I quickly informed my mother of my intentions, and arranged a quick dash down to the bank to raise some cash, and within a short length of time, a change of clothing into and old army jacket, a pair of gauntlets, and silver crash helmet, and I was wheeling the old green Francis Barnet motorcycle out of the shed ready to begin the journey. After fuelling the bike, for about six shillings as far as I can remember, I headed west along the industrialised coastal plain of South Wales, and then turned North towards the Market Town of Breacon. I was feeling on top of the world as the bike made light work of the uphill stretch onto the Breacon Beacons, and in no time at all, I was cruising past Storey Arms and heading for the decent along an ancient glacier made U shaped valley into Breacon Town. At Breacon I decided to take the short cut that I had heard about, to cut off rather a long run to Builth Wells. After turning left onto a narrow track near the cathedral, the road climbed sharply out of the town, and within minutes I was cruising the heights of Epynt Mountain, and thrilled at the breathtaking panorama unfolding before my eyes. As the signposted mileage decreased, I was rapidly heading for Builth Wells. This was all unknown territory to me by now, and I loved every minute of it. After Leaving this mid Wales spa town behind, a quick check of the map, revealed that Hay on Wye, Leominster, Ludlow, Shrewsbury and Whitchurch were now the targets, before bypassing Chester and heading for Birkenhead via the Detergent Capital of Britain, Ellesmere Port. I can recall how pleasant it was to travel these uncongested roads and to see the towns that previously I had only read the names on the sides of lorries.

Apart from the beautiful scenery, the journey was uneventful, After stopping at a transport cafe called "The Lazy Trout" near Craven Arms and enjoyed a huge plateful of home made steak and kidney pie with Potatoes, veg and all the trimmings, I refuelled the machine and continued to head north, at about this time the bike developed a miss-fire, which slowed my progress a little, but it kept going until whilst entering the outskirts of Birkenhead, gave up the ghost and stopped at a set of traffic lights. After some frantic effort to restart the bike the trouble was located to a duff spark plug, I did not have a replacement, but after much cleaning and filing, a long run down a slight downhill slope of an unfamiliar street, saw the machine cough and finally splutter in to life so that I might continue on my way. My Aunt and Uncle were surprised to see me turn up at their door, but made me very welcome. Over a special cup of Coffee that only Aunt Anna could make, being Austrian, she knew all about such delicacies, a glance at the Liverpool Echo showed me that a ferry was leaving Liverpool Docks at 12.45 am. This left me with about two hours to enjoy the coffee, some food, and just a little drink, to keep out the cold. It was decided that Ivor would drive me to the Ferry Terminal and the bike would be left on his front lawn to await my return.

The atmosphere at the ferry jetty was unlike anything I had ever seen. The noise, sights, and sounds of several hundred motorcycles, many carrying number plates from all over the globe. Sweden, Canada, United States, and even Australia, were paraded before my very eyes. I watched in awe, as each one in turn had its fuel tank emptied by an ancient looking hand pump, to reduce the fire risk, before being hoisted aboard by a clanking, even older looking crane. Eager seamen lashed the bikes in rows of four on every available deck space and everywhere the leather clad enthusiasts gathered amidst brightly coloured crash helmets, and the talk was of bikes and speed. After a short while, I noticed the slight rise and fall of the ship's deck as the ferry slid quietly into midstream of the fast flowing, muddy looking Mersey, the engines gently throbbing as she turned to run downstream and out into the Irish Sea. As the lights of New Brighton and the Wirral disappeared on the left rear side, and I became aware of the North Wales coast, now a long way away as the lights disappeared into the gathering gloom. I became conscious that the ship was sailing in a very narrow channel, marked on either side by brightly coloured buoys, some clanging loudly as they rode the gentle swell. On either side of the ship, was wreckage and rusty masts, rising from the churning, swirling waters. I enquired from a deck hand about the origin of these wrecks and was told that we were crossing the Mersey Bar, and during the last war, a terrible toll was taken of merchant shipping into and out of Liverpool, by the German U boat fleet. Apparently the submarines used to lie in wait in this area, and pick off the ships as they slowed to cross the bar. After clearing the bar, the ferry gathered speed, and pushed on into the darkness of the night. I went below decks to seek out the crowded saloon bar.

