Tourist Trophy, we had always wanted to go to the Island. The epic nature of its feats had been imprinted, since a blurry childhood lost in the late 60s, in the translated chronicles of correspondent Mick Woollett, reread a thousand times on the parchment-like pages of Motociclismo when it was “the international magazine for all motorcyclists.” Black leather Lewis leathers and Cromwell helmets in the Hailwood-Agostini duels were static black-and-white images memorized for a lifetime of that strange race, run on the opposite side of the pavement. Another era, another kind of motorcycling, less circus than the Continental Circus. Sport in the cradle of “fair play” with two-color canvas advertisements; Champion, Castrol, Dunlop, or Ferodo along the two-way paved roads between Douglas and Ramsey; between Ballaugh Bridge and Creg-ny-Baa. They raced there at over 100 mph with death riding pillion between curbs, houses, and stone walls. Parlotti was killed, and Herrero too, but today they continue to dodge the quick shiver along racing lines memorized to the millimeter. We had always dreamed of going to the Island and now the time had arrived. A report on race week was the perfect excuse to undertake a different kind of route. The Honda company lent a Shadow 600 for testing, which would accompany the muscular 1990 Harley Davidson Heritage Softail. Without much time for preparations and with the anxiety of the asphalt and improvisation in our saddlebags, we set off toward Somosierra on a threatening May afternoon that darkened as we crested the 1,404-meter mountain pass. With our rain suits flapping in the wind, we left Burgos bound for the Basque Country, illuminated by a sun that dried the road. The orange light of twilight sank into the west, lengthening our shadows on left-hand turns. Upon passing Irun, the darkness was absolute, and the fleeting border formality introduced us to France, where the endless straightaways were framed by the ghostly presence of poplar trees lining imagined fields on both sides of the road. Muscles numbed by the heat, rain, and twin-cylinder vibrations over the kilometers begged for a truce, and a luminous Fina sign announced a stop for food and lodging. The gas station, its minibar, and the pine forest behind it completed a long 10-hour day on the motorway. Edmundo Rivero whispered a tango from a pocket minicassette player, under a starry sky that faded quickly into the subconscious. A French day dawned with veiled sun, blurring the shadows in the outskirts of Bordeaux. One must be very wary of the gendarmes and their hungry radar guns, for the law is predatory with the inexperienced and fines are paid on the spot, under penalty of vehicle immobilization. They nap, crouched behind their BMW Boxers, waiting to meet their monthly quota of tickets as soon as possible. - Adieu mon ami gendarme. We left the boring and expensive toll motorway and traveled along forgotten secondary roads between Angoulême and Cognac; patched roads that glistened in the afternoon sun. Driving through small towns caused our average speed to drop considerably, so we opted for the highway again toward Paris, passing Tours, Blois, and Orleans. Speed increased on the four-lane road, and the hurricane-like passing of BMWs and Porsche Carreras elevated the standard of the French car pool above the European utility average. THE SPACE-TIME EQUATION DOES NOT APPLY ON THE BRITISH ISLE OF MAN, A MYTHICAL PLACE WHERE MOTORCYCLING STARRED IN GLORIOUS FEATS. The traffic jam circling the great city of the Seine woke us from the linear stupor we had been in for hours, and, focused on deciphering the moving hieroglyphic, we forgot the smallness of the Shadow’s tank, exhausting its minimal reserve amidst a maelstrom of traffic between guardrails. The shoulder was a ledge shaken violently by the passage of eighteen-wheel MAN trucks that made the three-hundred-kilo Harley vibrate when they passed 80 cm from our hunched asses. That is where we were—in the situation of the rubber hose, the fuel petcock, and the bitter pill—when we saw a red, chopped Sportster approach and stop next to us. Its rider gestured for us to take the exit toward a three-level Scalextric-like interchange that led to an industrial park near Orly, where an Antar station provided us with fuel. Concentrated again on the labyrinth, we lost our way and headed toward Senlis-Arras-Calais. Without barely noticing, after the excitement of the episode, the cold made itself felt unexpectedly, although we held out for another 100 kilometers and, on the plains of Péronne, we entrenched ourselves to spend the night in the open, lit by flashes from the motorway. The tight muscle of travel did not relax, and the night became icy and spasmodic. The first