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....

classic tt / manx g.p.

so, as i'm stumbling around the festival of motorcycling at jurby i suddenly get a tap on the shoulder, i take up my fighting stance and turn to see the legendary american racer dave roper, 'hey, you loveless?' 'yeah, i might be, why? ''chill dude, can i get a photo?' 'yeah, cause you can dave, you are one of my hero's, the first american to win a t.t. and you used to live in derby, i can remember you racing the george silk scott replica at darley moor, why wouldn't i want to have a photo taken with you?' 'because i just wanted photographic evidence of the worst racer in history, fuck me loveless, my granny could pass you you toss-pot'...... dave roper, motorcycling legend and all round good bloke, supermono, rare as fuck 500 single race bike, never, ever seen one in real life before, lovely, ollie's fly splattered 500cc paton race winner, steve linsdell's 500cc royal enfield, the tt trophy's, oh my god, reading the names engraved on them, we are not worthy, italian bike porn, aermacchi and mv agusta, freddie spencer's, 500cc gp two -stroke rothmans bike, ajs porcupine, 'hey loveless, can i get another picture?' 'fuck off dave, i'm going for an ice cream'.......... 

classic tt / manx g.p.

sunday, that'll be the day of the jurby festival of motorcycling then, i headed out on the ducati from port st, mary over the mountains, through foxholes and joined the tt course at ballacraine, whatever you have heard about the isle of man wouldn't prepare you for what i saw on this day, the scenery? holy shit, acres of purple heather, green, rolling hills and the ever present atlantic ocean, wooded glades and little hamlets, tree lined tunnels of ancient oak's and switch-back hairpin bends, stone walls, church yard's, grave stones leaning at 45 degree's, wild garlic and tree fern's, the things you never experience on four wheels, live and exclusive to two-wheeled travellers only, jurby was a shock to the system, a world of motorcycling smorgasboard of motorcycling flavours, the worlds best moto guzzi?, beemer racer?, seeley commando?, vello racer?, saab car engined based stroker?, commando and rocket three's? nsu?, laverda s.f.c?, 350 'macchi?, treble-eight?, ducati 160?, desmo racer? oh yeah..............

classic tt / manx g.p.

back on the ducati and i make my way back down to port st mary, i pass over the famous 'fairy bridge' and wish all the racer's a safe week, down over the start and finish of the southern hundred course, it's not just the tt course here, the billown course on the outskirts of castletown hosts racing a couple of times a year and although not as long as the tt course, it's just as demanding, check out some of the vid's on youtube, pure roadracing, i find my digs and meet rosemary the landlady, the digs are spot-on and i have a quick shower before meeting up with dangerous, sweary mick and chalky for the evening practice session, as we reach the grandstand it's drizzling and we are just in time to hear the announcement that practice is cancelled, bugger, better go to the pub then.............sweary mick is standing by the side of the bed, 'here you go youth, tea, it's half past-six' fucking hell, i thought i was supposed to be on holiday! dangerous groans and slides back under his duvet, breakfast and into douglas for a coffee in the late summer sunshine and a raiding mission to mark's and spark's for salmon and cucumber butties and hand cooked kettle chips, up to the famous creg-ny-baa pub on the descent off the mountain, it's a fast downhill run from keppel gate to the creg, a tight right hander, complete with overbanding and patched tarmac, before the massive drop down to the left-hander at brandish, team loveless soon establish base camp in the grandstand and quaff countless mug's of tea as we wait for the roads to close, the old bill present suddenly shut the road by parking their car across the road and direct the traffic off the course, it proves to be a false dawn as new's filters through that some unfortunate has stuffed it on the mountain course and is being helicoptered off to nobles to be pieced back together, another hour passes in the pleasant sunshine and eventually the roads are closed to get the racing underway, the inaugaral 500cc classic tt, young ollie linsdell took his dad's paton to a brilliant win with an amost two minute lead at the end of the four lap/150 mile race, micheal dunlop, conrod cummings and john mcpint were early retirement's but ollie played it perfectly, a fast, safe ride and a well deserved win on the course that almost claimed his life, more tea and the closed lap tt parade, a cavalcade of racing machines being gunned across the mountain and the cherry on the cake, the re-run of the famous 1967 senior race, ago on the mv versus mike hailwood on the honda, [played by john mcguiness, resplendent in black leather's and pudding basin helmet] ago was away like a scalded cat and mcpint didn't catch him untill union mill's! as they rolled into the creg ago's mv stuttered and stalled, ago shrugged and mcguiness stopped, the perfect moment when ago's chain broke at the creg, mcguiness leant his priceless honda four on the grass bank and gave ago a push, ago waving as he rode away, mcpint pushing the honda and bump starting it to catch ago and cross the line side-by-side, lump in the throat moment, a fish and chip supper on onchan head, a couple of pints and it's good night irene for this puppy.........

