dangerous is the most miserable fucker in the world. he doesn't 'do' mornings, anytime before , oh, let;s see, 1030hrs and you are risking a short, sharp, 'FUCK OFF!' he was absolutely delighted when i informed him we had an 0600hrs start to set off to the classic tt / manx gp. i love it me, i was like a kid on xmas eve, tossing and turning, up at 0400hrs, shave, shower and brew, sitting in the shed, buzzing, ready to go, cleaned my visor three times, checkd the oil twice, at dangerous's for quarter to six, he's as grumpy as fuck, 'i need fuel' for fuck's sake, talk about piss-poor-preparation-prevent's-piss-poor-performance! down to the lion garage, thankfully twenty-four hour, fill up, engines warm now, ten miles out, getting into a rythmn, there's a flashing from behind as we approach ashbourne, i pull over, dangerous pulls in alongside, 'i've left my glasses at the garage youth, i've got to go back' 'you didn't have them on when i got to your's' 'oh, well, i'll have to go back and pick them up then' to say i'm chuffed is an understatement, back to dave's, fuck, fuck, fucking fuck! glasses sorted we retrace our steps, making good progress, bloody hell, summers gone, it's cold, i'm layered up, but by congleton i've had enough, fingers white and cramped, dithering like a bridegroom, i pull into mcdonalds for a coffee, park up, gloves stuffed next to the exhaust, warming my hands in the gent's, the warm air dryer a luxury. onto the motorway, mayhem ensues as we carve through the suprisingly heavy for this time in the morning, bank holiday traffic. into liverpool, aiming for the liver building that marks the entrance to the steam packet ferry, board, coffee and we are underway. a couple of hours pass, i'm hanging on, it's rough! dry land and we join the traffic into douglas, straight up to the grandstand, park up in nobles park, meet up with chalky, a quick walk around the pit's, dave roper is warming up the rare-as-a-virgin-in-ilkeston ajs porcupine, next door the beautiful bimota, a squirt up to creg- ny- baa for evening practice, the two german bikes, a triumph bonneville, long chopper, raked out, leather bagged and not a plaid shirt or beard in sight, the spirit of kent, the flat-tanked, rigid, flat grey, foot- boards, sprung saddled panhead, cool personified, couple of pints, chip butty, thirty mile ride down to the south of the island, blurry photo of bradda head and a solo ride down into port erin to look at the fishing boats in the harbour, 'night, night...........'