light of morning was pearl gray, and the static mists, on both sides of the motorway, let glimpse the ghostly vision of fields sown with white crosses in memory of ancient battles: the dead of the Somme 1914-18. It was 10 o'clock at 10 degrees Celsius when, whipped by unusual icy gusts in May, we arrived at the Calais ferry terminal. The sea was murky brown and inspired little confidence the moment the sturdy cavalry of the ferry made its first propeller turns. In the distance, the white cliffs of Dover could be seen, and Perfidious Albion approached in zoom at 18 knots. It was glacially cold at Her Majesty’s customs; however, the formality was once again simple, and we immediately headed along the uniform pavement of the A-20 toward Folkestone, where the Motorway-20 begins, heading northwest toward London. The tall grass on the shoulders danced wildly to the rhythm of the whirlwinds and intermittent gusts coming from the north, while a timid sun, impoverished by the mists, blurred shadows. The traffic was thick but disciplined; a constant and uniform flow of vehicles spread across the six-lane motorway. Cruising in the center lane, we left behind us vehicles with millions of kilometers, 70s rust punished by the severity of the climate on undercarriages, doors, and joints. Crusted cars of solid colors; Escorts, R-5s, Fiestas, and some vans that would fail the legality of a strict vehicle inspection. Ford Transits infested by the cancer of corrosion and damp leprosy with thousands of miles on their rusted axle shafts. Anglias and Morris Minors, survivors of other decades, headed leisurely in the left lane with the constancy of the 60 mph of their good maintenance and tune-ups. It was not rare to pass some 30s Jaguar or Bristol and witness the visual and sonic spectacle of a lost era: locomotion and luxury on the asphalt. The police were present on the shoulder, but their punitive role was rarely noticeable. There is a certain permissiveness in the speed limits, a pact of trust between law, order, and the user; it is “British phlegm.” We continued in the center lane at a cruising speed of 140 km/h, squeezing the throttle up to 160 when overtaking, and very attentive to the right rearview mirror to give way to Porsche 924s or Jaguar XJS V-12s that burst through in a meteoric flash and disappeared just like that, whipping their hearts above 200 hp in a very rapid, almost dizzying image. We also overtook eighteen-wheel trailers whose turbulence shook us from left to right, making the recourse of a radical burst of acceleration mandatory so as not to be sucked into their dangerous wake. In the vicinity of Maidstone, the Honda's reserve manifested itself again; 20 kilometers until total emptiness: 15, 10, 5, and no Gas Station on the left side of the M-20. The stop was imminent. Stop! The solution to the problem was found on the opposite side of the motorway. Without thinking twice, and with Spanish inertia, we entered a prohibited-direction U-turn. It was about 500 meters to the overpass, but in the middle of the illegal maneuver, the glints of the law’s blue and red flashes brought an imminent reality to the table: Trouble. Once stopped, and with cynical kindness, they began by announcing, out loud, the articles of the Code infringed, accompanied by the corresponding penalty for their breach. In a flash of lucidity, we played the “dumb tourists,” and through gestures and manipulated phrases, we pointed to the tank and the gas station. These were moments of confusion where victory was ours, to the local surprise. Her Majesty’s representatives understood little of the barrage of words and had no choice but to turn a blind eye. A jump, a spasm in their well-studied script of gestures, laws, and condemnations, to, moments later, offer to escort us to the service station using all their paraphernalia of flashes and subsequently verify—in situ—the authenticity of our shortages. Playing down the stroke of luck, we filled the tanks with 4 Stars and rode again along the motorway in the direction of London. The M-25 is an English-style M-40, widely used by all the light and heavy traffic heading toward or intending to bypass the city of the Thames. We circled Greater London, which, always to our right, breathes in and exhales the crown of blackened “smog,” protecting its pale inhabitants from the absolute sun. Factories and warehouses were lost in the distance and framed under an opaque sky where air traffic denoted its incessant activity. We were at Heathrow, where the DC-9s, 747s, and even the 11:30 Concorde roared with their supersonic bellow, thundering on odd-numbered days over the surroundings of Surrey county. London moved away to the southeast, and to the north, the clouds swirled fast and