classic tt / manx gp [part four]

into ramsey and we begin the ascent onto the mountain, i've watched a thousand and one videos of onboard footage of lap's of the tt course, you might have a vague idea of where the course goes, which way the corners turn, but, never, ever underestimate the roads, it doesn't matter how much time you spend watching videos or playing the playstation, you never really 'know' it until you ride it on a motorcycle, we pass the police car observing at the hairpin and catch up with a gaggle of riders as we approach waterworks, through the gooseneck and they disappear backwards as we wind it on, dangerous is sniffing but there's no-way i'm letting him past me, we catch and pass more riders, fast through the verandah, the corner where 'conrod' had his massive accident and slow for the police prescence at the bungalow, safely out of sight and dangerous shows me his front wheel, white van in front, soon despatched and into the forty-limit too soon, back down into douglas and park up on glencruthery road at the grandstand, helmet off and dangerous is not happy, 'something came off your bike and nearly hit me! i had to duck!' i check over my bike, my initial thoughts are that my fuse-box lid has gone awol, a common fault on ducati's, no, that's all present and correct, i have a good look around my bike and nothing seem's obvious. we have an ice-cream and a walk around the pit's, i spot micheal dunlop and prepare to get a piccy, i reach into my pocket and bollocks! my fucking camera! double-bollock's! that was what it was then, gutted, back to the digs and tell rosemary, who decides to contact manx radio in the vain hope someone has found it, off to the pub and on our return, there's a note, someones found it and handed it into the police station in douglas, the bad news, it's hit their windscreen at a hundred and twenty five emm-pee-hhhhh.......................

classic tt / manx gp [part three]

 saturday dawns early, roads closed before we leave the digs, backroads through foxdale and past the ancient manx parliament, 'tynwald' the oldest parliament in the world with an un-broken legislation dating back over a thousand years and it's roots back in norse history, i have a viewing spot in mind, the douglas road junction, the fast right hander as the riders enter kirk michael village, we park up and walk up the lane and onto the shallow bank, nothing, but nothing can prepare you for the sight and sound of racing in the isle of man, it starts as a steady, un-broken drone in the distance, you have to ask yourself if you are actually imagining it at first, the noise grows as the riders approach and suddenly they are gone in a blur of  speed and movement and sheer explosion of all these things combined, you sit or stand and watch and its almost beyond comprehension that a human being can go so fast on a motorcycle, on public roads, i find myself uttering 'fucking hell' 'fuck' 'fuck me' 'holy fuck' every time a rider goes past, awesome is a term that is much overused today, it really should be reserved for the spectacle that is road racing on the isle of man.
        back to the dig's after the roads open and i suggest we should wash the bikes after yesterdays ride up to liverpool in the rain, they are both ditched and i want them looking their best for sundays festival at jurby, a pleasant hour post-racing and pre-pub is spent fettling in the warm sunshine, 'that's me done dangerous, i'm off for a shower and there's a peroni with my name on it' dangerous is still polishing away at the already mint, yellow 750ss, i can't resist one more look at my bike and as i turn i can't believe what i'm seeing, almost in slow motion my bike rolls forward very slightly on the gradient of the driveway, the sidestand retracts and it arcs almost gracefully collecting the dangerous ducati as it falls, bollocks, we lift the bikes and survey the damage, dave's screen is broken and his fairing snapped just past the mounting bracket, mine has a bent front brake lever, bent rear brake lever and ugly, deep scarring to the once immaculate paintwork, i want to be sick, theres nothing we can do here, at least the bikes are rideable, our landlady, rosemary, produces a tube of contact adhesive and we make a temporary repair to dave's damaged screen and fairing, i think about trying to straighten my levers but decide against it, cast aluminium has a tendency to snap if you try and bend it back to shape. the rest of the night see's two miserable bastards drinking to relieve the pain and trying to figure out what happened, they say everything look's better in the morning but as we get ready for jurby i can't say i agree! so, it's off to jurby for the festival, i reckon the island must have tipped into the irish sea a tad with the amount of bikes and people on the north west of the island, every bike you have ever heard of, [and a lot that you haven't] was present and correct and at jurby, you really didn't have enough time to see everything, from the race paddock with lot's of the stars just mingling with the fans, the past-masters parade on rare, racing exotica to the bikes parked up in lines in the huge carpark, a really, really good day out if you have any interest at all in two-wheeled stuff, we check out late afternoon and decide to head for ramsey along the course and up onto the mountain for a 'brisk' ride over to douglas for a brew, you won't believe what happened next..........

