TT - Another Mad Dash

[yorkie_chris]

AKA "I thought I used a lot of fuel going to Wales"
Edit:
I do apologise for the mammoth length of this post, but if any of you can be *rsed to read my ramblings then it is entirely your own problem if you are that bored!


So, it's TT week. The time when all shall align themselves West towards the holy mecca of the Mountain Circuit. Some dedicated pilgrims will even make the trip to worship in person, braving the perils of driving through Liverpool without having their wheels nicked and surviving the terror of the price at the bar on the steam packet.

As usual, I had given up hope of going to see any of the racing due to the mental prices for the ferry and everything else. Until a Welshman with particularly fortunate Y fronts happened to mention on here that he had a friend with a powerboat who happened to have space for more people on Friday it took all of a minute for me to get in touch and find out what the craic was. (see http://forums.sv650.org/showthread.php?t=167324)

A curious enquiry online from somewhere North of the border soon turned into "a 200 mile drive after a 12 hour shift? What could possibly go wrong, book me a seat!"

An intense logistical planning session soon followed, as maps were consulted, vehicles were procured by bribery, stealth and only minor gratuitous violence. I only had to get to the boat, then across to the other side of the country to collect a bike, then home again by Saturday lunch, easy! A quick phonecall soon booked 2 rooms at La Casa Del Preston and we were all set!

Back to work and the prospect of a mad boat ride followed by watching some racing had me buzzing like mad, and telling everyone who would listen and a few who couldn't care. Anyone who'd listen said I was mental and we were going to die horribly, the odds around the workshop were 3:2 of death by seasickness and 2:1 for drowning. Heathens of little faith!

5PM Thursday and I was rolling out the gate in the Mighty Vito of rustiness trailing the de rigueur cloud of burning oil to the soundtrack of an underpowered engine being tortured. A quick stop at home to throw in some bike ramps, straps, thermos, shades, more fags and essential directions and we were rolling!

Arriving in Preston, the incredible slowness of the Mighty Vito saw me arriving with barely time to visit the station of endless depressing expense and say a quick hello to Davido del Preston and Gemma before getting the text from (a very naughty!) Fenjer that she was about 20 minutes out and needed escorting back from the motorway. Of course sitting suspiciously in a layby in a piece of sh*t van smoking a hand rolled fag next to a petrol station is my FAVOURITE place in the whole world while the ENTIRE late shift of the Lancashire constabulary seem to be filling their tanks at once!

With epic timing, the catering staff had supplied a pizza on arrival and it was carefully offered to a hungry Fenjer. Del Preston and myself bravely ducked behind the settee to avoid the snapping of jaws and flying crusts. I managed half a slice or so to sustain my slender physique and got down to the serious business of drinking with Dave! One can down the hatch, and the noise of pizza based carnage from the corner of the settee subsided. Need to feed sated, Fenjer fell asleep in seconds and was dozing into her brew as part of team "drink beer and smoke fags" racing got stuck into serious training for next years efforts

Fenjer being better looking than me trumps my "favoured customer" status and I am downgraded from my usual penthouse suite to the settee downstairs.

0400 Friday morning. "Eh... Ug... Meh... Wha th f... Oh... Daves front room, b*llocks, should have another 2 hours kip"
0430 "Eh..."
0500... You get the gist! At about 6 I gave up sleep as a bad job and lit up the first fag of the day and got myself moving. By 0645 the Mighty Vito was tearing up the tarmac in the direction of fleetwood. Stuck behind a truck, considering the merits of a 2 mile long overtaking straight, only to realise the 100:1 incline has actually resulted in a heavily loaded brewery wagon pulling away from us!

Meeting the boat at 7:30 on the slipway. 7:29 sees us stood on a decidedly chilly slipway. No boat. 7:31 I'm wondering whether we're in the right place when a noise echoes across the millpond smooth river mouth. The faint echo soon becomes the awesome resonating roar of big marine motors having the b*llocks kicked out of them as the big RIB skims the water towards us. "Bloody show off!"