black, threatening. Miles and kilometers, kilometers and miles in a straight line until Birmingham, where the storm of water and darkness broke at tea time. We had to stop under a bridge to put on our rain gear, the waterproof plastic that flapped in the gale during the kilometers of squall. The artificial night brightened by moments after fifty kilometers of downpour, and an illuminated afternoon opened a path between two impressive cumulonimbus clouds. The air, now clean, had changed its lash for the logical breeze of one who cuts the wind at 140 km/h without a fairing. In Croft, a radiant sun shone in bright yellow as we turned west onto the M-621, breathing the damp proximity of the River Liverpool. The port city welcomed us resplendent and copper-colored in the afternoon light, and the streets, bright from the received water, reflected a pure blue sky. The docks were empty, and among their abandoned warehouses, one could breathe an exhausted activity, as if from another time. The old information booth suffered on its worn greenish wooden planks from the passage of years and the storms of the Irish Sea. It was closed, and on a yellowish sign, the ferry schedules could barely be read. Today it was already too late for boarding, and our tires rolled hesitantly toward rest along cobblestone streets, between port buildings shut up tight. The luminous and sad city didn't have much to say, and its neighborhoods denoted a provincial cut. One could guess a nineteenth-century splendor that it perhaps had in its structure of two docks from where the Blue Star ocean liners departed for New York and Boston. Today, lonely and forlorn, the Birkenhead ferry sails every hour on the short and tedious journey between Liverpool and the opposite bank of the Mersey estuary. The center is a large, dead commercial street full of clichés: Marks & Spencer, McDonald's, Wimpy, some pubs in “happy hour,” and Mathew Street, where perhaps some nostalgic person could hear the distant echo of the Beatles inside a Cavern made for tourists, although that resonance, distorted by time, only serves to lull a sad afternoon/night between pints of warm beer. The morning appeared clean through the windows of the bed & breakfast where we slept, exhausted by the linear monotony of the British “motorways.” The Lady of Mann awaited us, and the excitement became evident upon arriving at the boarding esplanade. There were hundreds of machines in a logical and orderly line. Japanese products abounded in all their variants, although BMW and Ducati were represented in large numbers. The license plates indicated origin; D, GB, NL, B, French, and many Italians. Norwegians, Swedes, and Danes arrived; new Vikings wanting to reconquer the island that was theirs in the 10th century. Some Germans boarded amidst the backfiring of two-strokes and the resounding sonority of the boxer; a BMW with sidecar and a Bultaco Metralla with a Düsseldorf plate. From a rusted Ford Transit, they were unloading the jewels of the crown: Triton Wideline 650 and BSA A-10 cafe racer. Cult machines piloted by veteran English-style rockers. Tea, pompadours, and Gene Vincent in black leather. The golden age of the purest motorcycling: England, the 50s. Everyone settled into the belly of the steamship, old iron hardened in countless crossings through a dark sea. When the hold was full, the remaining motorcycles were lashed arbitrarily to the deck. It was an oily and roaring landscape; machines welcomed by the great machine. The gasoline fell silent and the diesel fuel slowly propelled the 4,000 tons of the old ferry, where other stories were whispered, feats real or invented by the knights of the asphalt, a different motorcycle dynasty, not common in other lands; Spain, for example. A brotherhood on a pilgrimage toward the holy land of blessed speed: The Isle of Man Tourist Trophy. Four hours later, and with contained excitement, land was sighted to the west. The docking maneuver returned us to reality after the brief voyage seasoned with mysticism, three-meter waves, and, once again, warm beer. “They raced there at over 100 mph with death riding pillion between curbs, houses, and stone walls. Parlotti was killed, and Herrero too, but today they continue to dodge the quick shiver along racing lines memorized to the millimeter.” The magical island did not seem motionless from the railing shaken by the high tide, and the ramp greeted the harbor pier. The holds of the Lady of Mann vomited white smoke of imperfect combustion, and the mechanical hearts of the Paneuropeans, GSX-R 750s, or BMW K-100s began to come back to life. Some relic of the empire coughed and limped, while distracted Bobbies grew bored with routine. The spectacle was magnificent in noise, smell, grease, and other