This is a guest blog, by Tom Rayner:
I don't go to watch the TT, I go to experience it. A blue blur flashes
by at 180mph - that must have been Guy Martin, I nod vaguely. A
howling four bouncing off the limiter dims beyond the horizon, it
disappeared before it ever arrived. 10 seconds later there's another
flash. Was that Dunlop?! The tiger who came to tea.
Compare the TT with Assen (where I'd been just weeks before) and the
differences couldn't be more pronounced. At many viewing points in
Assen I could see half the circuit with the naked eye. The land is
flat and a little elevation provides impressive vistas. But the Isle
of Man is anything but flat, as the creaking crank of my rental bike
could testify.
However, at Assen FIM regulations have you seated safely behind thirty
feet of gravel trap and viewing through the wire mesh of
insurmountable safety fences. No 'elf and safety on the island, as 12
spectators watching from Bray Hill found out during the Senior TT. I
think most of us are happy to take the risk. There's nothing quite as
exciting as standing behind a farmer's five bar gate in a lonely field
of buttercups on the 150mph bend at Ballagarey knowing one tank
slapper or rear end slide could spell disaster.
Ballagarey was something else. I'd always wanted to watch from here
and this year I realised the dream. The riders, not known for their
cowardice, call it Ballascarey. Guy Martin cheated death at this
corner a few years back in a dramatic fireball of a crash. I found a
field right on the exit of the corner that I knew would provide an
amazing view.
Only when we'd decamped did I remember we had no food or water and
with the roads closing it could be eight hours of dehydration and
hunger. There were no shops in Ballagarey so I had to cycle back down
the hill to Union Mills for Snickers (which I discovered Dad detests),
water and cheesy onion crisps. To be fair, I'd made a poor selection
but I was in a mad rush to cycle the two miles back before the roads
shut leaving Dad stranded and alone. My ten minute Wiggo sprint nearly
brought on an asthma attack and I felt rather silly when (not for the
first time) I remembered I was still on Brussels time and had over an
hour before the roads closed. I found a cool pile of nettles where I
could lie down and die.
Luckily I didn't die and was quite recovered in time for the sidecar
race. The race leaders clipped a tyre on a kerb in the first lap and
were forced to retire. We saw the dented wheel in the paddock three
days later, it must have been a bone-crunching collision for the poor
passenger – his brother was driving. It made me remember the time I
low-sided the Derbi Senda with Sam on the back and he made a big fuss
because the pillion footpeg stabbed into his leg.
There was no Superbike race on Saturday because a wet practice week
left competitors without enough testing time so that afternoon we
enjoyed an extended qualification session. A friendly old couple who
lived in the farm opposite kept popping out to watch the action. The
gentlemen had driven the marshal’s course car after the war but it was
hard to hold a conversation with a half-deaf octogenarian as
race-tuned Superbikes roared between us.
We cycled back along an old railway line and I wished we had found it
earlier that morning. The gentle gradient along a verdant path
overspilling with bluebells and wild garlic was much more pleasant
than being buzzed at close quarters by an impatient biker as I bravely
wheezed up yet another apparently pointless hill.
Dad's cycling was leisurely and steady but it still proved a lot
faster than walking (last year's chosen mode of transport) and
downhill he was as quick as I was... perhaps quicker because my wobbly
handlebars shook and chattered most unnervingly at speed.
The racing highlight of the week was witnessing Michael Dunlop's
131mph Superstock lap. It's already being hailed as the greatest lap
around the TT course. As I mentioned earlier, you don't watch a TT,
you experience it and as Manx Radio kept us informed with his
blistering pace around the 37 mile circuit the excitement in the stand
at Hillberry was building.
A television helicopter is your first sign the leaders are approaching
and before you know it they're gone again... but even in this blink of
an eye I could see how hard Dunlop was trying. On a short circuit the
riders who look like they're going the fastest usually aren't. Smooth,
flowing and graceful lines typically equate to a hot lap. At the TT
it's different. The heavy, wallowing bikes need to be wrestled
manfully around the bumps and burrs. On the island so much depends on
the rider; the evidence for this is Superstock bikes are now lapping
as quickly as the Superbikes – give or take half a second.
Dunlop's lap was only 3.5 seconds slower than McGuinness's outright
lap record of 131.671mph set on his final lap of the Superbike TT on
Sunday, which was also won by Dunlop.
