Isle of Man TT Memories

This story came about because of a comment made by our beloved editor Ken, "Wheelie Boy" Hutchison during MCUSA's Isle of Man staff meeting.

I mentioned that I had been coming to the TT, on and off, most of my life - and that was 58 years. Ken, being the loyal, supportive, politically correct boss that he is, recoiled in horror and expressed the view that I should be dead by now and that I had better get something written quickly before I disappear into the afterlife. It is this kind, compassionate and deeply supportive relationship which makes working for Ken such an honor.

So here are a few TT memories - not an accurate, lap-by-lap history of the races but some magic moments from my motorcycling life.

I first went to the TT when, I think, I was eight years old - or maybe seven. The Isle of Man was unbelievably exotic at the time - a combination of Las Vegas and Disney World in the Irish Sea. My Mum had fond memories of the Island from before the war when things were good for her and my Dad. They had plenty of money, were deeply in love and danced to the big bands who came from all over the world to play in Douglas. Then the war intervened, my Dad found booze but my Mum still tried to cling on to how things used to be. And that's how we found ourselves sitting just down from Creg Ny Baa as the first of the factory MV Agustas came howling down from Kate's Cottage and into the Creg.

At home, I lived a life of matt brown, dull grey and soot stains in a run down area of an industrial town. All my excitement came through a radio set on a Saturday evening. Suddenly the banshee howl of the MV shattered my cocoon of restraint and mediocrity and opened the gates on the rest of the world. In 15 seconds, I knew that bikes would be important to me for the rest of my life.

My first independent trip away from home was to the TT. I was just 16 years old. I set off from Liverpool on the midnight boat because this was the cheapest way to get to the Island. I had little knowledge of comfort or luxury - and no personal experience of either. Therefore, I enjoyed a good night's sleep on the deck of the "King Orry" using my tool bag as a pillow and the exhaust from the downstairs saloon as hot air draft to keep me warm.

I arrived to a scene of unbelievable glamour. The dockside was full of the latest Superbikes - BSA Gold Stars, Triumph Bonnevilles and the glorious 650cc Norton SS. Their riders looked so cool too. Elvis haircuts, real leather jackets and badges from previous TTs. I wandered around in a dream of wonder and near ecstasy.

I stayed in a small, cheap, bed and breakfast establishment. Clients were allowed one bath during their week's stay and there was a line marked on the tub indicating how much water could be used. But the Landlady was kind and, because I did not have enough money to buy lunches, she allowed me one extra round of toast in the morning which kept me going during the day. It is the sounds which carry through the years more than the sights. The howl of the Honda 4s, the desperately high-pitched screams of the tiny Suzuki two-strokes and the snarl and rasp of the British Singles.

Then there was the privilege of seeing the greatest road racer ever to grace a motorcycle, in what was arguably his finest-ever ride. Mike Hailwood crashed the mighty MV at Sarah's Cottage in the rain and mist. He arrived at the Gooseneck hairpin, where I was watching, battered and bleeding with the MV's screen smashed and two of its megaphone exhausts flattened. I watched wet, cold but transfixed at the courage and riding skill of my hero. Hailwood went on to win and that night, in my attic bedroom, I rode the MV with him in my dreams.

Everywhere there was the glamour. The sheer sybaritic luxury which was on every street corner. Shining bikes, new, unpatched, leather clothing, polished boots, pretty girls in tight jeans, star riders near enough to see. I was too shy and nervous to do anything but stand at the back - but at least I was there.

Two years on. I am determined to go to the TT. My boss is determined that I won't. I hate my job. I hate it so much that I am physically sick just at the thought of going to work in the morning. Despite being desperately nervous, shy and terrified of confrontation, I go to the TT and see Jim Redman come through Hillberry at 17,000 rpm on the Honda "6". My hands are shaking as I am typing this sentence, so strong is the memory 40 years later.

Ago is fantastic on the MV - Peter Williams magnificent on board the Arter Matchless. I can afford fish and chips at night. I sit on the sea wall railings along Douglas promenade and watch the fantastic bikes, the incredibly beautiful girls riding pillion and listen to the barely silenced road bikes cruising up and down. When I return to England, my boss calls me into his office and fires me on the spot for gross disobedience: the sense of relief is intense.

My Mum was less pleased. Working class families needed all the money they could get and getting fired was considered to be somewhere between stupid and reckless. Maybe even recklessly stupid!