noble materials. The smoky flow dispersed as we reached the Douglas promenade, where a multitude of small Victorian-style buildings looked out toward a kilometer-long, ugly beach that defined the contour of the city. The rhythmic and uniform sound of the sea was altered continuously by excursions beyond the red figures on the tachometers of the Japanese multis, which howled at 12,500 revolutions per minute. Some twin roar—Made in England—was in charge of balancing with bass the hyper-acute tonality of Suzukis and Kawasakis. The coming and going was constant; colors, shines, lights, and tones in a common denominator of motorcycles, motorcyclists, 100 percent motorcycling, full-time, 24 hours a day, seven days in June since 1907. The air was clean, cold, and the light of the setting sun shone and reflected on the perfect chrome, drawing scenes imagined in the pubs that looked out onto the bay. Hundreds of customers, knights of leather and asphalt, drank Newcastle Brown Ale in their transparent bottles in the middle of the afternoon. If you drink, don't drive, but if you have to drink, let it be Newcastle. We had to get to Ramsey, also on the eastern coast but 20 miles north of the capital. The road was narrow and arched. The pavement was perfect, abrasive, and anti-slip; in dark gray and delimited at all times by threatening curbs. The racing line had to be clean, without amendment, because error was paid for with the jagged cobblestone. The paint was dense and bright, complemented by fog reflectors of foreseeable utility. The immemorial layout took shortcuts between hills whipped by the wind and small valleys shadowed by birch trees, all framed by boundary walls that, literally glued to the asphalt, drowned out any escape route. We crossed Baldrine and Laxey surrounded by their tiny houses attached to the medieval road with greed for space, and upon exiting a tight right-hand turn, we were surprised by the luminous presence of a crowded pub, just after crossing the Laxey River. It is called Coach & Horses, and it is the perfect place to connect with the locals. We stopped. In the adjacent meadow, the exhausts of a Club 59 meeting thundered, full of cafe-racers in brotherhood. A black-and-white image of satin leather and polished metal. Inside, the chords of rock & roll enthroned the rhythm of the engines tuned to Eddie Cochran's 4x4, between pompadours and pints of beer. A few Newcastles later, we entered the conversation, in an accentuated and gestural way, facilitated by the local multilingual camaraderie. A veteran clad in leather was interested in our origin. - Ah, Spain. Not many come to the island. Very good year, '69; Santiago Herrero, yes, a blond guy who raced with an Ossa Stroker against the official Yamahas. Incredulous and surprised by the comment, amidst the bustle, Vince Taylor, and the Newcastles, we continued listening to the connoisseur. - Yes, he was killed in '70 at mile 13. Very good, the last Spaniard who raced the TT. At that moment Jerry Lee was singing “Chantilly Lace.” That was enough. We toasted again and pushed our way through the vociferous crowd toward the door. Outside, the exhibition of machinery of the Club 59 continued, whose honorary president, the Reverend Father Bill Shergold, managed in the early 60s to lay the foundations for an extravagant association of rockers, between chain-swings and collective penances from the North Circular Road to the parish of St. Mary's in Paddington Green, in the most pop London of 1963. Ora et labora: and meanwhile they tuned their Triumph T-120 Bonnevilles on the bustling esplanade of the Ace Café. We continued along the narrow rising road through tiny villages; Dhoon, Glen Mona, until reaching the sea again in Ramsey Bay, whipped by severe northeasterly gusts coming from Scotland. The hotel was comfortable, and in its parking lot rested several thoroughbreds of high lineage: Norton Commando “Yellow Peril” (a special preparation from the early 70s), next to a Laverda 750 SF-2 and several BMWs from all eras. After getting settled, we went down to the hotel bar where, under the protection of some Guinnesses, we parsed the crowded agenda of the race calendar; seven days full of smoky events. Everything had actually begun a week earlier, in which the morning private practice sessions woke the island from its winter lethargy. Although the starting flag, the genuine firecracker toward the purest motorcycling fun, exploded on “Mad Sunday”; a curious and dangerous appointment, inescapable for any motorcyclist at the Tourist Trophy. The circuit used for the official races—local roads for daily use that link various towns—closed to ordinary traffic for the exclusive use of those two-wheeled fanatics who dare to pierce it, without any