The energy on the ferry flowed from biker to biker, the excitement of the coming days built as the ship cut through the two-foot chop toward the Isle of Man. The Isle is named for the god Mananan. He protected the island from sea-based attacks by shrouding it in mist so thick that marauders couldn’t find it and turned back.
Mananan must have known we meant the Isle no harm because the sun shone bright as we docked. Hundreds of riders climbed down from the passenger deck and untied the bikes that had been lashed together by the ferry crew.
A motor home turning too sharply while off-loading provided some excitement by pushing the metal barrier between the bikes and the four-wheeled vehicles into us. Hundreds of bikers yelled at the same time, the motor home slammed on its brakes, and the driver hopped out (unwise) to see if he’d caused any damage. He had, but only to his rig, the bikes and riders in the immediate vicinity were fine.
We rode the A2 up the eastern coast then jutted over to Selby Glen via the backloads. I had chosen to avoid the TT course out of concern for the high-speed riders. The concern turned was unfounded; the roads were quiet, one of the benefits of coming to the Isle for practice week instead of the actual races.
Rosie welcomed us, especially Bob and Mary-celebrating their Silver Wedding Anniversary, to her hotel which lay right on the course. We had a great meal and made plans to meet up the next night for the first of the practice laps.
I took most of the gang to Ballaugh Bridge for the first viewing venue. The pictures you see of TT racers jumping are all taken there. The bridge rises and falls quickly at a point known as Ago's Leap, named for the great racer, Agostini.
Bob knocked on a door and asked a man if we could sit in his front garden so we would be just past the barriers that the marshals set up each night. Not only did he say we could, he let us use his toilet, provided commentary, and let us sneak out the back door so we could jet to the second viewing spot. We bought him a pint and offered him a bike in Alaska to return the favor.
I put the van through the paces; inspired by the bikes steaming past stonewalls, so we’d miss as few racers as possible on our way to Parliament Square. It’s a straight followed by a hard right and a gentle ess turn. They come screaming down the straight mashing the gears and slamming the brakes in an effort to dump speed for the corner before pegging it through the ess and ramming back up the gears.
We watched the race at Quarry Bends on the second night. Getting there took a bit of scouting; Simon and I had help locating an abandoned railway track. Some of the help came from Motoquest riders; some came from a man with unbelted pants and a large collection of magazines.
The lads (and two ladies) come through Quarry Bends at speeds of over 140 while sheep chew their cud in the background. We had the spot to ourselves save for nine locals and 17 bazillion midges. The locals behaved well as all humans seem to on the Isle, proud of their heritage and the race, and enthusiastic to share their knowledge. The midges were annoying but not too hungry so the bites were kept to a minimum.
For our last night, Simon and I purchased picnic goodies and got the kids to climb to a vantage where we could see about three miles of the mountain section of the course. The bikes come through there at over 170 and slingshot pass when the opportunity arises.
It was a beautiful night and as the sun lost some of its power we boogied down to watch the rest of the race from the straights right in front of our hotel.
The Isle is beautiful with varied scenery and fantastic people that are almost cartoonishly friendly. The race is the craziest thing an American, normally protected from anything more dangerous than the smell of one’s own farts, will ever experience. Riding the Mountain Course at whatever your full speed is as the sun comes up might be the most exhilarating way to start a day. But change is coming to the Isle of Man and the TT.
Two years ago, one stood behind a hemp rope in front of Rosie’s as the superbikes roared by. This year, the bikes were still close enough to suck the suds off your pint but waist-high metal barriers kept the course clear. And someone must have watered the traffic cones after midnight because there sure is a bunch more on the Mountain Course than there were the last time.
The TT is still out of this world but the trend of restricting life to protect us from ourselves grows everywhere including the Isle of Man. If you have the TT on your life list, now is the time. Don’t hesitate because I’m pretty sure that in less than a decade we’re going to be talking about how cool it used to be.
Enough on that. The sun blazes down on Wales right now. Our evening’s home of Dogellau oozes quaintness, so much so that one might gag on it. The slate mining towns are said to be the dreariest in the UK when it rains. After visiting the Moors I doubt that but I wouldn’t know cuz I ain’t never seen it rain here. Just lucky, I guess.