A couple of pints of unfamiliar but nevertheless tasty beer, were eagerly consumed, and as tiredness began to overtake me I desperately sought somewhere to lay and rest my tired body. All the available places were taken by the vast crowd that was aboard this night and I was delighted when I spied about three seats of a long bench that were vacant, but my joy was short lived as when I approached them, I realised that someone had already been lying in this space, and had emptied the contents of their stomach over the only available seats on the ship. Not even I, was tired enough to brave this evil smelling mess, and I felt sorry for the people in close proximity to this area. All around the ship people were by now, stretched out in the most impossible of places. I even saw one young man in a gangway, having lashed himself to a hand rail with his stout leather belt, sleeping, and even snoring, supported on his feet by this massive belt. I left the covered area and went out on deck, it was by now quite cold and the movement of the ship created a cold breeze which seemed to go right through ones clothes and penetrate your very bones. By now I was desperate for rest, I had been awake for 21 hours, had travelled a long way, had a few drinks, and the tiredness was making me feel dizzy. I walked to the aft end of the ship, uncaringly crossed a rope barrier and notice which said "Crew Only" and came across a coil of large diameter mooring rope. This had been stored in a figure of eight position and left two holes, just big enough to squeeze a tired body into. I curled up into this rope, pulled my jacket over my head and being slightly sheltered from the worst of the wind, rocked by the gentle motion of the ship as it rode the slight swell of the Irish Sea, soon fell into a deep sleep

Some time later I awoke feeling absolutely lousy. The rope had prevented circulation to both my legs, I was feeling very cold, and by now it was light, another day had dawned during my uncomfortable slumber. I staggered along the deck on legs, almost unable to support my body, and stinging with the "pins and needles" feeling. I made my way again to the saloon bar, with the hope of getting a nice hot soothing cup of coffee, but to my absolute dismay, when I arrived the bar was closed, and the staff were counting the takings, and clearing the heavily littered tables. A fellow traveller seeing my plight offered me a cup of hot chocolate from a thermos flask, what a kind gesture from a total stranger, and the taste of that lovely smooth, sweet chocolate will remain with me for the rest of my days. Invigorated by this sweet refreshment, and circulation returning to my legs and hands, by now I felt a lot better and strolled out onto the deck, to see the sight of Douglas bay and Harbour, looming large out of a brand new bright sunny summers day. I had seen photographs of Douglas in the many motorcycle magazines that I had read, but the sight of this huge colourful bay with its fort perched on a small island in the centre, and the brightly painted buildings against the backdrop of gently rolling hills, with the dark grey shape of Snaefell in the distance really took my breath away.

Docking procedures completed and the ferry now securely tied to the massive granite jetty, I watched for a while as the bikes were ridden up a steep gangway, then walked the short distance from the ship to the pier. It was good to feel the solid ground beneath my feet as I walked purposefully, in search of a good breakfast. As I left the jetty area, I immediately regretted not having any transport. It was daunting to observe the huge sweep of Douglas Bay stretching out before my eyes, and as I knew my destination lay at the far end of this huge curve of seafront hotels, punctuated by the odd shop, I realised that my poor tired feet, were in for a lot of exercise this day. I turned left into a side street to be immediately confronted by a restaurant that was actually open at 5.30 in the morning, and a wonderful aroma of cooking bacon, and hot fragrant coffee greeted me as I pushed open the large oak door of this establishment. A huge breakfast was ordered, with the customary two mugs of hot sweet tea, a bacon roll for later in the day, and twenty Senior Service cigarettes with a box of matches to satisfy my childish addiction to nicotine. The bacon roll was stored in my poachers pocket and the gigantic breakfast was devoured in double quick time, by a very hungry man indeed. As I relaxed, with one of my recently purchased cigarettes, I realised that I was still desperately tired and, if I was to enjoy this day, I would have to find somewhere to sleep. The other people in this restaurant now seemed so eager and full of life, while my eyelids felt heavy, and desperate for rest. On leaving the eating house, I continued my weary way along the promenade to the Northern end of the bay, which I knew to be the nearest point to the TT course and the start, finish, and pits area. I had only gone a short way along this marathon walk when I noticed several busses, parked beside the road and each offering guided tours around the TT course for the modest fee of five shillings. I picked out a bus with what seemed to be the most comfortable seats, paid my fare, and was glad to sit in relative comfort, as the bus waited for enough people to join and make the trip financially viable..