We'd seen McGuinness up close on Sunday night at a question and answer
session with Ian Hutchinson. Despite the disappointment of losing to
the nephew of the man he was wearing the replica leathers and helmet
of (Joey Dunlop) McGuinness was surprisingly chirpy. He was sipping
lager and telling salty tales of marital infidelity, punch-ups, and
swapping sickening racing wounds with Hutchy (who he had no chance of
matching). That night I saw another side of Hutchinson, who has
understandably been somewhat in the doldrums since he followed up his
astonishing feat of five TT wins in a single year with a horror leg
break at Silverstone. The stories about a hooligan teenage
Hutchinson's misadventures as a spectator on the Isle of Man were
almost as unbelievable as his heroics of 2010.
The evening was hosted by Neil Hodgson who lives on the island but has
never raced at the TT. It was probably just as well; it's fair to say
Hodgson was something of a late bloomer and there's no room for Mr
Nice Guy at the TT. Hodgson made a good host and was familiar enough
with the banter to extract the juiciest morsels from a shameless
McGuinness.
Not much changes at the TT year on year. The Bushy's tent was busy,
the beer moreish, the cover bands execrable, Paparazzi's was
overflowing, the stunt show dragged on, the bellies were bloated
A few things were, however, a bit different this year. We finally
fathomed the Da Vinci code, or the rules of Quids Inn (it's one pound
entry, pints are two pounds, and shots a quid). I had a meal that was
neither horrible or a pizza. And most importantly of all, the weather
was tropical – leading to lots of bikers with skin sorer than gravel
rash.
I also set something of a personal record – I spent 24 hours on the
Island stone cold sober. I felt like Father Jack when he gave up the
booze for Lent. I think the Isle of Man makes the most sense somewhere
between the third and fourth pint of Buhsy's.
I love the TT. I might not be able to make it back next year but
discovering the live timing app was something of a revelation and will
somewhat soften the blow. Dad and I watched a thrilling Supersport
race unfold on the four inch screen of my iPhone sat in Ronaldsway
airport. Dunlop won again and was one race win away from equalling
Hutchy's record. He didn't quite manage it, thanks to a stunning ride
from McGuinness in Friday's Senior TT. Everybody went home happy...
even Guy Martin who, despite failing to break his TT duck yet again,
still leaves the island more popular than ever.
I don't go to watch the TT, I go to experience it. A blue blur flashes
by at 180mph - that must have been Guy Martin, I nod vaguely. A
howling four bouncing off the limiter dims beyond the horizon, it
disappeared before it ever arrived. 10 seconds later there's another
flash. Was that Dunlop?! The tiger who came to tea.
Compare the TT with Assen (where I'd been just weeks before) and the
differences couldn't be more pronounced. At many viewing points in
Assen I could see half the circuit with the naked eye. The land is
flat and a little elevation provides impressive vistas. But the Isle
of Man is anything but flat, as the creaking crank of my rental bike
could testify.
However, at Assen FIM regulations have you seated safely behind thirty
feet of gravel trap and viewing through the wire mesh of
insurmountable safety fences. No 'elf and safety on the island, as 12
spectators watching from Bray Hill found out during the Senior TT. I
think most of us are happy to take the risk. There's nothing quite as
exciting as standing behind a farmer's five bar gate in a lonely field
of buttercups on the 150mph bend at Ballagarey knowing one tank
slapper or rear end slide could spell disaster.
Ballagarey was something else. I'd always wanted to watch from here
and this year I realised the dream. The riders, not known for their
cowardice, call it Ballascarey. Guy Martin cheated death at this
corner a few years back in a dramatic fireball of a crash. I found a
field right on the exit of the corner that I knew would provide an
amazing view.
Only when we'd decamped did I remember we had no food or water and
with the roads closing it could be eight hours of dehydration and
hunger. There were no shops in Ballagarey so I had to cycle back down
the hill to Union Mills for Snickers (which I discovered Dad detests),
water and cheesy onion crisps. To be fair, I'd made a poor selection
but I was in a mad rush to cycle the two miles back before the roads
shut leaving Dad stranded and alone. My ten minute Wiggo sprint nearly
brought on an asthma attack and I felt rather silly when (not for the
first time) I remembered I was still on Brussels time and had over an
hour before the roads closed. I found a cool pile of nettles where I
could lie down and die.
Luckily I didn't die and was quite recovered in time for the sidecar
race. The race leaders clipped a tyre on a kerb in the first lap and
were forced to retire. We saw the dented wheel in the paddock three
days later, it must have been a bone-crunching collision for the poor
passenger – his brother was driving. It made me remember the time I
low-sided the Derbi Senda with Sam on the back and he made a big fuss
because the pillion footpeg stabbed into his leg.