speed limit, during the first hours of a different kind of Sunday. It is not strange that one of the most classic souvenirs of the TT is a T-shirt with the inscription: “I survived Mad Sunday.”Everything is proceeding normally; an occasional minor spill, a few injuries of varying severity, and the odd regrettable casualty. It is an accepted and agreed-upon risk. At our latitude, 54° 05' N, the nights are short, and by five in the morning, there is enough light for the official practice sessions to begin. Thus, from a drowsy, half-awake state in the early morning, one can hear, in the distance, the four-cylinder howls of the Japanese superbikes climbing the mountain along the winding ramps, from Gooseneck to Guthrie's Memorial. We have to pick up our accreditations in Douglas, in the press room of the main building located right on the starting straight, so we head south early on a clear morning of sun and cold. The traffic, mostly motorcyclists, is constant, heading up and down in search of ideal spots to follow the race. Yellow license plates with black characters indicate their British origin, exuding a certain mastery of the road in their disciplined movement, without grandstanding or aggressive swerving on the throttle. The Germans, omnipresent and rowdier, have signs in their own language, persistently mentioning the direction of traffic. “Remember, drive on the left.” The right is for passing or crashing. We overtake a few lorries (small delivery trucks), mostly carrying beer, and upon reaching Douglas, we make a large detour to avoid the track where a heat of the Ultralightweight-125cc category has begun. Attracted by the nerve-racking, high-pitched noise coming from the track, we clamber onto a black slate wall to verify that on the other side, some 90 centimeters away, the competition unfolds in its purest form, without cushioned runoff areas or high-tech inflatable barriers. The chilling speed at which the endless descent of Bray Hill to Quarter Bridge is negotiated produces a different sensation of danger. At 200 kilometers per hour on a track no wider than 5 meters and boxed in by sharp slate walls, any mistake means death, and confidence is a safety valve through which to drive away fear. Upon arriving at the "paddock" and after picking up our "no limit" passes, we climb to the main straight grandstand—which until a few years ago was made of wood—from where we enjoy a magnificent view. All the pits are in the open with the mechanics and the team manager, and opposite stands the legendary waxed scoreboard with each rider's variable times at the key points of the circuit, still written in chalk by a legion of boy scouts. Behind the giant grid board, and sheltered behind elms and cypresses, the great Douglas cemetery serves as a witness to "the greatest motorcycle race in the world." Life and death separated by a weathered brick wall. We contemplate the steaming spectacle without missing any details or gestures. It is a race against the clock and the opponents; there is no room for clever lunges on the treacherous bends, and the participants must have the circuit engraved in their minds meter by meter, yard by yard, to fight against themselves in a game of memory and precision. In the reports, one can divine an intense, extraordinary concentration beneath the helmet, and while the assistant cleans the visor of embedded insects, the rival times and strategies are whispered by the "team manager" to the rider, who, with a vacant gaze, nods, anxious to feel the docile beast of feverish combustion between his legs once more. The discourse ends, and with a snap, the man-machine pairing pulls away, exhausting gears in an echoless howl toward pure speed. It is time to access the "parc fermé," which, open to the general public, is in full activity. Carpeted in green by spontaneous grass, it is filled with small vans with their rear doors open to the civilized curiosity of the connoisseur. A single "motor-home" stands out in black at the back; it is the Rotary Norton Team. Dozens of tents serve as makeshift workshops where private machines that await the track are sheltered and sleep. A large tent stands in the center as a pub, and inside, the bustle is notorious and the beer warm. The personnel is diverse; riders, mechanics, press, fans; all form a disparate sporting community. “For the love of sport,” one could read on Mike Hailwood’s fairing. An extinct religion whose cult survives in this isolated corner, uncontaminated, perhaps in spite of itself, by the advertising and circus woodworm of other, more bombastic competitions. Outside the tent, the clouds coming from Ireland, threatening, cross the sky rapidly toward the northeast, in the direction of Scotland. Text by Edi Clavo, Ruta 66.
