Next Story
Znewski Unbound
At last, the complete manuscript of Zack and Caroline's adventure on the Isle of
Man. Unlimited by the space on a piece of paper we are able to deliver Zack's unedited,
unabridged account of the 1996 Isle of Man TT. It's raw, it's bold, and it's yours to
download.
We decided to take the train to the ferry port at Heysham because it
was closest. Sometimes the tracks paralleled the M-Road and soon we began to see the bikes
in small groups, all loaded up with gear. The rain was intermittent but cold and we were
glad to be in the train. When we rolled into the port, I looked over toward the waterfront
and there were about two hundred bikes lined up at the end of the pier. Some modern like
GSXRs, some old like 50s T110s. We had an hour before sailing so we read the paper and
dined on the ubiquitous English stable of beans on toast. The port café was becoming
crowded with bikers from all over - I overheard German, Swedish, and the incomprehensible
talk of central London. Finally I got up and walked over to the ticket window and handed
over 45 pounds for our tickets to the Isle of Man.
I was having a hard time staying calm. The tickets said "Isle of
Man Steam Packet Co." and finally after many years of reading and daydreaming, I was
about to step on board the "King Orry" and se racing on the fabulous Island. On
board we found that experienced bikers rushed to claim seats, and we were left to sit on
our luggage on the deck. The loudspeaker said that a movie would be shown during the
voyage but it was a stupid Arnold flick so after the ship cast off we wandered about,
looking at the other passengers and reading the reward posters for the IRA bombers and the
warnings about leaving luggage unattended. Soon we were out of sight of England and after
strolling about the deck and looking at oil rigs, went into the lounge and sat drinking
coffee. The newsstand on the ship sold programs for the races, tourist books, etc. and I
also picked up a MCN, the tabloid weekly motorbike paper, the big story in which was the
forthcoming (Oct.) introduction of the Honda Super Blackbird, the latest, fastest showcase
for Honda sport-touring tech.
The program contained past MGP statistics, bios of the racers entered
for this year, a review of the 95 races, tourist info, a map of the course, and in bold
type, "Important Notice to All Spectators. Motor cycle racing is potentially
dangerous and you are present in the vicinity of the course entirely at your own
risk…"
As we ploughed over the Irish Sea I told my wife about the little
black-and-white photos of the Manx races that appeared in Cycle World during the sixties
and how as a teenager I ha dreamed about having my own motorbike and emulating the heroic
racers that we were finally about to see. Passengers rustling about alerted us that the
island was in view so we downed coffee cups and got ready to disembark. "Attention!
Do not start your engines until told to do so!" Four hour trip.
By the time foot passengers left the ship the bikes were already coming
off, and we bought a map of the city of Douglas and set off with our bags to find our
hotel. The first vehicle I saw on Manx soil was a beautiful rigid framed Norton single,
stopped at a corner. We crossed in front of him and, turning our map various ways, soon
realized that walking anywhere in Douglas involved serious hill climbing. So past various
banks and official-looking buildings and a pub with two ratty DBD Goldies in front, we
finally reached Christian Road and our hotel. A 68 Commando and a built CBX were chained
to the iron fence in front, and bikes were parked in front of each hotel on the street.
The buildings are four or five story hotels built during the beginnings of Manx tourism in
Edwardian times. The street reminded me a little of San Francisco. Also parked on the
steep street were white rental vans which I was later to figure out were race
transporters.
Soon we were shown by the landlady, Jean Twist, to our fourth-floor
room, with coffee maker and, if you stuck your head out the window, a view of the bright
blue sea. We thankfully got rid of our baggage and offered to pay, only to be dismissed by
a wave of Jean's hand and "Oh don't worry about that for now." So we went down
to the parlor/dining room, where tables with cloths and flowers were set, and the walls
and shelved were cluttered with china puppies, kitties, teapots, flowers,…and dozens
of photos of motorcycle racers, most autographed "Thanks Tom and Jean for the
sponsorship" or "Thanks Ashtead Hotel for the help," all the way back to
the days of Hailwood and Ivy.
