It seems to me that the Tourist Trophy races are becoming no more than an added attraction, a supporting

feature if you like, to TT week in the Isle of Man. Whereas 20 years ago you went over for the racing and

hoped for a good week, you now go to experience the week and hope the racing will be good. I am not

saying this is necessarily a bad thing. As a one time every year regular from 1947 on, this was the first time

i have made the pilgrimage for ten years and i must say the whole experience left me with mixed feelings.

Some things good have not changed and some things not so good are no better. A brisk five-hour ride form

Surrey to Liverpool is still followed by an 11 hour drag before setting foot on the magic isle. The

between-deck ventilation of the new boats is no better than it was on the old tubs. The personnel of the

Steam Packet Co. are as pleasant and helpful as ever, but still seem to be caught with their trousers down

every June. The soggy chips still reigns unchallenged throughout the island.

On the other hand, from any half-mile outside, Douglas, the place is miraculously un-spoiled. It is possible

to go on spec. and find excellent digs at knock-out prices. It is even possible to track down best bitter at 1

shilling eight pence a pint. If you have made the pilgrimage, you need no explanation of the tremendous

attraction; if you haven`t, then you need no explanation it is impossible.

For me it`s the little incidentals which tend to linger in the mind so pleasantly. Chatting with old men who

knew Walter Handley. Long arguments into the small hours with unperceptive types who reckon that Geoff

Duke was overrated. Hilarious antidotes from in-people about what are mighty industry`s latest offerings are

really like. Best of all, really, the constant bumping into old acquaintances from younger days, most of them

moaning about how it’s all gone to pot—but all of them back there just the same. And they`ll be there again

next year, too. For the vintage brigade it is a most cosy occasion and there was certainly some very choice

property on view this year. Perhaps it is plain envy that makes me think that as the years pass and the bikes

get more valuable, so the owners get more precious.

Even so, for old bikes, new bikes and beautiful specials, it is the greatest show on earth, with the unique

advantage that you can watch them working. Where else would you be likely to mention to a fellow with a

nimbus, the Danish in-line four, that in all the years his was the first one you had ever seen, receive the

rejoinder that he has lots of them at home and next time you see him, he is chatting to another bloke on a

nimbus. Whiling away the time in the queue at Liverpool I noted six Honda fours, eight of the latest BMWs,

tree Guzzi 750 twins and two Laverdas. Compared with what was on daily view in Douglas that was just for

starters. So if its all so marvellous why the mixed feelings? well to start with there is the downright antisocial behaviour of a not so small minority who, whether you or I like it or no are motorcyclists. The constant belting along the promenade—always with maximum revs in low gear and usually without silencers—was

stupid exhibitionism at its most moronic. What the hell do they think they are proving? More to the point

what right have they to wreak such damage, to bring into such disrepute this pleasant pursuit I have

followed for 30 at no inconvenience to others and at risk only to myself? It is probable that to them,

motorcycling is only a passing phase. I sincerely hope so. The sooner they pass on to the four kids, council

flat and the clapped Cortina the better, but I bitterly resent the inevitable restrictions they will bring down on

us all in their passing.

Kilbil