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Why do people return to the TT year after year after
endless year? How has a simple road race survived and
flourished for almost a hundred years? What do people
find so damned compulsive about the TT?
I should admit right from the start that despite more
than 20 years on 2 wheels, until a few weeks ago I was
still a TT virgin. The thought of spending most of my
day sitting on a Manx drystone wall waiting hours for
a 2 second glimpse of a racing bike which looks
exactly like the last racing bike and in all
likelihood exactly like the next, had never really
rung my bell. I prefer the more venal delights of
getting cold, wet, muddy and pissed in the middle of a
rally field thank you, and what do you want to watch
racing for anyway?
The only previous experience I had had of the island
was attending a friend's wedding on a wet weekend in
March 6 years ago. As at most weddings, the
combination of smelly Great Aunt Elsie's embrocation,
screaming kids and one side of the family fighting the
other over 'what that lot over there said about our
Maureen' and the subsequent seeking of refuge in
several small imbibements tend to play havoc with the
memory centres.
This time however I was determined to take away some
memories other than those involving Douglas prom's
roadside drainage system. I almost succeeded.
I was there with my friend Ian, thanks entirely due to
those wonderful people at Streetfighter magazine. We
were on a busman's holiday providing paramedic cover
for the Run Wot Ya Brungs at the Ramsay Sprint and the
hilariously dangerous antics of the Straightliner
travelling stunt show and comedy revue.
But as for the TT? What was it like with no racing?
Were the crowds clogging the prom, and could you still
walk from the ferry terminal to Summerlands over the
endless line of bikes without your feet ever touching
tarmac? Did you have to collect several pints at one
go from Busheys just to avoid terminal polydipsia in
the wait for another round?
With that kind of pedigree, it was pre-evident that
things were not to be the same this year. The
Tynwald's decision to cancel the racing will doubtless
be argued over for years to come, but rightly or
wrongly the decision was made and the fate of the 2001
TT was sealed from that moment.
Not that this was an entirely bad move. The resulting
drop in attendance figures coupled with the course
being permanently open meant that my poor bike
returned to this septic isle desperately in need of a
service and minus much of its footpegs and sidestand.
Those who are regular attendees will talk to you about
every little bend and twist over the 20-something
miles of the course - Kates Cottage, Bungalow,
Veranda, Gooseneck, Governors - until your brain turns
to jam and dribbles out of your ears. I'm not sure how
they remember this, because my memories of my first
blast over the hallowed ground are few and sketchy.
They are interrupted by the more concrete
reminiscences of a coffee stop at Ramsay, the
breathtaking view from Snaefell and the sad, eerie
quiet of the empty grandstand. Other than that, all
those evocative names which sing like a geographic
Siren to the speed-hungry are still almost as without
a frame of reference as they were before I found the
true meaning of despair courtesy of the Isle of Man
Steam Packet Company.
I mean, it's hard to immerse yourself in the natural
splendour of this small rock in the middle of the
Irish Sea when you're larraping through bend after
bend after hill after village after town at speeds
that I usually reserve for a nasty emergency call on
blues-and-twos at work.
Determined not to let the side down, I let the hair
down instead and wrung the bollocks out of my bolide.
It loved it! The roads over the course are continental
quality and pothole free. Not so for the rest of the
island unfortunately, but that (and the sudden
encounter between a bee the size of a Zeppelin and my
visor right on the way into a very sharp bend near
Castletown) is another story.
Eyes up; plan; far side, check oncoming, note lay of
road a couple of bends ahead and adjust road position;
replan; don't ease off through bends, keep throttle
nailed; glance hurridly at the blurs that were once
the mirrors as a straight gives you the (all-to-brief)
opportunity to suck sweet mountain air into your
hungry lungs. God, remember to breathe!
And so it continued, concentration beyond the max and
riding to the limit point until the outskirts of
Douglas and the grandstand hove disappointingly into
view. Knackered and shuddering with now-unusable
adrenaline, I was elated. The 30 mph stroll through
Douglas back to the hotel seemed to take as long as
the mountain and was as good a cure for insomnia as
I've yet found. And all I wanted to do was go back out
and do it all again! But work beckoned and I repaired
to my room to attach Mr Sensible Head for a while.
I don't suppose you want to hear about the rich and
colourful history of Man, but away from the stench of
burnt rubber and the screams from a hundred tyres
being shagged from behind, the island can well satisfy
the curiosity of a Dark Ages history nut. A mention
must be made of the new Story of Manannan exhibition
in Peel; the many Viking and Celtic crosses still
standing against the capricious Manx weather as they
have done for the last thousand years; the eerie and
mysterious long barrow burial mounds, and the ghostly
castles of Castletown and Peel. The latter comes
complete with the legend of the Morghy Dhoo, the
psychopathic black hell-hound said to be responsible
for more than one poor unfortunates untimely demise!
And of course there are the Kippers. All very well
getting a Beagle hooked on 60 Capstan Full Strength a
day, but why should herring smoke? Who the hell smokes
underwater anyway?! They must do it for the coupons, I
reckon.
As for evening entertainment, if you've been you know
what the score is; if you haven't, then I just don't
have space to tell. Think of a top notch rally with
all the usual entertainment. Add choice, so if you
don't fancy one band you can wander down the road and
catch something you do.
Then put that whole lot INDOORS out of the weather.
Add crazy stunt show antics on the prom. Add street
entertainment and the terminally daft Purple Helmets
and you (crudely) have the TT.
Bikes? You are joking!
Beer? They have it by the tanker-load. Mind you, don't
go out for a ride looking for a country pub. I'm sure
they must have them all hidden somewhere, coz with one
or two exceptions, all the drinking establishments
seem to be in the towns and villages. Handy if you're
walking though.
Bands? Top quality acts from Van Morrison through
tribute band Shades of Purple to more music you could
get to see in just a week.
Birds? Who do you think the girls from the
Streetfighters party at Summerlands partied with?
(Mind you, seeing Trevor Duckworth, Straightliners
guru, tying himself in an alcohol-fuelled yogic granny
knot, encouraged by Rachel, Skye and the girls did
have a certain entertainment value! Nearly as funny as
the Lycra, Trev!)
Birds? Who do you think the girls from the
Streetfighters party at Summerlands partied with?
(Mind you, seeing Trevor Duckworth, Straightliners
guru, tying himself in an alcohol-fuelled yogic granny
knot, encouraged by Rachel, Skye and the girls did
have a certain entertainment value! Nearly as funny as
the Lycra, Trev!)
Scoff?
From Manx kippers or a lardy fry for breakfast
to Chinese, Italian or a Ruby in the evening, or the
absolutely exquisite haute cuisine of TV chef Kevin
Woodford's quayside restaurant. The choice is
agonising. And delicious.
And when you're bored with all that? Well there's
always the island roads again; always calling, always
there. Guaranteed to bring a grin to your face
regardless of the speed travelled.
So what more do you want from a bike event?
Why do you
think people return to the TT year after year after
endless year?
Why do you think a simple road race has
survived and flourished for almost a hundred years?
What do you think people find so damned compulsive
about the TT?
Will I go back again?
What do you think?!
By Tony Haines
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