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| A Lap of The TT Course with John Shand.
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Many stories have been written about a lap of the TT
course. Where to brake, to apex,to go fast,to take care. What gear to be
in,what sights and smells-the whole bit.
I too, have a story of a TT
lap but this one is like how it really is for us who are not the heroic type.
At the TT there is so much to do that one tends only to eat or drink
only when the body screams out for food or water. Last night, I grabbed a quick
curry to satisfy the nutrient needs and for breakfast this morning, a cold
mince pie of dubious origins. Funny how the TT has one eating stuff one would
never touch during the other 50 weeks of the year. 5am practice sessions and
then getting ready again for the afternoon ones, puts sleep on the back burner
as well for a couple of weeks.
So today is a "normal" day in the
pits-half awake, a rumbling guts and plenty to do. Halfway through the session
the Clerk of the Course comes up and casually mentions would I like to go
around in the "Roads Open" car as a passenger. "Sure thing" I said. I flashed
back to an old movie I had seen years before of the Duke of Edinburgh doing
this in an open sports car, waving to all the fans and it all looked rather
jolly. For me, a chance to go for a leisurely cruise and maybe even catch up on
some sleep. We climbed into the latest T4 Volvo with all the bells and
whistles.
The driver, an ex TT rider, cruised out of the pits to the St
Ninians crossroads at the top of Bray Hill by means of an access route. It was
a nice sunny morning and warm inside the car so I dozed off while we waited.
Soon a Marshall tapped on the window and passed in a piece of paper giving us "
permission to proceed" and the road barrier in front of us was removed.
Ten seconds later we were doing 130 MPH down the hill and attempting to
break the wheelie record for cars at Ago's Leap!! Shit-what a wake up call.
Couldn't focus my eyes as they were now driven back into their sockets and soon
trying to pop out of them as we braked for the Quarterbridge. This is not how
they told me it was going to happen back in the Pits.
The next few
minutes were a fuzzy blur as we drifted the car through Union Mills and onto
some fast bits like the Highlander. Now I am wide awake and in full panic mode.
Adrenalin is squirted from a heartbeat fast approaching valve bounce. This is
no joy ride, this is for real. Are we doing a qualification time for the
Senior??
I figure all this out as we clip the straw bales apexing
Ballacraine as the tyres, by now up to racing temperature, howled and screamed,
doing their best to control the 260 horsepower from an engine on full turbo
boost. I knew there were some wobbly bits coming up soon in Laurel Bank, Glen
Helen so I finally got around to what the driver was yelling at me over the
noises in the cockpit. He had been trying to yell some sort of a conversation
since the start but listening was not on my list of priorities at the time. He
explained that he can go faster than the bikes here because he could bet a
driving wheel closer to the stone walls. I didn't want to hear that. He waved
at the Manx Radio guys at Glen Helen , so as he slowed down and slewed around
the left hander, I took the chance to start up my end of the conversation. "
Keep both your bloody hands on the wheel" I bet they didn't treat the Duke like
this.
Now we are out in the semi open country after Cronk- Y- Voddy and
things are flashing by pretty fast. I know we are soon going to be at
Barregarrow. I also know that on a bike, everything bottoms out here, so this
car is going to spill its guts all over the place when the sump hits the deck.
I brace myself for the moment. Fear is now my master and I consider ripping out
the keys and swallowing them but they are on the wrong side of the steering
pillar for me.. At the last second he backs off and we get through OK.
Bastard-he had me worried. We switch glances and he smiles to himself.
Soon he settled into fierce concentration. Oh Shit-he is gong to make a
full speed pass through Kirk Michael village. Tricky on a bike and millimeter
accurate required in a car. I fell a twinge in the sphincter muscle and also an
involuntary passing of water at the front, yet my mouth is totally devoid of
this liquid. You have probably had this feeling at least once in your
lives.
We must make a good entrance in the right-hander before the
village. He got it right so I decide to leave my eyes open a bit longer, to
find the door handle if nothing else. Soon we are out to Rhencullen and at
Bishopscourt, I ponder on the thought of what will happen at Ballaugh Bridge.
This jump should be on a motocross track not the TT.. I have seen front wheel
landings, rear wheel landings, cross ups, cock-ups, the whole bit here. I reach
out and grab anything in arm reach.
The only person I have seen that
does Ballaugh right every time, is Joey ,but he isn't driving this Swedish
steel, CLUNK! My head slams into the roof and my chin gets driven into my
chest. The guy before me in the car must have been 20 stone and I am not half
that so I didn't take up all the slack in the seat belt. I think I have broken
my top denture and I figure the car roof has a lump in it now. Secretly I hope
so, they should not have asked me to this. The "anything" I grabbed before the
leap turned out to be the driver's testicles so we were both in paid as we
speed by the houses towards Quarry Bends. Now the score was getting more even
in the contest between us as to who could be the most uncomfortable bugger in
this car. Quarry Bends are fast and they say if you get it right you slingshot
onto Sulby straight and this can be the fastest part of the track these days.
We slingshot, we hit the rev limiter and the speedo is round to zero again as
we wave to Gwen. She will go home now; her job is done for the day. There is
time to sort of relax here - strange feeling.
These brief seconds give
me time to reflect on the fact that last nights curry has spent quite some time
now doing battle with the gastric juices and I pondered who was winning.
Tremendous gas pressure had built up in my body that could not have been
measured by the vehicle turbo boost gauge.