At this moment in time, I was not concerned if the bus had never moved from this spot, as the warm feeling of comfort spread over my entire body, and sleep took over my soul. I have to admit, I did not see much of the circuit as I lapsed in and out of consciousness. During one waking moment I was impressed by the narrowness of the road and the straw bales, wrapped around the most terrifying of hazards such as lamp posts and protruding stone walls, and I can remember thinking what sort of supermen would take a racing motorcycle around these roads at breakneck speed. All to soon we were back on the promenade at Douglas and as it was not yet eight o'clock I decided to pay another fare and return to my comfortable seat for at least another hour. On the next lap, I was a little more attentive, and was an interested spectator as this pathetic slow bus, negotiated the narrow roads that form the finest pure road racing circuit in the world. I gazed in awe out of the windows, as familiar names of bends, villages, ascents and descents, were revealed to my eager, expectant eyes. Bray Hill was most interesting, as for the first time I saw the gentle left hand curve of this steep decent, followed by the right hand kink at the bottom, and the start of the uphill section. I could only imagine the compression forces felt by the riders as they hit the bottom of this hill at top speed, and during the peak of this compression, would have to force their machines within inches of the right hand kerb, to follow a more or less straight line through this portion of the course. And this within the first mile from the start of the lap. All around this epic thirty seven and three quarter mile journey there were lots of places that formed a lasting impression on my young mind, from the twisting curves through the villages of Union Mills and Kirkmichael, the awesome hump back bridge at Ballagh, to the picturesque climb and descent of the mountain section. After seeing these sights, one could only have an increasing admiration for the men brave enough to compete in this event. Back in Douglas once again I discovered that the bus was to call at a few hotels, to pick up fans and deposit them at various points around the circuit. I pleaded with the driver to drop me somewhere on the Northern side of the bay, and had decided to watch the racing in the Douglas area, rather than use the bus to reach some of the most outlandish, but still very interesting sections of the circuit, because I realised that the moment racing was over for the day, there would be a mad dash for the ferry. Although I had a day return ticket, which guaranteed me a place on the ferry, I still had to reach the damn thing before it set sail

From the point of embarkation from the bus, a short walk up the hill took me into the paddock area. As I walked through this place like a child seeing Woolworths for the first time, The place was a hive of activity, even with a few hours to go before the start of the racing. I saw machines that previously had only seen in books and magazines, some of the riders were familiar to me from the same sources, and in those far away days each one was dressed in the familiar one piece black leathers, used by all riders of these spectacular machines. Most of the mechanics were engaged in warming the engine oil on primus stoves and occasionally starting the fearsome sounding Manx Nortons and G50 Matchless machines. I turned right on the Glencrutchery Road and headed for the slowest and last corner on the circuit, Governors Bridge. I paid a few pounds to be seated on some scaffolding planks, with a terrific view of both parts of this famous corner. Just to my right I could see a small part of the approach road, down through the trees from the Nook and Bedstead Corner when the bikes would brake down to about five miles per hour, they would be in full view as they swept through 180 degrees into the dip at Governors Bridge, they would then disappear for a second, before blasting out of this hollow, cranked right over on their right hand side, under full power as they headed up the Glencrutchery Road to the Start and finish area. A nearby temporary snack bar, made my comfort complete as I took my seat on this hot, sunny June day.