We decided to walk down to the Promenade, or Prom which is the main
drag of Douglas, curving along the bay across the whole front of the city. The eight-mile
walk was steep street and stairs, and by the time we descended we could already hear
bikes.
The Prom is where you can show off your bike and in front of each shop
and pub they stood in rows… I got bug-eyed within the first half hour. A typical row
would include a BMW touring bike, several modern sportbikes, a Vincent, two or three
Triumphs, a B33, a new Italian sportbike like, for example, a Bimota BMW single, and some
ancient cycle like a twenties Ariel B. And I mean that that was typical - within the first
hour on the Prom we saw bikes to suit anyone - from the totally built Harris turbo 1200cc
GSXR to a very racy Scott Flying Squirrel. Carolyn and I were infinitely charmed when we
saw a group of riders leave a pub and start their bikes, put their helmets on, etc., among
them a rider in Edwardian racing gear who adjusted his two-lever AMAC carb, fiddled with
his drive belt tension, and bolted off on a 1909 Triumph, disappearing into traffic with
his friends on their FZRs and Hondas. Quite a sight.
The next day was Sunday, so we shopped in the arcades which sold
badges, race programs, videos, etc., and watched more and more bikes arrive. Ancient bikes
began to assemble at the Sea Terminal end of the Prom for the first of several VMCC
rallies and we sat in a pub and watched them go by, Carolyn drinking one of the several
Manx beers and I a Lemonade. Quite astoundingly different from seeing them in museums.
Then time for the biggest event of the day, the Velocette Owners Club
Gathering at Murray's. It was to be held at the famous Bungalow on Snaefell Mountain, the
highest place on the Island, and familiar photos to many race fans…we walked to the
end of the Prom, and after some guidebook consultation, found the Manx Electric Railway
station and bought our tickets for the Bungalow. The train is two cars, one closed and one
open, built by some old Liverpool engineering company during Victorian times, and powered
by wires above. We sat in the second, open car until transfer to a different train at
Laxey, unaware that clothing appropriate to a sunny day on the Prom would not be so on the
Mountain. But we survived and after passing through fields, pastures, quaint stone
villages and past Lady Isabella, the Great Laxey Wheel, arrived at the Bungalow. Next to
the tracks in a primitive roofless stone hovel which I assumed was a relic of some former
civilization until Carolyn informed me that it was the public toilets. A short walk up the
path and we were at Murray's motorcycle museum and café.
It was impossible for us to immediately enter for in front of the
building were at least thirty-five Velocettes, and a number of other bikes including a 250
single Gilera. A Guzzi Falcone Sport, and an R4 preststahlrahmen BMW single. The Velos
ranged from ohc late twenties Ks to nineteen seventies Thruxtons, and I shot up a whole
roll of film on the spot. They sounded so nice, some with an even touring beat and some
with a racy crackle from hot cams, and all modulated by the distinctive fishtail exhaust.
One particularly interesting older gent had an alloy-barreled MAC that he had bought as a
hulk, building his own swingarm conversion, central oil tank, etc., using a racy Suzuki
fuel tank and rear wheel, with Velo later-model forks and TLS front hub. A sweet bike that
would have been at home on the other Island, at the Lizard Rally. "I don't care for
those restored bikes," the owner said. Murray's is an amazing accumulation of bikes
from Victorian times until the sixties, cabinets of lamps, accessories, manuals, ads, line
the walls. Many of them racers, almost all English, the high point for me being one of
these machines which I had looked at so many years before in Cycle World, the silver Honda
upon which Hailwood won his first TT race. Sochiro Honda had personally delivered it to
Murray's saying that he wished the machine that had brought him world fame to enjoy
retirement on the Island.
Every motorcycle club to visit Murray's leaves a badge or card on the
wall, the display goes back many years, so I proudly left a token from the Blind Lizards
M. C.
We took our last coffees down the hill to wait for the train back and
watched bikes pass on the long sweeping curves, disappearing over the ridges. Of course
the highway, although part of the TT course, was open to regular traffic on this Sunday.