classic tt / manx g.p.

i'm out of derbyshire and onto the moorlands of staffordshire, its still pitch black and i settle my chest against the tank bag and settle into a rhythm, the headlight on the ducati is brilliant and shows the road ahead and more importantly the reflective paint on the rear of the speed camera's that are dotted along this road, into the deserted market town of leek and out past rudyard lake before cutting across the 'b' roads into congleton, a few miles later and i'm on the m6, dawn is just breaking as i join the nose to tail convoy of heavy goods vehicles making their way north at a staggering 56 m.p.h before hanging a left onto the m62 for the run into liverpool, the m62 just sort of fades away and i follow the photocopied google map instructions in the clear pocket of the top of the tank bag, i eventually spot the golden arch of maccee-dee's and pull in to grab a java, i take my coffee outside and sit on one of the benches listening to the big duc ticking as it cools and watching the steady procession of yawning builders and plumbers collecting their early morning, artery hardening, fat-fix, i reckon i'm around five miles from the ferry terminal, so i finish my drink and set off, i abandon the map now as i can see the liver building in the distance and just point the bike in that direction, i almost ride past the entrance to the ferry as i'm gawping at the waterfront buildings and eventually make an undignified entrance, wrong gear, dry clutch rattling and join the end of the queue of bikes, take of my lid and check in at the office, boarding pass in hand and we are allowed down the ramp onto the quayside to join yet another queue, where, your's truly is picked out by security for questioning and a bag search, its always the same, i always get stopped, don't know why, must just have one of those guilty looking mugs i guess? our ferry hoves into view on the inward leg of its sailing from the island and we are soon directed to board where a small army of matelot's are waiting to lash our bikes to the rails that run the length of the catamaran 'the manannan', bike in gear, sidestand down and before i've removed my tankbag my bike is firmly secured with a length of rope and a couple of knot's, up into the cabin area and we are away, out of the shelter of the mersey and  morecambe bay and into the irish sea, i take a walk to the back of the craft and watch england slowly disappear and our path marked by the swell as we plough through the sea, two hours and thirty minutes later and we are in douglas harbour, i make my way to the bike, untie the restraints and slap my bag on, the noise is incredible and the fumes makes your eyes water, booming exhausts bouncing back off the steel walls of the craft as we wait to disembark, off the quay and i can't help it, i turn right instead of left towards my dig's and head up the glencrutchery road to the pit's, park up and just have a wander around, the first bikes i see are the hrd vinny, the beemer, white walled custom, a beautiful triton with a triple engine shoe-horned into the featherbed frame, into the pit's and there's the o'kane honda of the late robert dunlop, a little further on is the new norton dominator, that's it, i'm done, i can't take all this in, i'd better go and find my dig's.............

