It should be the other way round - aren't we meant to get slower as we get older? I can’t seem to get it right, my speeds are becoming higher! The TT’s the problem. All that open asphalt. Come on, who's not going to let rip? Since the creation of time (well, the sixties, really) I've been obsessed by the whole concept of two wheels and an engine - can't help it, Doc, must be the water...
Growing up with Read, Ago, Sheene (the real heroes) life seemed a pretty special place add a sixties soundtrack and you had the perfect combination. A utopia of sorts, well at least until the ‘73 helmet law - possible vision for the future, sadly. We all believed in the endless highway, a little ironic today, considering the amount of steel boxes on the road but,nevertheless, a dream and a feeling of freedom. Remember the parties? Girls, sweat and rock ’n’ roll. Commitment only meant the next gallon of petrol.
The seventies were a strange beat. We could all marvel at the technological changes of the middle to late twentieth century. But, at the same time, we had to consider fundamentals such as the fuel crisis - I still have the ration coupons to prove it.
Ah yes, you say, but we still had fun, burning a gallon of the good stuff and seeing clouds of blue smoke tail away like an F1 on song. Well, the bug bit deep and then, because of an addictive personality, I had to have more. A change of lifestyle and different job meant a move away from the UK, to Europe, the gateway to everywhere.
Now we've talking. Attitudes seemed strangely different. More bikes, people waved, more money, better bikes - and I'd honestly never seen a Bimota or Mk.1 Le Mans in the flesh, so to speak. Our runs consisted mainly of going from country to country. Five countries in a day seemed like heaven. Especially with me and my little jewel, the 400F SS. Ah! I remember it well, the legend immortalised on the tank, Honda Super Sports 400F. Those three years, 1976 to 79 we (and I mean the collective we) travelled from Holland to all points east and west.
What a learning curve. Every single road surface experienced; every crap driver. In fact, everything this side of the Iron Curtain (RIP). Tremendous stuff. We seriously learnt our craft. One year, in fact, I did a staggering 29000 miles on my dependable 400. My mate had a seriously tuned S3 400 triple (Stan Stephens Special). You should've heard this rocket storm up the autobahn - pure magic! We took both bikes to the Hockenheim Circuit and let rip. My god, serious stuff! Sunday was always the best - a great meeting place - Oh, what fun, especially 1976 with all that sun.
Big problem with memory is that it has a habit of letting you down: Things always seem bigger, strange that. Possibly something to do with rose-coloured specs. I don't know but it didn't seem so grand years later. So here we are, pleasant days, always a bike in the garage, you know - something to get around on. Some good, some bad. Not the real thing, though.
Life has a habit of changing for no apparent reason. First a wife and then two beautiful blue-eyed little girls, and we all know the commitments little ladies need. The biking obsession had to take a back seat (who would’ve thought). Bang! One day you're sitting there and almost like a time bomb it slowly starts and then, look out wham bang, thank you mam you need the fix again. I've got the mortgage, house, kids, car, school and all the general paraphernalia of domestic bliss, but can I ever contemplate or justify a nod in the direction of the past?
Sod it, go for broke. It’s like Clint said in some film - “It may be boring but it’s all we've got, so make the best of it. This thing called life ain’t no trial run, it’s the real thing!” Oh dear, here I go again. But wait, let's not be too hasty, times have changed. We’re talking about some serious tackle here. Bikes handle! Surely not, only Italian and some trick hybrids. Yeah sure and engines to match.
The video seemed quaint and somewhat old fashioned, you know - haircuts, leathers, even some of the bikes. But that year, 1984, Kawasaki unleashed the equivalent of a Sherman tank. The GPz900R won the production race at the TT, took all the honours. This seemed like a good place to start.
The eighties became a very fast decade. Life did seem fast money, spend, spend, spend. Maggie, the house boom, everything. The Kawasaki seemed to symbolise the essence of positive development. The Japs had finally got it right - that bike rocked the motorcycling world and in turn, overnight, humbled the Jota and Katana. I don’t think even now we realise how much of an impact it had.