Groups of riders on sportbikes passed at eighty or so, once an TC30 howled past a group,
oblivious to car traffic in the other lane. Later we heard about a few German spectators
killed on the wrong side of the road, colliding with a car, on that Sunday. I wonder if it
was the Honda rider.
So back on the train down to Laxey, where my wife, nee Brown, suggested
that we stop at Brown's Tea Room, where we had a good meal and coffee while enjoying the
heat and aroma of a pair of Vincents parked near our table. Another pass through the shops
and crowded pubs in Douglas, we fell into bed after comparing souvenirs saying, "Can
you believe we're really here?"
The next day was the first say of racing. WE looked on our course map
for a place to watch and chose to walk to the edge of town to the Quarter Bridge. The is a
30 mph (low gear) corner seconds after the start. we got there just after the "Road
Closed" car passed and sat on the stone bridge parapet behind the hay bales and
watched the marshals go by on their bikes. We had a half an hour to kill as those marshals
soon reported back that rain was falling on the Mountain. We elected not to pay the two
pounds ($3) to sit on the balcony of the Quarter Bridge Hotel, and instead bought our
coffee from two jolly Irishmen who had a cart a few yard away. As is done every minute on
the Island, we amused ourselves by watching our fellow spectators. One particular rider
stood out from the crowd. He wore old twenties-style leather jacket and breeches, and high
lace-up boots of the style used in racing when the Manx roads were yet unpaved. He had a
large head of the type drawn by Cruikshank to illustrate Dickens in quaint old wood
engravings and great white sideburns. Seventy if he was a day. And topped off by a silver
helmet with leather sides of the type used by racers in the twenties. I recognized the
limit gauge badge on the front of it and said, "Carolyn, watch which bike he leaves
on." The sight of him howling off on his 1925 Scott was an excellent one -- Scotts
sound exactly like RD Yamahas but twice the cool factor.
Meanwhile the announcer (loudspeakers are put on poles all around the
course) said that the rain had quit and ceased his interviews, etc. and soon his voice was
drowned our by the sound of bikes on the starting grid. Then he identified the first pair
of riders and the racing was on. Race 1 was the Newcomers race, for four-strokes up to 600
and two strokes up to 350. As you may know, the racers are flagged off in pairs, ten
seconds apart. There were 72 entrants in this race, the majority riding 600 and 400
Hondas, some YZF 600s, and a few 250 Yamahas. The bikes have to be derived from some
production machine, so no TZs. The race was four laps of the course, 151 miles, and
everyone was interested in two Manx women, Pam Cannel, and Monica Floding, who were racing
on their home roads for the first time. They were both pretty serious short circuit racers
on 400 and 250 Hondas and started at 67 and 68.
The first riders must have huge pressure on them, knowing that 70
riders are gunning for them and having no one to follow. The first pair down the hill and
into the corner weren't warming up their motors, they were riding with tremendous
intensity as they slammed down the gearboxes and wheelied out of the turn… soon we
could see that the best line was (the best riders never deviated by inches from their
line, lap after lap), and we soon recognized that the best riders stayed tucked in under
the windscreen even in low gear, and while wheelieing out of the exit…one bike came
howling in in the wrong gear, Andrew Arnold on his Kawi, and pulled up a foot from the
bale-covered stone bridge, jerked it back in the right direction by the bars, and left a
black line on the street as he rejoined the track. Not one foot of runoff area at this
corner. Everyone was checking their scorecards and watched for the arrival of the two
women and they came through in good order. The lap recorder for newcomers is 20.11.9 so
minutes after the last rider shrieked past on his two stroke Yamaha, we kept our ears open
for the sound of the leaders returning, meanwhile listening to their progress on the
loudspeaker. Occasionally, "Rider Number ____ requests that his crew bring the van to
Glen Helen," indicating that he had blown up or fallen off. Instead of relaxing
during the last laps, the riders increased their concentration and intensity, the 600
Hondas sounded more smooth and "liquid" as the banged rev limiters in every
gear, the riders knowing that a good result in the Newcomers could mean catching the eye
of some team manager or even that of Honda UK and perhaps a works ride in next year's TT.
