we tip up at the italian bike owners gig at port st mary around 1900hrs, the temperature has taken a big dip from this afternoon and the threat of rain soon turns into reality with a steady, fine drizzle, the old manx railway station is already packed when we arrive, the streets around are thronging with italian loveliness, sorry for the lack of photo's but my neck was out on stilts scoping the greatness that is italian motorcycles, a line of factory fresh treble-eights, monster's of every shape and capacity, mv's from little one-two-fives to triples, fours and magni's, laverda's? yep, the massive jota's and my own favourite, the montjuic's are all present and correct, itom's? yep, two stroke's represented?, you knows it, gileras, moto-guzzi's and everything else, all here under a dark grey, cold, cloudy sky. ridden not hidden and then, there's the ducati's, not that i'm biased mind, but, well, when the blue 'radical ducati' turned up in a bowel-loosening, deep, air-cooled cacophony, well, let's just say, that was it, only one thing left to do, off to 'the albert' for a pint and my new favourite barmaid telling me where cal crutchlow is going wrong, [cal lives on the isle of man by the way] 'passed him the other morning, he's on a tricked out mountain bike, fully lycred oop and breathing through his arse,  i'm away to fetch the milk and papers on me shopping bike, three-speed, rigid, shouted 'morning cal' he wasn't amused' don't fuck with the locals.........

tuesday morning, the classic tt is over, suprisingly, [or not really i suppose] very few of the classic racing fratenity chose to leave the island because tomorrow, wednesday, see's the start of the manx g.p. festival, known as the 'amateur' t.t. in some circles, not in the loveless view though, these boys and girls take the challenge of the mountain course as seriously as the tt rider's in june and should not be dismissed as anything but the real deal, often racing on a shoestring, sacrificing everything for a crack at that fabled 37 and 3/4 miles of tarmac, anyhoo, thats tomorrow, today dangerous and me decide to have a day off from bikes, [until  the italian bike owners gathering later that night at the station pub in port st. mary which we are invited too via a flyer left on the ducati at jurby] today is all about walking and seeing some of the more remote parts of the island, off the tt trail so to speak, it's a cloudy, overcast morning but warm as we set off from port st. mary and up to purt le moirrey,  we find the famous 'arrow' almost by accident, this was filled with tar and set fire during bombing practice in the second world war, the pilots and navigators following the light of the arrow during darkness to drop bombs on pontoons moored out at sea to hone their skills for missions over germany, the site also includes the anchor from the mona queen three which helped to rescue troops from the beaches at dunkirk during the allied invasion, after a detour through a bemused locals back garden we pick up the coast path and head out onto the cliff's, [bluffs for our american readers] out past the rocky outcrop of kione y ghoggan and the anvil and stop to view the mighty 'sugarloaf' a massive sea stack rising from the sea above 'the chasms' a series of clifftop to sea level fissures just waiting to swallow up unwary walkers who stray too far from the path through the heather, i stood right on the edge of one and although not afraid of heights, got that 'hair on the back of the neck' thing going on, onwards admiring the views over bay stacka, mountain sheep, long, sharp horns and those spooky as eye's, drunken wasp's, their work done, females fertilized, might as well feast on the late summers harvest of fruit and buzz the bloody tourist's,  beisht kione, or black headed beast, the home of the mythical supernatural creature feared by local fishermen and sailors, spanish head, 100mtrs above sea level and named after a spanish galleon was wrecked here, history literally seeps from the ground here, you can feel the spirits of people past, standing on the shoulders of giants, iron age forts and burial mounds dot the coastline, a steep climb and we are met with a fantastic view of the calf of man, an island off the southwest coast of the island, the word calf is derived from the old nordic 'kalfr' or a small island near a larger island, the treacherous, narrow stretch of water between claiming many victims, i felt almost cheated as we descended down to the nearest point between the island and the 'kalfr' we had done it the hard way, yet as is the norm, the tour buses were spilling out their human cargo to take a snap before moving on to the next tourist attraction, a quick coffee in the cafe and we start to climb again pausing to look back at the view over kitterland and aldrick, the climb ends and we offered views over kione ny garree and the low cloud over bredde head, we descend into port erin, past the ruined marine life observatory on the quayside before sitting and enjoying a light lunch of homemade, [by rosemary, our land lady], buttered bananna and walnut loaf and fresh fruit washed down with a bottle of the finest 'buxton' [made in derbyshire thou knows] spring water, watching the gull's circle overhead and the kid's enjoying their last few days of freedom, swimming and splashing in the calm waters of the bay  before the dreaded return to school for the autumn term, back to the digs via the amazing little narrowgauge manx railway with it's hand-painted badges on the carriages, quick shower and off on the ducati to meet up with sweary mick and chalky at peel harbour overlooking the castle and picturesque harbour, an early autumn afternoon in glorious sunshine, quaffing tea and eating tuna and cheese toasty's by the seaside, brilliant, i'm blessed me, another 'brisk' lap of the tt course and down to the italian owners meeting at the station hotel, it's dropped cold and is drizzling, after an hour or so it's back to the warm welcome of 'the albert' in the harbour, probably the best pub in the isle of man, cold lager, hot food, motorcycle racing on the t.v and the barmaid? brunette and green eyed seeing as you asked and the sweetest smile this side of ripley marketplace.............