GPz1000R arrives - the speed was phenomenal, 120 - 30 - 40 - 50 plus. Typical of me not to be satisfied, the bike didn’t stay around too long - I had to keep up with the changes and the latest sensation. From the land of the rising sun came a new Honda with a legend proclaiming it to be the fastest production bike in the world. I had to have one (CBR1000). Life became even faster. 160 plus! Terminal speeds. Wait, hold on, I'm 38 years old and counting. Do I really need this? Yes! Most definitely, yes! My responsibilities grew by the day with the family growing and needing so much. But me still dicing with death on the queen's highway.
For whatever reason I traded it in for a BMW LT1000 - seemed a good idea at the time. My life slowed down. So slow I soon got bored, pure culture shock, a different world. People suddenly had time to smile and wave. Next up, VFR750. Red, glorious - 105hp, 150mph (this particular model was faster than a standard RC30), torque like a Mack truck. Any gear, pure power.
Years passed. Blah! Blah! The Island was the destination for 1993. Good weather, great racing meetings, runs, making friends. England circa 1960 and bikes, bikes - bliss! Back to Blighty, things seemed strangely weird. No smiling faces and hardly any bikes. What had happened? Had I just managed to drift through a time warp?
Dartmoor, back home, did seem to offer something like a little hope. Open space, no cars, just the odd sheep. Surprisingly lonely - the rest of the world had gone to sleep. Never mind, close the curtains and shut down for the winter.
1994. TT again. Much excitement. Another bike, an FZR1000. Derestricted to 139hp! Oh dear, what have I done? As the fifties test pilots may have said - he’s pushing the outside of the envelope. Don’t know what it means, but it sounds good and does seem to sum up what was happening. The Island in 1994 was full of strange feelings. Immediately didn't feel as good - weather’s crap and the day I arrived Mark Farmer had died - not good, very sad. I’ve slowed down already. But... one beautiful morning at 5.30am I awoke and things changed.
You know the scene - birds twittering, sun, no wind. Good feeling, you know it’s time to go. A little hunger in the pit of the stomach, good for the nerves. The whole scene could be a cliche from an American road movie set in the mid seventies but today is the real thing.
Slowly, the leathers are put on, boots, helmets and then gloves. The velcro gets hit as you’re locked in. Key in the ignition, position right, look good, fire up and sit there waiting for the oil to circulate and heat up. Listen to those 20 valves bouncing up and down. Do I seriously realise how much physical power there’s beneath me. No! Off I go. Slowly at first then picking up speed, warm up the tyres, get the motor bedded in and pull the odd wheelie. Arrive at the 8th milestone and join the main drag - no Cars, no bikes, just silence. I may be forty-ish now but today’s going to be special. I’m going to test myself and everything I’ve learnt up until that point.
A slow build up, take it easy, just drift along at a steady pace, watch the banking, check out the sheer beauty of the island and then with an almighty gulp draw in breath, twist that throttle and go. Adrenaline pumps and pumps - respiration is good, listen to everything.
Concentrate on the road ahead Nick Jefferies video from ’93 running through my head, all the advice, little tips, but then I take over and it seems like I’m a time traveller. Nothing else matters, just you and two little pieces of rubber and that almighty great engine. Faster, faster it goes and I get to the Highlander, the power band, which I've never experienced and only read about, hits and then hits with the velocity of an AK47 - can I hold on?
Bumps, cambers, white lines - all a blur. I keep to the racing line. My feet are sweating and my hands are tight but in control. Just remember, the throttle goes both ways. The mountain's glorious, all mist and sunshine, total serenity. What a high! My speeds are ridiculous, my riding pure magic. Around 37 plus miles in 22 minutes- astounding.
Back to the 8th, take a deep breath. The rest of the TT was surprisingly dull. The weather's crap, totally out of control and I had a stomach bug. But for one great moment I had it all and it felt good. Back home life returned to normal, the FZR gone, back to basics with a little RS250 and an old R60S laying dormant in the garage. Boredom setting in again...
Simon Haddock