Local man Paul Duckett won the race at a 101 mph average and the two
women finished fourth and fifth in their class at just under 80 mph. "God Save The
Queen" for the winner. Rider #1 caught a magpie on the helmet at 180.
The next race of the day was the Senior Classic, for "old
bikes," so we walked home, grabbed a camera and a coffee, and cabbed it (2 pounds) to
the start-finish Grandstand. It is in Nobles Park, the big city park with gardens,
restaurant, sports fields, etc. Many racers camped there buy their trucks, hundreds of
tents. We looked at the spectator bikes, and tents were set up by dealers where you could
buy tires, chains clothing, GP badges and get food and coffee. We took our seats and saw
another of the views familiar from old books and magazine photos. We looked down on the
pit lane, seeing the old-fashioned dump cans used for refueling, net the track and on the
other side the scoreboard, where the Boy Scouts were busy putting up the big sheets of
paper under every rider's number that would show his position and times in the race. Just
as was done from the beginning of TT racing in the early years of this century. Beyond
that, and never shown in the magazines, is a church and hundreds of graves. All of these
sights overlaid by the bellow of hone hundred and seventeen 500 cc racing motorcycles
being warmed up and brought to the grid. Most of the machines were matchless G50 powered,
in either their own, Seeley, or Rickman frames, further large number were Manx Nortons on
their home ground, several "498 Ducatis" which I hear are built with Yamaha SR
500 pistons, one mysteriously titled "KSS Seeley" which I suspect was a
Velocette, some very fast Aermacchis, some Weslake twins, a BSA twin and several Goldies,
one Norton Domiracer twin, and of great interest to me, a couple of Triumphs and a couple
of Seeley Velos. I was informed by a racer at our hotel that "a Triumph has never
finished in this race" and after looking closely at the Manx Nortons I can see why.
The race is, again, four laps, 151 miles, and the Nortons were built to the highest
standards for reliability in this very race… no way a street bike, no matter what you
do to it, will last at these speeds. All the more surprising that one of the Velocettes
lapped from a standing start in 24.43.1. Best practice lap was about 21 minutes. If you
lap in 22.38, you have averaged 100 mph over roads that in Minnesota would be posted 50
mph, many corners would be posted 15, 20, or 30 mph and if you could average a lap at 65
mph on a F2 or new Duck you would be a damned hard rider.
So two by two, ten seconds apart, disappearing along the street toward
Bray Hill and down to Quarter Bridge. The first five starters were on G50s, Jack Gow would
have been the first Norton rider at number six but had been killed in practice, the only
racing fatality of the GP. Amazingly Bob Heath pulled out one minute per mile during his
first lap, this was his seventh win on the Island, he having memorized the two hundred and
twenty corners which, they say, take three years to learn. His arch-rival Bill Swallow
blew up his Matchless at Ramsey. Watching and hearing the pairs of riders take off was a
blast, the Ducatis having a much different sound than the other 500s and the Velocettes
sounding smooth and quieter. Heath won in one hour, 27 minutes, 21.5 seconds, averaging
103.65 mph. First Norton 97.75 mph, first Ducati single 94.72 in 22nd place, first Goldie
93.13 mph in 31st place, finally a finish for a Triumph (a near-standard 71 Daytona) in
49th at 878 mph, first Velo at 82.33 in 62nd place. Sixty-four finished.
After the second lap I walked through the park to the top of Bray hill
to watch, leaning on a stone wall, the bikes pounding down the straight, took a few
photos. Then "God Save The Queen" again. Decided to walk back to our hotel when
Carolyn said, "Let's stop for milk and bread at the grocery," the first one we
came to had the famous Eddie Crooks Suzuki in the front window, I think it was one of the
first 250 Japanese bikes to win a production TT, maybe in 66 or 67. Bikes are everywhere
in the Isle of Man. Back at our hotel one of our fellow guests was excited, being the
mechanic for Weslake twin number 75, which finished at over 89 mph. We sat in the hotel
parlor talking about bikes until late, his wife having sold her GPZ so that they could
afford to race the IOM GP. The next day was practice day so we wandered about, looked at
the National Museum which contains artifacts from prehistoric times until now… Joey
Dunlop's Honda and leathers, also badges and TT racing objects and photographs from the
beginning years of this century. We went to book shops and looked at gardens , all the
while seeing fabulous bikes. Riders ranged from old rockers from the sixties with
sideburns and "Eddie Cochran" badges to people in the latest pastel leathers
coordinated to their helmets and custom paint, every type of person in between, all happy
to be on the Island and perfectly willing to chat about the racing and the bikes.