The drivers and my opinion
of when to hit the brakes for the right angle at Sulby Bridge were at variance
by 100 yards or so. He hit the pedal at exactly the same time as the pressure
relief valve blew out in me. Instantly the cab was filled with chemicals that
could have won the Gulf War for either side. Paint fell off the metalwork.
Visibility dropped to a serious level and the vehicles air conditioning system
reached critical mass.
Passing wind can be a comforting experience but
I got the timing all wrong. We almost spun out the car but the road was just
wide enough. "The brakes are burning up" yelled the driver as he wound down the
window. "Smells like it" I yelled back. Lying through my broken teeth. The
score is about even now. We tuck in by the railings at Ginger Hall, so close I
wonder if the car has flush fitting door handles or do we go back and get them
later. My body reacts again. Conversation drops as we make progress to
Parliament Square and the driver makes tentative stabs at the brake pedal when
the air density changes in any way. We make the right hander here at a gentler
pace and I give a cheery wave to the guys in the Swan Hotel. I feel like the
Duke.
We see the guys in the commentary box at Ramsey Hairpin and the
radio is flicked on. We hear that there is a dent in the roof above my head and
the right rear door handle is swinging in the breeze .We both note it's not our
car. Now we are on the mountain. It's fast, faster than they say. The car is
low flying and both the rev counter and the speedo needles are in the end zone.
I am told to look our ahead. It seems that the thrill seekers who go to
the TT wait for the "Roads Open" car on the mountain and chase it to the Creg.
There is an official race going on in front of the car and a private one takes
place behind it. Only at the TT!!! Now I make the biggest mistake of my entire
life. Well apart from the time I told his girl that her mother and her sister
were a lot better at - no we haven't time for that story. I ask the driver if
the bikes ever catch him. The atmosphere became electric. His knuckles became
white on the woodrim wheel. "One did". He growled "1986". We flashed by the
waiting group of hopefuls, heir engines warmed up and ready to rock and roll.
The Volvo was reading 150 mph so we got a 150-yard jump on the bunch in an
instant. I looked back to see the chase was on! My legs were getting cramp from
the lack of seat belt support and where they join at the top was becoming the
opposite as the muscle here was loosing the fight over bowel control created by
abject terror and fear. This morning's cold mince pie was in full battle cry
with the last of the curry. Vision was not 100% and my mouth was dry as a chip.
Pain spread across my abdomen.
The driver was absolutely determined
that the disgrace of being passed by a bike 8 years earlier would not be
repeated so he was oblivious to my even being there. I was in crisis both ends
now. I knew Windy Corner was really going to live up to its name this time. He
hit the brake pedal and: - well guess the rest. The driver, blinking away the
tears from his eyes screamed out at the top of his voice to no one on
particular "Those f**king brakes again". We brushed by the gravel trap there by
millimeters.
I looked back to the chasers. We never gave one inch to
the bikes. Not one inch! I groaned and held my aching belly. I looked out the
window and remember thinking that if this bastard throws this car off the road
we will have to catch the Sea Cat back to Douglas such was the sped we were
going. The Irish Sea glinted below us. I felt seasick just looking at it. My
underwear was only cotton and I needed blotting paper. At last we swooped down
past Kate's to the Creg, the unofficial race over and the boys pulled up for an
ale and to talk the bullshit of how they made up ground on us; Liars. We raced
on towards Brandish, the driver well pleased and some colour returned to his
face. The colour in mine had long gone as I wound down the window!
Brandish is a lefthander, so as I had my head out the window at the
ton, the curry and mince pie mixture acted like paint remover on the car doors
and rear guard panel. The decal on the side now read - eests. Again I noted the
car was not mine. "What's wrong" yelled the pilot. "Just seeing if the door
handle is still there". I now lied through half a set of teeth, the other half
was now bouncing up the road at Hillberry and into the spectators there. I
managed a salute as we passed Governors Bridge. I figured the Duke would have
done that and I am trying to sum up some sort of dignity before we get to the
pits. We stop at last. I literally slide out of my seat and do my best to stand
erect but I know I must look like a dog shagging a cricket ball, so doubled up
in pain I am.
I crack half a smile to my driver through half a denture
and splutter to him how I enjoyed the experience so terribly much .His wife
shows up and wipes the piecrust fragments from his face that I had blown there.
She gives me an understanding nod. He is told the time was less that 23 minutes
and that's real good for a road going car apparently. He gives the keys to the
waiting mechanic and tells him the vehicle is running fine but the brakes need
checked and to perhaps change the lining material.
I slouch off to the
Hailwood Centre because there is a toilet there and I can spend some time alone
in my misery. There is a queue. Eventually I get a cubicle. There is no paper.
I look down on the floor and see of all things a Volvo owner's handbook. It
must have flown out of its holder in the car and landed on my jacket I had put
over my lap so the driver could not see the wet spot I had created earlier that
day.---There is a use for a Volvo owners handbook after all.
Now I am a
little older and look back on the occasion with a smile. I can tell my friends
I have done a lap of the TT course in less than 23 minutes. They admire me when
I say this.
But now I have a bald spot the same size as the dent in the
roof. The rest of my hair has gone gray from thinking about the ordeal. I wear
glasses. My sense of smell has left me forever. I have new dentures, as I could
not find the old ones when I went back later that night .I break into a cold
sweat whenever I pass by a curry house. and faint when I see mince pies in shop
windows.
Worst of all though is that I live in Sweden now, and every
time I go for a ride in a Volvo, I cannot prevent myself from farting!!!
by John Shand
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