't enjoy myself with a handsome guy. Who knows how long it's all going to last?

Mohammed takes me out to lunch in the Aston-Martin. The sports car makes me feel as if I'm sitting on the road, it's so low. He changes gear with 'paddles' mounted on the steering wheel hub, just like a formula 1 car. Windows wound down, the Vee 12 sounds magnificent.

Lunch is a 'ploughman's plate' at a garden restaurant just out of town. Mohammed insists on paying, telling me it's 'unthinkable' for his guest to pay for their own lunch.

"Ok," I tell him reluctantly, "but next time I'll take you out."

As we cruise around the countryside I'm still not sure how all this going to play out. Mohammed is 'correct' in every way, with apparently no expectations of me. I feel a tension that is exhilarating. I'm not sure whether I want to sleep with him but I'm willing to find out.

Simon is 12,500 miles away, Steve is closer, but I'm not convinced it'd be a good idea to begin a sexual relationship with him. Not while we're partners on the track at least.

I remember my experience with Giancarlo Patricio, my partner from last season. He made it obvious from the get-go that he wanted to sleep with me. He's a beautiful, slim, moody Italian with penetrating dark eyes. Perhaps a catch for any woman, but his intensity sent a warning to me early on. I kept him at arm's length until I could get a better understanding of his personality. That was wise, because the more I understood of him, the less I felt attracted. His first bout of bad temper convinced me my instincts were right.

Nothing was ever good enough for the great Giancarlo. The bike, the mechanics, pit crew and most of all, me. He treated my winning of the championship in typical bad grace, hurling abuse at everyone around him.

This season's going to be fascinating. At least two riders, Coburn and Patricio, have some sort of personal vendetta against me. One, riding for a top-notch Honda team on a reputedly very competitive machine. The other, riding for a factory-supported Suzuki team with, admittedly, a bike that's down on power and not having much success. Nevertheless, Giancarlo can make even a moped seem fast and I suspect he's actually a better rider. In this game, you need a certain amount of luck on your side and just maybe, the odds may fall in Patricio's favour.

However, now we are returning to Mohammed's house and it's getting on towards dinner time. He doesn't have any plans and suggests we could either take-out, go to a restaurant or he could cook me up something 'special.' I opt for the 'special.'

It turns out to be a range of Pakistani dishes, all served in the middle with a huge bowl of steamed rice. We chat as he busies himself in the kitchen, working in the same efficient manner as he would reconstructing someone's shattered knee. He asks me how much spice I can handle and I reply as much as he can serve up. Oh, the double entendres are flying thick and fast.

"I put fenugreek and turmeric in my chapatis, do you mind?"

"Not at all."

"And saffron in the basmati rice?"

"Go ahead!"

"A little cucumber in the salad?"

"Oh yes please! And a sprig of mint in my lahksi."

"Anything the lady desires," he replies while bowing.

All this topped off with coy smiles in between.

'So how is this all going to happen," I wonder as we dine. There's little in the way of lighting save a candle and a little discrete wall lamp. The glow is reflected in the amber of the frothy lagers and glints in the silverware. The table is large and round, the various delicacies are placed on a 'lazy susan' in the middle. We sit opposite each other, too far apart for a little foot play but close enough for Mohammed to engage me with his smile.

"Your eyes look like precious jewels, my dear," he tells me.

"Mohammed," I tell him laughing, "it just drips from you, doesn't it?"

"What drips?"

"The corny compliments."

"I'm sorry," he looks offended, "I didn't mean to..."

"No, don't be upset... I guess it's just your style. I find it nice... and flattering."

"Flattering?" he repeats, "I'm only speaking the truth as I see it. Y'know, you're a very beautiful woman. I'm not surprised you have this... ah... problem with admirers."

"Y'know," I tell him, "most of my life I've been one of the guys. I never really dated as a teenager, I was more interested in hanging out down the track. I used to live in jeans and T-shirts, or leather jackets and boots. I've never hung out with girls my own age. All that 'dressing up for the boys' stuff just left me cold. Now... it's just weird... suddenly I've got men chasing me and I'm not sure how to handle it. Simon wants me in some domestic bondage and although it was nice to live like that for a while, it was good to get away. I want to control my own life, not worry about, 'being there for him.' Do you know what I mean?"

"I think so. Do you love this Simon?" he asks.

"I don't know, see? Am I supposed to 'know?' Like some bomb going off in my chest? I feel comfortable with him, that's all I understand. He doesn't make demands and he's totally devoted. But I don't want to be responsible for his feelings. I don't want his life to revolve around me, does that make me selfish?"

"Do you feel selfish? Why ask me?"

"I don't know... it's just something I've been thinking about."

"You haven't made any promises to Simon, have you? You've always been honest?"

I nod.

"Then I'm afraid it's really his crossword puzzle to fill in. You can't be held responsible for his feelings any more than he for yours."

"I guess... I just don't want to hurt him, that's all."

"You'd prefer to live with him in misery, growing to hate him every day? Don't you think that would hurt him worse?"

"Yes... it would."

"Then your heart must guide you, always," he says.

"Doctor's advice?"

"Absolutely! Listen to your heart three times a day after meals... most important," he grins.

"You've missed your vocation. You should have been a priest, or an imam..."

"Oh goodness me no," he recoils in horror, "all that chastity and poverty, most unappealing!"

We talk some more in the candlelight. Mohammed tells me he's heard Yamaha have a completely new bike for next season. To my question about his source, he taps his nose and gives me a wink.