classic tt / manx gp [part two]

the ferry berth's in douglas and spews it's cargo of bikes, riders, vans and foot passengers onto the wet, greasy, dockside in a cacophony of noise, unburnt hydro-carbon's and slipping clutches, there's only one destination, the grandstand on the glen cruthery road, ten minutes after disembarking and negotiating the pock marked, rough as a badgers arse road  and tramlines of douglas sea front, we are parked up on the tennis court at the back of nobles park, i'm buzzing, the sound of racing motorcycles being warmed up prior to evening practice in the spiritual home of road racing, does it ever get any better than this? i think not, the bmw's, pre-war, 'kompressor' bikes, i'm struck with the similarity between them and the 2014 tt winning bike of michael dunlop, 60 years seperate them and yet there's a purity that you only get from a racing motorcycle, nothing glam, black, white and blue and made to go as fast as possible around this unforgiving thirty seven point seven three, three mile course, we watch practice from the grandstand, eat ice cream and revel in being back on the island, a quick ride down south to castletown, past the start and finish line of the southern hundred / billown road race circuit, i resist the urge to get a couple of laps in and instead ride into port erin to catch up with rosemary, our landlady, shower, shave and a couple of pint's in the railway, hello, hello, it's good to be back.........

classic tt / manx gp [part one]

well, where do i start? the early morning ride over the derbyshire / staffordshire hill's? standing in the kitchen as carol kirkwood tells us 'you will be really unlucky to get a shower today' as the rain lashes down and i change my black visor for a clear one on my arai, within ten miles after setting off i'm getting the creeping, damp, crotch feeling as the rain wick's up my leather jeans and heads directly to 'little tim' dangerous is a yard off my rear wheel as normal and the ducati's are struggling to behave as we tip-toe our way through to ashbourne and the long, boring run through to leek, the road is great, it's the combination of 'fifty' limit, speed camera's and nose-to-tail truck's that make it a frustrating ride, into leek and a great run at the twisty's past rudyard lake, yep, that's better, onto the motorway and an accident slows our progress again, filtering through three lanes of stationary bank holiday traffic, three cars parked up on the central reservation as they swap details, out the other side and the planned stop at mcdonald's for a coffee is scrapped as we get lost in liverpool and just make the ferry in time, bikes lashed against the rail, we make our way upstairs to rendevous with chalky and sweary mick, get a plate of scrambled egg and toast, java and settle down for the three hour trip to the island.............

ducati track bike project

so, i'm idly flicking through the ducati forum and i click on the classified ads, bollocks, there's a 750ss 'fueli' for sale, 16000 miles, no service history and eight previous owners, it's only thirty miles away and i try and justify owning another bike to mrs b, i go with the intention of poking it with a stick and convincing myself i really don't need another ducati, forty minutes later and after a look around i'm the proud owner of a rather tatty ducati, there's no account for taste and no offence to the previous owner, but, red and gold anodised screws, red braided brake hoses and more stickers than a sticker factory sticking things on every available surface isn't how we roll in holbrook. on a more positive note, the engine starts easily from cold, [i checked to see if it was warm] the motor sounds sweet and has 16000 miles backed up by a sheaf of old m.o.t's that confirm the mileage, it has ducati performance aluminium cans and aftermarket clip-on's that have a certain something, a brand new rear brembo caliper, decent bridgestone tyres and is taxed and motted, the rear shock is fucked, confirmed on my ride home, the front forks are harsh and need work, but, it steers straight, take your hands off the bars and it tracks a true as an arrow, the motor is nice, no searching or stuttering and pulls from low revs thanks to the fuel-injection, as soon as i get home dangerous starts to rip the decals off the bike while i make a brew, ten minutes later and we see why the p.o. had stuck them on, the decals underneath are on the piss, oh dear, racer off the bench and an hour spent going through the new purchase reveals a few horrors, the oil cooler is a 916 item, mounted upside down off the horn bracket instead of the correct bracket, various electrical components are hanging loose, no fixing screws, not even a tie-wrap to secure them, the engine cases have been wafted over with a tin of halfords wheel silver paint, directly over the flaking original case paint, grease, shit and a liberal dose of over-spray all over the chain, frame and exhaust, deep joy,  fairings certainly hide a multitude of sin's, ain't that the truth! i drain the oil, thick, black, tarry, smelly old shit that's only fit for mixing with creosote to paint the fence spews out, the best is the rear caliper, 'have you slackened the allen-bolts off dangerous?' 'no, why?' they are finger tight, the threads stripped through over-tightening, no problem, i can helicoil them, what really pissed me off is the fact that the p.o. 'forgot' to mention a potentially life threatening bodge in order to sell his bike, i will never, ever ride a bike home again, i never have done before, i've always collected them on a trailer or in a van, but, circumstances this time made me take a chance, i was lucky, i wasn't hanging about on the ride home, for what i paid for the bike i don't expect concourse condition, but, to bodge brakes? no offence to the previous owner but, yeah, i take offence that a bodge like this might have caused me serious injury or death! mate, you are a fucking wanker! anyway, the plan is to build a nice little track-day tool, move the beemer on and pay some bills off, i'm off to the classic tt / manx g.p. tomorrow with dangerous, chalky and sweary mick, the forecast for the sailing isn't good and i'm the worst sailor in the world, i'm feeling sick already......