classic tt / manx g.p.

talking to my ma about the recent visit to the isle of man and she only turn's up a couple of photo's that she had taken from back in the day, june 1981 to be precise, 32 bloody years gone by, my girlfriend jeanette and me on my trusty honda 400 superdream, [i''d dropped my 750 and 1000 suzuki week's before the trip to the island and ended up on my ride to work 400 for the trip, ahem] turning over the photo's to reveal my mum's writing on the back was brilliant, i never knew she had these pic's and more to the point, i still have that pair of doc's and my throw-over pannier's, jeanette, the honda, [complete with 'comstar' wheels], cowboy boot's, lintek tank bag and nava helmet are consigned to history...........................[but, you know, i can feel a revival coming on ......]

classic tt / manx g.p.

manx's at the manx, or, to be more precise molnar manx's, 500cc and 350cc, [yellow plate =500, blue plate= 350, but you knew that already didn't you] click on them and enlarge the pictures, drink in the preperation and engineering goodness, a real shame guy martin, [who was scheduled to ride a 500], wasn't allowed to ride, he had just had a very succesful weekend at the ulster gp with three win's] unfortunately, the powers that be wouldn't let him ride because he'd missed the signing on deadline, rules is rules, we live our lives by them i guess, but i can't help but feel that the classic tt organisers shot themselves in the foot a little by denying the racegoer's a chance of seeing guy taking on the mountain course on a classic........

classic tt / manx g.p.

bank holiday monday, up extra early door's to ensure we get a good spot at bradden church, i've watched here before and it's one of the best places to spectate i reckon, five quid see's you into a prime spot and the local ladies do the catering, decent tea, home-made cakes and sandwiches, i had a wander around between races, the church is lovely, i'm not a 'churchy' person, more agnostic-punk-humanist-buddhist-punk, [fuck me, you can't get more mixed up than that, my philosophy is be nice to everyone, if that doesn't work headbutt's and low kicks to the knee's usually sort it out]. the people here are charming and are working overtime to be welcoming to the race fans, dangerous is getting a brew in and buying cake, i discover that there's a book and c.d. sale, i flick through the usual glen miller, boyzone and robbie williams tat and low and behold score martina topley bird's 'quixotic', paul van dyk's 'reflections' double album re-mix and much more telling, nine inch nails 'pretty hate machine' and 'downward spiral' all for the grand total of fifty pence a throw, nine inch nails in a church sale?, what's all that about then? i spent the rest of the afternoon chuckling to myself, micheal dunlop was fast, how fast?, faster than a very fast thing, i made my way back up to the grandstand, post-race, it was all about the suzuki's, big, brutal bikes, dunlop's machine fly-blown and covered with oil from a leaking oil cooler, check the photo's, yeah, they really are that close to you and the stone wall's, frightening isn't it........

classic tt / manx g.p.

 so, i'm on my toe's, trying to get away from dave roper, time to head out of the race paddock and into the carpark, [note to self, carpark? what the fuck? it's wall to wall bikes and nary a car to be be seen] you might have noticed i took a lot of photos of ducati's? the mz's were represented in full effect, new hinckley bonny got it going on, late model guzzi caff racer, super tough mottod framed laverda jota all over the island this week, pantah rocking wires? oh yeah, big-twin harley with norton gearbox, cooler than a very cool thing, he was on my ferry on the way home and he kneeled on the seat to kick the fucker up, saw him down at the calf of man too mid week and on the prom at douglas with his mate on the tidy shovel, respect due, check out the gilera saturno lurking in the background, 500cc's of malice, passed him on the mountain and he wasn't happy, the isle of man, the most famous bit of tarmac in the world, be there or be square fucker....