Then two things happened almost simultaneously. I found a College willing to accept students for teacher training by Open Examination. The reality of this simple statement is that two of us - a tense, sweating girl wearing too much make up - and me, in a sports jacket, tie and freshly washed white shirt, sit in a huge oak paneled room and write page after page explaining why we would make good teachers. We write in total silence for three hours sitting at opposing ends of a huge, carved table avoiding eye contact or speech. She writes furiously with furrowed brow, beads of sweat of running down her forehead. I write bursts of prose, in an untidy scrawl, but with passion. Outside, one of the students blips the throttle on a BSA twin. I wish I was back at the TT. I wish was riding my T110 instead of writing for my very life.

Incredibly, the mass of crossed out corrections and spidery handwriting was ignored and the ideas accepted. I was going to be a student.

At the same time, my Auntie Edie came back from a trip to America. The U-S-of-A. She had flown, in an aeroplane, to a country so far distant that it could have been Mars. She brought back a stack of American bike magazines and I wrote to them all asking to publish my stories. Twelve ignored me, one wrote back and said no and "Motorcycle World" told me to send a story in to them. Suddenly, I was a student and a freelance journalist in one month.

Fortunately, I didn't know anything about being a journalist and therefore wasn't restricted by any professional protocols. Equally fortunately, my editor didn't know that I didn't know!

My editor demands a world exclusive on a TT-winning bike. He is a New York journalist with no interest in bikes - and little knowledge of the subject. He suggests that I approach Honda and borrow a factory "4" for a test ride. I have written just two stories for him and this is my third assignment. I am 18 years old and have no experience of riding race bikes and "Motorcycle World" is a completely unknown magazine in Europe. Worse still, I am terrified of being fired yet again - and this time before I have even begun my writing career.

Through a mixture of cunning, desperation and having no sense of the normal journalistic conventions, I eventually approach the Crooks-Suzuki team who agree to let me ride the bike they have entered in the Production TT. Before the race, I phone my editor and assure him that the bike has in actual fact won the TT and all is well. I then sit and wait for two days until the race takes place.

Frank Whiteway wins the 500c Production TT on the Crooks-Suzuki, I get to ride the bike - and my career in journalism is launched.

Fast forward to 1978. I now have a real job with a suit and a briefcase. Taking time off to go to the TT, and getting fired upon my return, is no longer an option. But Mike Hailwood is making his comeback at the TT and I just have to be there - regardless of costs or danger.

I locate an ex-RAF pilot who can borrow a Cessna 172 light aircraft and will, for a fee, fly us to the Island and bring us back in a day.

We arrive at the airstrip on a dull, leaden English day just as dawn is breaking. Big spots of rain are falling. Our pilot is sitting in the crew cabin with no indication that he is flying anywhere today. I am broken hearted - almost to the point of tears. "Big Ste", a Norton Commando owner of fearsome size and extremely violent temper, takes the pilot on one side for a short, but very intense, conversation. Ten minutes later, we are bumping down the runway and heading for the Irish Sea. The clouds are very low and so we fly what looks like extremely close to the sea. But I don't care. Mike is back in the Island and I will be with him.

We watch from Glen Helen as Mike hammers the big Ducati through the long, climbing left hander. He is line perfect on every lap, just touching the fairing down on the apex of the bend. Mike, the people's hero, wins for us all and we return skimming the waves and singing all the way back to England. The following morning, I have to explain to everyone that my rather severe dose of diarrhea has now fortunately abated and allowed me to return to work.

So to this year. The great joy for me was that I still felt the same spasms of excitement as I rode the bike on to the sea front at Douglas harbor as I did all those years ago. The Island has retained its magic.

There are so many wonderful moments in so many ways. Bruce Anstey and John McGuiness slugging it out in the Supersport race like two short circuit racers on the last lap of a MotoGP race - the difference being that they were three inches away from a stone-lined sidewalk.

Then there is John McGuiness' win in the first TT of the centennial celebration. Life isn't fair and often the rewards don't go to the most deserving but it is nice when they do. In real life, McGuinness is a bricklayer, modest almost to the point of timidity, quietly spoken and dismissive of his awesome skill and breathtaking courage. If anyone deserved to win this opening race it was John. Salutations to a truly great TT rider.

Equally good was the TT Cavalcade. In the midst of the arguing, throwing leather clad dollies out of baby carriages, and all the rest of the tantrums which come whenever you bring a herd of aging super stars, and their still world class egos, into one place, the sights and the sounds were magic.

Screaming Hondas, booming British Singles and the crackle of unsilenced two-strokes reverberated down the Glencutchery Road - a fitting tribute to 100 years of magnificent TT action.


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