Island Advice
ISLAND ADVICE
At one time the Isle of Man TT was the most important motorcycle event in the world. Spend a week there and you’ll believe it still is.
DAVID EDWARDS
ITS NOT MUCH OF AN ISLAND. REALLY. THE ISLE OF Man. Just 33 miles long and 12½ miles wide, it lies quietly in the Irish Sea, midway between England and Northern Ireland. But for 80 years now, as May gives way to June, the Isle of Man grows exponentially in stature as it welcomes thousands upon thousands of motorcyclists, there to take part in TT week, one of the sport's great happenings.
I was one of those thousands this year, riding a Cagiva 650 from the riveted bowels of the ferry ship Lady of Man onto the dockside at Douglas, the Island’s capital city. I was there as part of CYCLE WORLD’S assault on the TT, spearheaded by Editor-at-Large Steve Thompson.
As I rolled along the Promenade, the two-mile stretch of Victorian holiday hotels that rings horseshoe-shaped Douglas Bay, I realized I didn't know quite what to expect from the Isle of Man. Of course, like many of you, over the years I'd read the magazine reports, and my mental scrapbook was filled to brimming with vivid, sepia-toned imGo. If you are at all a motorcycle enthusiast, and I presume that's why you're reading this magazine, you owe it to yourself to see the TT at least once. As a Triumph owner, elbows-deep in the resurrection of his bike’s ignition system, replied when I asked why he came back to the TT year after year, “Well, there's not a place in the world like it, is there, mate?”
No, mate, there is not.
Let me try to set the scene. Usually, the Isle of Man is inhabited by some 65,000 people. During the TT period, 50,000 fans pile in, saturating the Island's hotels and campgrounds. Most of the activity takes pace in Douglas, where something on the order of 12,000 bikes are shoehorned along the Promenade—the Prom, as everyone calls it—and its adjoining streets, like the world’s largest motorcycle block party. Bikes are everywhere: stacked on the ages. There was GeofTDuke “crawling under the paint” of his big Featherbed Norton as it flashed down Sulby Straight. John Surtees hurtling the MV 500 over the jump at Ballaugh Bridge. And, strongest of all, images of the epic arch-rivalry between Mike “The Bike” Hailwood on the shrieking, shaking Hondas, and the immaculate Giacomo Agostini aboard his immaculate “fire engine” Agustas.
Then the strangely romantic names of the corners and landmarks around the 37.7-mile Mountain Course came to mind as well. Bray Hill and Ballacraine; the Quarry Bends and Creg-ny-Baa; Windy Corner and Cronk-nyMona. On and on, magic names all.
What concerned me as I weaved through traffic—besides the fact that, like the English. Manxmen drive on the wrong side of the road—was whether the 1987 Isle of Man TT could possibly live up to the advance billing that my mind had drummed up.
I needn’t have worried. sidewalks, arrayed in hotel courtyards, and lining the curbs like so many two-wheeled dominoes.
But its not the mere warehousing of all these machines that makes the Isle of Man such a different, special place. It's how the people of the Island react to this invasion of their home. As Charles Turner, a Manxman and owner of a motorcycle clothing shop, told me, “You can’t live on the Isle of Man and not be interested in motorsports.”
One scene that perfectly illustrates Turner’s claim took place on the Prom over a gaudily hued Harris. Its proud owner, wearing a black jacket studded with perhaps the largest collection of motorcycle pins in the free world, stood next to his girlfriend, who was done-up in the tightest pair of leather pants this side of an S&M parlor and wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with unprintably rude graphics. The rider was pointing out the finer points of his custom-framed bike not to another motorcyclist but to a cane-supported, tweed-wearing Manx gentleman who was obviously enraptured with the commentary. A good time, as they say, was had by all.
The Manx government gets caught up in the enthusiasm, as well. From time to time, the treasury mints coins that commemorate the TT, and the post office this year issued its fifth set of motorcycle stamps.
Even the Manx clergy isn’t immune from motorcycle fever. St. Ninian’s Church, located in Douglas near the start-finish line of the TT Course, features stained-glass windows depicting sidecars and solo machines in race action.
Bring a motorcycle, whether you have to beg, borrow, buy or steal one. The TT races are run every other day, so that Island traffic and business aren’t disrupted for too long. This leaves the days between races free for for sightseeing and exploration. And a more perfect setting for twowheeled travels you won’t find. It’s as if Walt Disney woke up one day with an inspiration: “The blazes with Mickey and Pluto! We’ve got to give these motorcyclists a place they can call their own.” About 500 miles of roadway links the Isle’s four cities with its various villages and farms, ranging from wide thoroughfares to snaking mountain paths barely wide enough for two motorcycles to pass without touching handlebars. The vistas to which these idyllic bands of asphalt deliver you fall very smoothly on the eyes. Fed by streams and nourished by rain, fog and mist, the Island’s foliage is a melody in green, a crescendo of lush colors accented by stacatto bursts of yellow heather. Camilla Friman, from Gothenberg, Sweden—and my vote-getter as the world’s most beautiful Ducati Pantah rider—explained the Isle of Man's appeal in simple, direct terms. “It’s the charm of it,” she said, and I can’t think of a better way to put it.