"Eh up!" "Oh you must be Chris then", we hop aboard, Fenjer begins her 10 round fight with a drysuit. The safety briefing is delivered with a healthy sarcasm. "Any questions?" One of the triumph-restorer looking types at the front pipes up, wondering if he can smoke. "Sure, but just be careful and don't if the coastguard come to say hello. But do bear in mind you're sat on the filler cap with 600l of petrol under you". I think it put him off the idea.

The last part of the briefing was "if anyone wants to have a go, just ask, the less steering I have to do, the better". Wahey! As we leave the estuary at Fleetwood Simon gives the engines some beans and the boat picks up onto the plane. A gorgeous growl from the big motors. I last about 5 minutes "GIZ A GO MISTER"

I take the wheel and Simon advances the throttles another few notches, the slight swell on the water makes it a real challenge to hold a heading, constant correction needed as well as the effort needed to stand up in a bouncing, rolling boat. About half an hour out, Simon up the front of the boat chatting to one of the Triumph-ists, I hear a worried shout from Simons crew (Becky), I feel my legs getting wet and look back at the engines. One of which is throwing gallons of water a second into the back of the boat! This could be inconvenient at best! I suddenly feel that my flight jacket and jeans may well have been better exchanged for one of those drysuits!

Simon flips a few switches and backs off the power, kicking some monster bilge pumps in to throw some water back out. It doesn't help much, the water now covering the lowered part of the transom. Probably 50+ gallons of water. We're now stationary, bobbing around near the wind turbines offshore. Whatever was fouling the prop must have fallen off on raising the engines, and we resume course, our speed now reduced from 40kt (46mph!) to 20. The monster bilge pumps clear the water in minutes. This lasts for about 5 minutes before Simon gets bored and comes back to get the taps opened up again! 41 knots!

I concentrate on steering a course for Douglas, the (very expensive) GPS chart plotter much easier than trying to match a bouncing compass to a patch of sea with nothing on it. The engines at my back giving a gorgeous symphony as we skim the waves, the boat hardly noticing. Hitting one wave manages to throw a decent wall of spray into all the other passengers. Result

Simon comes back to say hello as we pass the Steam Packet going the other way, we chat (shout!) at each other about the boat and engines until from nowhere a massive bang as we hit the wake of the Packet. Then another bang as we hit it's stern wake. My feet are a good 6" off the floor as I'm gripping hard on the wheel. Time stands still for the second of weightlessness as I sense incoming unpleasantness. I hope my feet land back on the step of the console... because if not then my head is going straight through that £3000 satnav display... My feet land back on the deck fine, I don't headbutt any expensive navigational aids, and my teeth aren't embedded in the steering wheel. What a buzz!

We get into Douglas harbour and jump off the boat onto the pontoon. The bell sounds for round 2 of Fenjers fight with the welly boot of death she's been wearing. It's only when I get up the ladder and onto the dock in the sun that I realise just how bloody cold and knackering it is driving the boat! I roll a fag with near numb, incompetent fingers and wait for the sun to thaw me out a bit. What a ride! Exhilarated is not a strong enough word for it!

We wander up through Douglas to get ourselves situated on some comfy patch of wall and crash pad, watch the classics parade lap, sniff the Castrol R and wish for the days where you could see those legends being ridden as they were meant to be ridden. The sound of a 4 cylinder 2 stroke being ridden around at low speed, coughing it's guts up like it's been on 60 a day nearly brings a tear. Like seeing a caged tiger at a circus. Best seen out in the wild, flat out. Only for them to be cut down in their prime by the merciless trophy hunter enviro mentalists, denied their natural habitat and only a mere sideshow to the main event...

The main event, the Senior. The Proper TT. The Daddy. The delayed due to weath.... B*llocks! We loiter on our patch of wall, the petrol station supplies brews and sustenance in the form of sausage sandwiches and malteasers. The 12:15 race start soon becomes 2:15, then 3:15, then 5:15. Simon worries about the tides and getting his boat into harbour, we need to be motoring by 6:30. The time goes by with banter and more brews, the subaru car goes out to do their flying lap. They're slower than bikes Me and Fenjer go to buy some TT based tat and leave intrepid Simon and Becky to guard our spot on the wall. Some fine entertainment on the way back watching some fat people try to climb a wall...