The next day there were two races. In the morning the Classic
Junior/Lightweight, these being the old traditional names for the 350 and 250 machines,
and in the afternoon the Junior MGP, for modern bikes. We looked at our course map and
decided to watch from Kirk Bradden, called Bradden Bridge. Our map did not show if there
was a place to eat or get shelter from bad weather should any occur.
We need not have worried as our cabbie let us off at Kirk (Church)
Bradden where, to our amazement, we saw that the church ladies had it all figured out -
for 50p (about 75¢), you entered the churchyard and got a folding chair, where you could
sit back on the lawn, feet up on the stone wall, less than two feet away from the bikes as
they pounded up the short strait from Quarter Bridge, braked, shifted, throttles to the
stop in second through Bradden Bridge, third, fourth, fifth, and down the street out of
sight. Beautiful bikes, in this race Nortons, AJS 7Rs, Greeves', Aermaccis, Ducatis,
Velos, Gold Stars, Suzukis, three Yamahas, one NSU, one Bultaco. On the smaller bikes it
is even more important to stay tucked in behind the streamlining and it was great to watch
the styles of the riders who would sometimes show exhaustion or failed concentration by
untidy riding, sitting up too early to brake, taking odd lines, etc. but concentration was
restored at our viewing spot, two and three riders coming into the fast corner abreast,
all trying for the same line, wonderful way to restore contraction. The famous saying here
is, "The TT course is 37 miles long but only one foot wide. If you move off of that
line for even seconds, you will either be going too slow to win, or you will crash and
die."
Back in the hotel our mate was in a despondent mood, as an ignition
screw had fallen out of his teams 250 Suzy number 99, causing the rider Hamilton to
retire. I said, Too bad, man, a whole year's work" and he said, "No, just three
weeks." Everyone's attitude is, "wait until next year."
Then the "Road's OPEN" car goes by and crazed bikers rush
onto the roads to copy the racers, in tooth-and-claw battle with Manx housewives driving
to shopping and laundry before the next race. The wonder is that the locals are patient
and friendly with us tourists, glad to see the strangers who contribute so many Marks,
Dollars, Yen, etc. to the local economy.
Carolyn and I decided to walk up the hill a block to a greenhouse or
plant nursery, where we looked at the local flora and ate at the charming outdoor café.
Then we walked back down the hill past more bikes to watch the next race, the 1996 junior
MGP. By this time we were more experienced at spectating and picking out certain riders by
their styles and lines. A group would come past, all braking into the corner at the same
moment, almost banging fairings, as they aimed for the perfect line through the curve's
exit. A group numbered, say, 41, 46, 48, 49 would rocket past in company with, as an
example, number 66, a hard rider who had not had a good qualifying lap. A wild-looking
rider would fail to appear, and the loudspeaker would say, "Number ____ wishes to be
collected at the Verandah." Then the last lap and cheering from the grandstand would
come over the loudspeakers while intense battles would be going on among racers still out
on the course.
That evening we took our separate ways, visiting pubs and shops.
Photographers on the Island have photos available two hours after the races and practices,
so I bought a couple pictures of Velos on the track. Then, walking back from a pub, I
noticed a large, strange gray bike which proved to be one of the new Honda Super
Blackbirds I had read about. Just two hundred miles on its clock. I gave it a close look
and was satisfied to be the first non-Honda-employed American to see one.