Should you need a break from your meanderings, there’s plenty to do. Castles, museums, steam railways, horse-drawn trams, hiking paths and wildlife parks are just some of the diversions. If you haven’t had your fill of motorcycles, there are motocross meets out in the country, indoor trials at the Lido Palace disco, street drags at Ramsey and, of course, the nightly stroll-and-gawk show on the Douglas Prom. In addition, various clubs put on displays and social gatherings (“A chance for a good booze-up and a look at the motorbikes,” one member explained to me). And, for those into fine art, there are the nightly “Miss Wet TT Shirt” competitions.
Book early, as the TT strains the Isle of Man's tourist accommodations. If you're bringing a bike or car, the only way to get there is by ferry ship, a service run by the quaintly named Isle of Man Steam Packet Co., Ltd. (PO. Box No. 5, Imperial Buildings, Douglas, IoM). The ships depart from Heysham, just above Blackpool on the English west coast. As an example and warning, I waited much too late to book passage off the Island and had to cool my heels for five days before I could get tickets for me and the Cagiva.
If you’re hoofing it around the Isle (feasible thanks to numerous buses, trams, trollies and taxis), you can wing it straight from London on Manx Airlines ( Ronaldsway Airport, Ballasalla, IoM).
As for lodging, again, make reservations early. The Isle of Man Tourist Board ( 1 3 Victoria St., Douglas, IoM) can supply you with an excellent brochure that lists the Island’s attractions and has a guide to hotels, cottages and bed-and-breakfast inns. I’d suggest steering clear of a room in one of the Prom hotels and getting a quieter place in one of the outlying areas.
Put some effort into finding just the right viewing location for the races, because once you’re there, you’re usually there for the day. Many of the spectating points are so close to the action that you can almost reach out and touch the riders as they jet by, which TT supporters will point out is one of the advantages of “proper road racing.” My personal recommendation regarding vantage points would be to find a corner with a pub nearby. Once the leaders go by, you've got about 20 minutes to kill before they come around again, and there are worse ways of passing the time than with a pint of Okells Ale, a nice ham sandwich and a plate of chips (french fries).
Don’t expect five-star gourmet meals at most of the Isle of Man's eateries. There are some good restaurants, to be sure, but finding them is hard and getting reservations even harder. In the finest English tradition, the food at most places is bland, as if the use of spices and seasonings has been outlawed. And if you get homesick for a hamburger, don't, even in desperation, order one of the soybean-laced, meat by-product patties that Island cooks pass off as beef. It'll just increase your longing for a Big Mac.
There is hope, though. The Island’s own brand of ice cream, Manx Ices, is superb. And the locally brewed ales are good enough to make you forget the lousy hamburgers, not to mention the way back to your hotel room.
Beware the Hun on Mad Sun. Or, in other words, watch out for the Germans on Mad Sunday. That's the day on which the Snaefell Mountain section of the course is closed to two-way traffic and everybody saddles up for a spirited ride around the course. Warranted or not, over the years, the Germans who come to the TT have gained a reputation for being latter-day Stuka pilots, dive-bombing their way through corners and sometimes getting caught in their own bomb-blast. Regardless of the nationality of those riders around you, it’s a good idea to leave the heroics to the real racers, and make sure you're around to buy your “I survived Mad Sunday” T-shirt on Monday morning.
Find someone to cheer for. When Steve Thompson logged his “ton-up” (100-mph) lap. the 10 members of Team CYCLE WORLD were beaming as if he'd just set the outright lap record. If there aren't any Americans entered, as likely there won't be, don't worry. I've got a name for you. A 35year-old pub owner from Ballymoney, Northern Ireland, Joey Dunlop spends his off-time polishing his already lustrous Isle of Man legend. Known as “King of the Road,” Dunlop holds the course lap record at a searing 1 18.47 mph, and now has 10 TT wins, helping him close in on the late Mike Hailwood’s all-time total of 14.
To witness Dunlop thread his Rothmans Honda between the stone fences and white-washed cottages around the TT course is like eavesdropping on a maestro. In my book, it ranks right up there with watching Jay Springsteen toss it sideways on a dirt-track mile, or marveling at the altitude Ricky Johnson achieves over a double-jump. My favorite Dunlop story, which should be true even if it isn't, concerns the time he came in from practice with not only the knees scorched out of his leathers, but the paint scratched off his helmet where it had creased a rock wall on the inside of a corner.
One last word of advice about Dunlop. Never, repeat never, try to make sense of his concrete-bunker-thick Irish brogue. It’ll just give you a headache, and in the end you'd have better luck deciphering Gorbachev’s yearly address to the Soviet Politburo.
Mind the fairies. Lore has it that the Isle of Man was originally inhabited by fairies wearing green suits and pointed red caps. It’s said that the descendants of these “Little People” are still around today, living in the glens and under bridges. To journey from Douglas to Castletown via the Fairy Bridge and not offer a friendly greeting is to court disaster, so the locals say.
A stupid superstition? Maybe so. But play it safe and do what I did. Instead of just Saying, “Hi,” to the Little People, memorize the Manx phrase, “Cre’n aght ta shiu?” (How are you?). Fairies can get a little cranky if they have to translate.