There was no Superbike race on Saturday because a wet practice week
left competitors without enough testing time so that afternoon we
enjoyed an extended qualification session. A friendly old couple who
lived in the farm opposite kept popping out to watch the action. The
gentlemen had driven the marshal’s course car after the war but it was
hard to hold a conversation with a half-deaf octogenarian as
race-tuned Superbikes roared between us.
We cycled back along an old railway line and I wished we had found it
earlier that morning. The gentle gradient along a verdant path
overspilling with bluebells and wild garlic was much more pleasant
than being buzzed at close quarters by an impatient biker as I bravely
wheezed up yet another apparently pointless hill.
Dad's cycling was leisurely and steady but it still proved a lot
faster than walking (last year's chosen mode of transport) and
downhill he was as quick as I was... perhaps quicker because my wobbly
handlebars shook and chattered most unnervingly at speed.
The racing highlight of the week was witnessing Michael Dunlop's
131mph Superstock lap. It's already being hailed as the greatest lap
around the TT course. As I mentioned earlier, you don't watch a TT,
you experience it and as Manx Radio kept us informed with his
blistering pace around the 37 mile circuit the excitement in the stand
at Hillberry was building.
A television helicopter is your first sign the leaders are approaching
and before you know it they're gone again... but even in this blink of
an eye I could see how hard Dunlop was trying. On a short circuit the
riders who look like they're going the fastest usually aren't. Smooth,
flowing and graceful lines typically equate to a hot lap. At the TT
it's different. The heavy, wallowing bikes need to be wrestled
manfully around the bumps and burrs. On the island so much depends on
the rider; the evidence for this is Superstock bikes are now lapping
as quickly as the Superbikes – give or take half a second.
Dunlop's lap was only 3.5 seconds slower than McGuinness's outright
lap record of 131.671mph set on his final lap of the Superbike TT on
Sunday, which was also won by Dunlop.
We'd seen McGuinness up close on Sunday night at a question and answer
session with Ian Hutchinson. Despite the disappointment of losing to
the nephew of the man he was wearing the replica leathers and helmet
of (Joey Dunlop) McGuinness was surprisingly chirpy. He was sipping
lager and telling salty tales of marital infidelity, punch-ups, and
swapping sickening racing wounds with Hutchy (who he had no chance of
matching). That night I saw another side of Hutchinson, who has
understandably been somewhat in the doldrums since he followed up his
astonishing feat of five TT wins in a single year with a horror leg
break at Silverstone. The stories about a hooligan teenage
Hutchinson's misadventures as a spectator on the Isle of Man were
almost as unbelievable as his heroics of 2010.
The evening was hosted by Neil Hodgson who lives on the island but has
never raced at the TT. It was probably just as well; it's fair to say
Hodgson was something of a late bloomer and there's no room for Mr
Nice Guy at the TT. Hodgson made a good host and was familiar enough
with the banter to extract the juiciest morsels from a shameless
McGuinness.
Not much changes at the TT year on year. The Bushy's tent was busy,
the beer moreish, the cover bands execrable, Paparazzi's was
overflowing, the stunt show dragged on, the bellies were bloated
A few things were, however, a bit different this year. We finally
fathomed the Da Vinci code, or the rules of Quids Inn (it's one pound
entry, pints are two pounds, and shots a quid). I had a meal that was
neither horrible or a pizza. And most importantly of all, the weather
was tropical – leading to lots of bikers with skin sorer than gravel
rash.
I also set something of a personal record – I spent 24 hours on the
Island stone cold sober. I felt like Father Jack when he gave up the
booze for Lent. I think the Isle of Man makes the most sense somewhere
between the third and fourth pint of Buhsy's.
I love the TT. I might not be able to make it back next year but
discovering the live timing app was something of a revelation and will
somewhat soften the blow. Dad and I watched a thrilling Supersport
race unfold on the four inch screen of my iPhone sat in Ronaldsway
airport. Dunlop won again and was one race win away from equalling
Hutchy's record. He didn't quite manage it, thanks to a stunning ride
from McGuinness in Friday's Senior TT. Everybody went home happy...
even Guy Martin who, despite failing to break his TT duck yet again,
still leaves the island more popular than ever.
Other motorcycle-related posts:
TT Rider Deaths are in Your Hands
Will Michael Dunlop Become the Greatest TT Racer of all Time?
Closer to the Riders
Notes from the Isle of Man
Will Michael Dunlop Become the Greatest TT Racer of all Time?
Closer to the Riders
Notes from the Isle of Man
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