The next day we visited the Manx Steam Railway depot, another Gothic
looking Victorian structure, and watched the steam engines… and then again took the
electric train to Ramsey, Carolyn to visit the second-hand shops and look at the city, and
I to visit the VMCC rally in the city park. A beautiful sunny, cool day to look at the
motorbikes, and dozens of them to see, many famous bikes from the nineteen twenties like
Sunbeams, Nortons, Brough Superiors. Some restored to museum condition, others obviously
having to work for a living. Around 300 in all, I guess, even a Yank, a 1916 Indian. At
least three-quarters of them ridden from the ferry, very few were carried by trailer, as
it should be.
In the midst of the meditative observation of the old bikes an
extremely loud Triumph rolled in, loud as in open megaphones. It was a beautiful 1946
Grand Prix model, one of the very few racing bikes Triumph ever made. Then appeared a
white-haired old gent who was introduced to the crowd as Ernie Lyons, who had won the
Senior Manx Grand Prix exactly fifty years to the week before, giving the model its name.
He said, "I only wish that my racer bike had been as well prepared as this one!"
for that was the occasion when the Triumph had to be hidden from the press after the race,
finishing as it did with a broken frame…Not all of the bikes were restored, someone
had built a street Aermacchi into a road racer with close-ratio gears, Fontana brakes,
etc., a Featherbed Gold Star was leaning against a tree (no stand), several side-car bikes
were there full of camping gear and children and looking well worn.
From the electric rail terminal back in Douglas to the ferry dock is
two miles, and to get to the pubs and shops you can buy a day ticket (about £5) on the
horse trams. These are open streetcars pulled on rails by draft horses who are so used to
their lives on the Island that they will stand next to a CBX drag bike revving its nuts
off at a light with no notice. So we took this form of transport down to the only lowlife
bar in Douglas, called Bushey's. It is owned by a Manx brewery and it's symbol is a
stuffed fox holding a beer, standing in a barrel which is inscribed thusly: "EEEEE
I'm havin' a wonderful time!" A fine place, full of riders dumping down pints to
obnoxious loud rock, and generally having a blast.
The next day, Friday, I decided to watch the last day of racing from a
place our on the course, and asked our landlady, Jean Twist, for advice on where to go. So
I took a bus up the mountain by the back way of tiny lanes to the Creg-Ny-Ba Hotel. This
is a pub on a corner, at the bottom of a long straight and the top of the next. The road
descends from Kate's cottage and the view from the pub is one of the most famous on the
course - words are scarcely adequate to describe the sight and sound of the bikes
descending from the mountain at speeds of up to 175 mph, braking and downshifting to peel
off just a few feet from the haybales protecting the building… rounding the corner in
low or second to accelerate away down the nest straight, and even faster one where the RVF
Honda went 200 in the TT. Drinking a hot coffee in the morning before the racing I thought
of the spectators from generations past who were awestruck by the skill and bravery of the
racers who would hurtle down this same road at speeds approaching seventy, on a machine
with bicycle-like tires and no front brake - when the road was still gravel! The extreme
speeds of this part of the course have caused to be provided a runoff on the corner and a
couple of riders used it, running out of brakes…a gasp from the 200 spectators as two
bikes touched fairings in mid-corner, another as four bikes braked from over 160 mph and
aimed for the corner where there was room for only one… the shriek of the Hondas as
they accelerated away, the thumping bellow of the lone, underdog Ducati.
As usual, spectator's bikes were an excellent show and I saw many
exotic bikes that we cannot get in he US, water cooled two-stroke Gilera twins, square
four Suzys, even an RC45, the current Honda World Superbike racer, with road license
and…a luggage rack!
Riding the bus back to Douglas at the end of the day the driver
commented on the features we passed…he took use back on the course, past the
Grandstand and finally down the hills of Douglas.
That evening we had a last walk around the Prom. Back at the hotel we
packed, arranged for our morning cab ride, and finally got the landlady to take our money.
One last breakfast at the Ashtead (bacon, hash browns, fried mushrooms, beans, toast,
eggs, juice are included in the cost of your room), goodbye to our friends, who all said,
"See you at the next TT" or "See you next year," and off to the ferry
terminal to board the Manx Maid to Liverpool.