Although almost two hours before the start of the race, the time went very quickly. I watched as thousands of fans passed this spot, making their way to some of the many vantage points throughout the Island. They were on every conceivable form of transport. There were bikes of all makes, solos and sidecars, bubble cars, trikes, and lovingly restored vintage machines, there were even some of these new fangle Japanese machines, but they would never catch on, or so we thought in those days! This event has been held, with the exception of the war years, annually since 1908, and the military precision with which the events of the day are organised truly reflects this long history of excellence. As from my vantage point I watched the smart White helmeted Manx Police, put up the barriers and persuade the stragglers to leave the main course for the safety of the lanes and side roads. At almost all main vantage points around the roads there were loud speakers, designed to keep the fans up to date with events during the racing. It was eerie after the roads were closed by the police, that this stretch of tarmac in front of my vantage point was now completely empty and after the hustle and bustle of the last few hours, was now strangely quiet, and the only life form upon them were the white coated marshals, brushing some imaginary debris from the important points of the corners on the racing line. Over the P.A. system came reports of weather and conditions at various points across the circuit, on this June day all reports were the same, Hot, sunny and ideal for racing. At about twenty five to eleven, we heard the announcement that the course clearing car had been despatched, this is for the clerk of the course to be personally assured that the course was indeed clear and was safe for racing to commence. A short while later, in a squeal of tyres, the high powered Jaguar car driven by my boyhood hero, the recently retired Geof Duke, rounded the corner and disappeared along the Glencrutchery Road to the start and finish line a half mile from the gallery where I now sat with mounting anticipation of the events to come.

At precisely eleven o'clock the large loudspeaker in the trees opposite me announced the start of the senior race, and over the top of the commentator's voice could be heard the roar of engines, as the bikes started in pairs at ten second intervals. The waiting was over and the race was underway at last. Apart from the main centre at Douglas, the main commentary points on the public address system were at Ballacraine ( Seven Miles Out ), then at Ballagh Bridge, Parliament square, Ramsey on the opposite side of the Island, East mountain gate, just before the plunge down off the mountain, and finally, Sign Post corner, One mile from the completion of the lap, and about thirty seconds before they reached me at Governor's bridge. As the bikes were logged as passing signpost corner a light was lit up on the leader board, to inform the pit crews that their machine was only a mile away, and would give them time to prepare any pit signals or routine they might care to operate. Within about three to four minutes Surtees and Hartle were reported as through Balacraine, and pressing on through this clear June morning. In less than twelve minutes, they had passed through the town of Ramsey, and over twenty four miles from the starting point, only the punishing climb up the mountain would slow their meteoric two miles per minute pace and bring the lap times down to a more modest one hundred miles per hour or so.

It was in a mood of mounting anticipation that I sat and waited, I gazed at the quiet empty road in front of me. From the course commentary It was clear that Surtees had caught and passed Hartle on the road and was pulling away from him, his would be the first machine that I would see, and I was getting more exited by the second. As he was clocked through Signpost corner the burble of the crowd hushed everyone straining to hear the note of the approaching mighty MV Augusta. I glimpsed a quick flash of scarlet and silver in the distant trees, then it was upon us. There was a resonant, almost musical howl as Surtees changed down through four gears rapidly, and the bike shook violently under this massive braking effort to bring the machine almost to a halt, on this downhill bumpy stretch of tarmac. I can remember watching the black gloved hand, holding the clutch lever in, as the throttle was blipped, to keep the fantastic four cylinder engine revving, as Surtees cranked the machine over to negotiate the first slow part of this complex, for a second the bike disappeared into the dip, then the deafening banshee howl reverberated through the trees, as the power was applied, and this beautiful red fire engine emerged onto the main road, was heeled over onto its right hand side and accelerated like a rocket, its howling exhaust note changing slightly as the higher gears were selected and the bike disappeared rapidly up the road.