Classic TT / Manx GP

Well, where do I start? No photo's I'm afraid due to my ancient desk-top crashing again and my equally ancient Sony Cybershot being the only camera on earth that's not compatible with the Apple operating system, so, here we go, as soon as I can re- boot the old girl, but, i'll get some photos up, until then, i'm afraid it's my drivel and no visual stimulation of the delights from the Mecca that is the Isle of Man, after a fitful nights sleep due to the same excitement experienced by a five year old on Christmas Eve, I was awake well before my alarm went off at stupid o' clock, shower, shave and tea and a toast, Gus joins me in the garden, it's dark but warm and he jumps up onto my lap, more cupboard love than real affection as he covets my hot, buttered toast, suddenly, he's gone, launching off my knee into the darkness, a Jack Russell on a mission, killing the the only thing on his mind, terrier instinct,the security lights kick in and I can just catch a glimpse of him fighting something in one of the bushes, I chase up the garden and try and flush him out, next thing he emerges from the bush, a dark shape in his jaw's, he's doing the terrier-death-shake-thing, I can't tell what it is but pray it isn't a ratashe dodges me with a drop of his shoulder like a seasoned footballer and runs straight between my legs, up the stairs and deposits his prey on our bed much to the delight of Mr's B, ( who, truth be told, isn't a 'morning person') I eventually arrive, breathless to discover Mr's B uttering 'what the fffffk!' Ted, my other J.R. Snarling and joining in with the party and the Legend Gus, blood and snot and hedgehog quill's sticking out of his face, his eyes half closed from the damage he's sustained in the frantic attack, I grab a towel and pick up the unfortunate hedge hog and take him out of the house and across into the field beyond our house,I gently unwrap him and after a few moments he uncurls and walks away into the hedgerow,
Meanwhile, my daughterJess arrives home after a night-shift and sets off the smoke alarm whilst making toast, deep joy, me and the girl Jess are trying to stifle our guffaw's as I relay the hedgehog incident, only one thing to do now, let's fire up the carbon, race canned Ducati twin and really fuck the neighbours off, bloody-fucking-hell, i'm almost embarrassed how loud this thing is, (for a nanno-second, most of the tosser's who live here are Johnny-Come-Lately's who wouldn't have considered living here when it was an old mining village but then, all of a sudden, a residence, rural with good metropolitan road access became desirable) anyhoo, I'm away, the big Duc coughing and spluttering on half-choke, I'm watching the temperature gauge, drop down onto the A6, down to the Triangle and onto the Ashbourne road, I know this road like the back of my hand, it's pitch black and the big Ducati isn't happy below three- thousand in the R.P.M, I'm struggling at thirty and forty miles per mile, be rude not too really, there's nothing on the road, the temperature gauge indicates we are good to go, I wind it on, twice the legal limit and then some, the exhaust note bouncing off the cottages, I bet the residents are loving it too, the sound of a big twin on race pipes before dawn, I get sucked in, there's just something so special about riding a bike, pre-dawn, on your own, I don't need the brakes,just rolling on and off the throttle, revelling in the sound of the pipes and un-restrictive air box with the k and n filter, mmmbahhh, mmmbahhhh.......

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Hey Ho, Let's Go

So, 32 years after my last visit to the Island, (I know I said 31 the other day but I've never been any good at math's, 1981, the year of the infamous Honda 'black protest', a world wide audience watch the marriage of Lady Di and Prince Charles, the Toxteth riots, Buck's Fizz 'Making Your Mind Up' hits number one, Arthur Scargill is President elect of the National Union of Mine Workers and a twenty-two year old Timmy Loveless drops his Suzuki GS 1000 Suzuki on gravel on the way to work one morning a week before the T.T and a fortnight after almost writing off his G.S 750 whilst racing on the roads with Vinny Adams near Foremark Reservoir, a typical left hander accident, tipping it in, oh fuck, too fast, pegs grinding, exhaust down, Karl (Vinny's brother riding pillion with me bails out and a catch sight of him disappearing into the ditch on the right hand side of the road just before I join him along with 500lbs of motorcycle which hit's me squarely in the back before somersaulting out of the ditch, over Karl and me and end-overing into the field beyond, Deep Joy, anyway, the Ducati gets the nod over the Sporty for the simple facts, that I'm away at 0400 hrs, it doesn't get light until 0558 hours and I need decent lights, I'm riding part of the way on the infamous M6 motorway, probably the busiest motorway in Northern Britain so indicators are good and the clincher is the fact that the Ducati has a big tank and the Sporty has a very, very small tank meaning I'd have had to stop and find fuel every 50 miles, or three times on the journey to Liverpool, don't get me wrong, if I'm meandering around the countryside stopping for fuel isn't a problem, when you only have a couple of hours to make a ferry it is, so there it is, magnetic tank bag on and ready to go, that's all folk's, no post's for a week, take care everyone, see you on the other side..........

Location:chained tothe mirror and the razor blade, (what's the story, morning glory)

classic tt 2013

after the manx weather got the better of the first practice session, the newcomers were first out on a speed controlled lap following the the experienced tt and manx gp runners, the classics followed afterwards with john mcguiness out on the paton, resplendent in black leathers and black helmet proudly showing the red rose of some little county called 'lancashire?' [could be worse i suppose and he could have been wearing the white rose of that almost insignificant county of 'yorkshire' or as the the locals call it 'yaaarkshure'] well, my work here is done, i reckon i've managed to upset our 'neighbours' and not-really-neighbours- really on all count's, two days 'til my manx adventure starts, i'm buzzing me...........