When you watch the Isle of Man TT on the TV you tend to think to yourself that those guys are mad! and for certain there is an element of madness needed to race the IOM TT.
My first experience of the TT was in 2004, I hadn't had the Blackbird long and was keen to go away on it for more than a days ride out. A couple of my mates are in a Manchester bike club and so I tagged along with them to the island. They always camp out at St Johns football club so thats now my own base when I go to the TT.
The shock to the system begins at the ferry port in Heysham, never before have I seen so many bikes queuing to fit into such a small space, the smell of petrol and exhaust fumes is overpowering. You join a long, long line of bikers all eager to get onto the ferry. Thats when it starts to hit you - "OMFG! I'm nearly there!" the reality though is that you have about another 3 to 4 hours to go!
The twists and turns you have to take to get onto the boat can be a bit daunting, wet ramps, hairpin turns that you think you are going to topple over while negotiating (and one or two do!). Eventually you manage to park up together with lines upon lines of bikes all ticking away and the places stinks of exhaust fumes. When you eventually get to park up, one of the deckhands says "sidestand please mate - and leave it in 1st gear". He then starts to rope your pride and joy to the rails that run the full length of the boat and you think to yourself "he's done this before".
With all the adrenalin flowing, you tend to feel really hungry once you relax so you then join another bloody big queue for food (not so good either - take some sandwiches) and the first thing you notice is that everyone wants to talk to you. Now I know bikers tend to be a sociable lot but this is different, maybe they are as excited as me?
A couple of hours later, Douglas starts to appear through the mist like some sort of scary movie and everyone starts to get physically agitated, shuffling their feet, smoking fags one after the other and jabbering away as though on speed ot something. An air of something still yet to happen makes the atmosphere humid and clammy and your hands begin to sweat - badly. Everyone then tries to look as though it isnt affecting them as they race back to their seats to collect their helmets and kit, but believe me it bloody well is!
Long lines of people begin to fire their bikes up even before the ferry has fully docked so you end up sat on your bike, choking on fumes, going deaf and your leathers filling up so much with nervous sweat that you can hardly move your arms and legs. The deckhands then start to guide a load of wobbly bikers off the ferry and into Douglas Port. Soon its going to be my turn and I try to start the bike up but cant seem to get the immobiliser turned off with shaking hands "calm down you dithering bastard" I say to myself before realizing that some twat has caught my kill switch and turned it off! The bike fires up and I start paddling off down the line of bikes that have been ticking over for so long that there is a hundred or more cooling fans whizzing away blowing hot air all over the bloody place.
You eventually get out into the open air and are ushered out onto the tarmac outside the port where everyone is starting to re-group into their own crowds and bike long lines of bikes from vintage to race bikes are starting to stream into Douglas itself.
Douglas is a bit of a disappointment at first, you don't get to see any of the prom apart from the end that leads to the port itself. We then start to ride through the town to get to St Johns which is on the way to Peel. We eventually join the circuit at Quarterbridge and thats when it suddenly becomes a reality - the banners, the crowds, the chequered kerbs "Oh my fucking god, I'm actually on hallowed soil!".
Thats when you begin to realize that the guys who actually race here are truly the gladiators of the motorcycle racing world, potholes, crap bumpy road surfaces - this isn't a tootle round some poncy race circuit! We are taking it steady at around 65-70 mph and there are what feels like hundreds of other bikes passing you at double your speed (these are still ordinary B type roads don't forget) and getting away with it.
We hit Braddan Bridge and the pub on ther corner still doing about 70 and the first police presense appears. I slam on the anchors, trying to scrub off speed without them realising and one of them laughs, puts his thumb up and waves us through - whats going on here? Have I died and gone too heaven? It feels like that bloody Carling advert.
We run over Greeba Bridge and on to Balachraine where we have to carry straight on towards the Tyndwald mound and turn left into St Johns and on to the campsite. Arriving there we all find a decent space, pitch our tents then strip off our now internally piss wet leathers and jump in the showers. All spick and span, me with shiny squeaky hair because I forgot my shampoo and had to use a bit of washing up liquid, we all pile into a mini bus into Douglas.
Christ! the place is crawling with pissed up bikers, all enjoying themselves, having a laugh with the police at some of the showoffs on the Prom road. Into Busheys beer tent we trot for a pint or two of the famous brew. We stagger out of the tent an hour or so later, feeling soooo much better and decide to go for a bit of a pub crawl.
Everywhere is crammed to the roof with bands playing in nearly every pub, smokey atmospheres that you could cut with a knife and drunken bikers in every conceivable place - propped up against a wall or bar so they don't fall over. At around 1am we decide to head back to the campsite, luckily we had booked the return minibus as at the end of the night, its hell trying to find a cab. We creep back into the site, which is a waste of time because the place is still bouncing with the initial excitement. Loads of guys sat round their tents laughing and joking and fuck me the clubs still open, so we start all over again - like you do.
At around 3.30 am we decide that enough is enough and trot off to our tents. It was then that I realised, in my initial excitement to get a pint down my neck, that I hadn't blown my airbed up! Have you ever tried to blow one up with your mouth after 20 fags and about 10 pints or so? Its an absolute nightmare I can tell you. I nearly puked about 3 times before I got enough air into it to keep my arse off the cold floor. I tried my damndest to get my clothes off in that small tent but ended up mummified with my pants round my ankles and my shirt still wrapped around my face.
Thats the last thing I remember about my first day at the Isle of Man but I'm into the swing of writing this now so will continue with the tale soon.
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