I was impressed by the man that rode this mighty projectile, the black racing leathers and boots, were polished to a point that complimented this magnificent bike, and the contrasting white silk cravat type scarf was so immaculately tied around the riders neck as a true reflection of the attention to detail, that was Surtees trademark. almost as soon as the leading MV disappeared up the road with a sound very like tearing silk, Hartle appeared on the approach road, looking just as fast, but perhaps not quite as comfortable, the second big red machine made light work of this complicated corner, to be followed by some very fast British built Manx Nortons ridden in very close formation by Derrick Minter, and a promising young rider called Mike Hailwood. As the thundering single cylinder machines gathered speed out of this corner I was fascinated by the flailing primary chains, and open, unguarded clutch mechanisms only inches away from the left feet of these brave riders, but absolutely necessary in order to keep these items cool during this punishing 264 mile race. The Nortons were quite a handful around this, the slowest of corners, as the engines had to be revved quite strenuously to keep them on power for the faster exit. This called for a technique of braking hard with the fingers of the right hand while at the same time blipping the throttle with the back part of the hand. This was handled very well by most of the riders in this race, although a couple of the lower order competitors did allow their machines to get below the power band, and necessitated holding the clutch in, and waiting for the engine revs to climb very slowly, and then slipping the clutch violently to get up enough speed for the engine to run properly, loosing many valuable seconds, and, as a result, being far too slow on the exit side of the corner.

By the time I had watched all of the riders through this bend on the first lap, Surtees was on the mountain, and approaching us on lap two, by now, even further ahead of Hartle, who was ever so slowly inching away from the battling Nortons of Minter and Hailwood, both lapping at over one hundred miles per hour, the first British single cylinder machines ever to do so, with Minter being the first to achieve this performance, because he was ahead on the road at the time. During the two hour race, the protagonists passed my vantage point six times, and each occasion was a truly wonderful spectacle. From about lap three there was a constant stream of riders from the fastest of the works machinery, to the slowest of the private entries, on converted road bikes. Only one other event that was out of the ordinary happened on about lap four, when one of the lower order riders, over accelerated his Matchless machine and came to grief on the exit of this corner. He and his badly damaged machine were quickly removed to safety by the marshals, and the rider was uninjured. I was struck by the damage to his crash helmet, the rear of which was almost completely abraded away by the rough road surface, and its only when you see a bike go out of control that you realise how fast they are actually going. During this day, many great riders and machines, passed before me and formed an impression in the back of my mind that will last forever. The race was won by John Surtees, with a lap record of over 104 MPH and a race average of just over 103. John Hartle was the second man home to give the Italian MV Augusta firm 1st and 2nd. The Battle between Minter and Hailwood was resolved with unfortunate mechanical failure for Minter, giving Hailwood 3rd place on the first British machine home.

As the stragglers passed on their last lap, still fiercely competing for places in the high fifties, I made my way downhill to the seafront, had a meal of sausage and chips in a very mediocre cafe, called at some of the seafront shops to buy some postcards and souvenirs of my visit, and as the legs were by now getting extremely tired, flagged down a passing taxi, for the last part of the journey to the pier head. I looked out of the taxi's windows at the rows of seafront hotels, each with hoards of exotic looking motorcycles outside, and I vowed to myself, next time I would stay on the Island for a week, sleep in one of these hostelries, and I would be far more organised on my next visit to this Mecca of pure motorcycle road racing. As the Motor Vessel "Lady of Mann" left this picturesque harbour, with the sun now setting over the distant hills and the Island now almost in silhouette, a tired figure, again curled up in the rope coils at the stern of the ship and eagerly awaited, Liverpool, and the sleep of the damned.

BRIAN

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