FINALLY! 5:15. You could cut the atmosphere with a bread knife. The camera helicopter clatters overhead to film the start, the commentators are going nuts. We hear the first stirrings of engines running from up the hill, and we're on! The bikes charge down the hill, some skittering and weaving, some frantic wheelies. The fours howling their way down, the crossplane R1s booming. The really fast boys looking planted and composed, more normal looking than anyone has the right to look while doing those speeds. Guy Martins leads by 6s, Anstey and Mcguinness not hanging around. A pit stop sees the battle for the lead close right up, there's some right drama on as the bikes continue to scream past. We're hanging on every word of the commentators to see who's lost a second here, or gained a half there, until all too soon we have to leave for the boat. Pilgrimage cut short before the final turn of play...

Simon is determined he is not spending 12 hours bobbing around bored. We strap on lifejackets and hoy any breakable kit into the lockers and hold on. 2 laps to go in the final mass of our cut-short pilgrimage as we cross over the exit of Douglas harbour, Simon advances the throttles to full chat and leaves them there. The lovely calm sea means we come right up to a smooth plane and hardly move, a gentle rolling soon convinces me to lig out on the deck and I'm soon dozing off with the roar of the engines and the wind and the sun on my face. A shout of "DOLPHIN" rouses me from my slumber and I jump up to have a look. Fenjers distraction by dolphins veers us off on a course towards Cornwall and I have to lunge for the grabrail, I don't fancy a swim, and doing over 50mph any dolphins to be seen are far behind! I get back on with the serious business of being lazy... After a while Jens poor little legs have had enough of the battering stood at the helm and she comes to sit back down.

Chatting about the ride, and the scary numbers on the "litres per hour" meter, she soon utters the words "well if he wanted to go fast we've had the perfect weather for it". About 10 miles out of Fleetwood we start to hit some chop. The boat flat out, 43 knots or so, wave after wave has us braced into our seats watching the walls of spray we're kicking up. I stand up and look back to see Simon with a sh*t eating grin, the throttles still pinned. A snarling resonance from the big V6s turning 5000rpm. A couple of waves have the props out of the water and the snarl turning to a scream and a bark as the props unload and bite, the engines paggering into the rev limiters. We brace our feet into the sides and hang on, getting sprayed with water with every wave. I am once again envious of Fenjers gimp suit as I worry about my fags getting wet in my jeans pocket. some moments of weightlessness over some of the waves as the engines scream. Simon pops his head over the console with a massive grin and mouths "AIR".

6 miles out, Simon cuts the revs, we're getting knocked about a bit much and the engines are spending as much time spinning as biting into the water. At full tilt in the chop they're wolfing down some scary numbers... 175 litres of fuel an hour. Nearly a gallon per mile! Trust me when I say that a paltry 50mph, on the water, is bloody quick!

We see the landing slip ahead, I wonder just how exactly he intends to stop the boat, but he chops power and glides effortlessly up to the slip. Some careful manauvering and we moor up and disembark. Seconds out and fenjer is back into round 3 with the welly from hell, more of a wrestle this time... and before we know it we're back on solid ground. Near shellshocked, senses overloaded with noise and movement and adrenaline and water. Stagger back to the van and spark up. Sit with the heater on for a few minutes to thaw out.

None of the thrashing of the outward journey. Potter back towards Preston. Miss the turn, take a small detour via Lancaster. Senses still battered, the tortured diesel of the Mighty Vito sounds muffled and quiet. We meet Simon near Preston and head back to Dave's.

A quick brew and Fenjer points herself back to the barbarian wastes of the North, we wish her godspeed and no naps on the motorway!

Time now for the reward for a hard day, we visit the takeaway. Truck wheel size pizza with extra everything and thence to the pub! Simon and I munch through pizza while we chat about boats, motorbikes and other really cool stuff. Gemma obliges us with a trip to the bar as we get on with our feed. The first pint goes down like nectar. Simon is on the shandy and soon leaves me and Dave to continue ripping the p*ss out of each other, as he had a date with 2 cheerleaders in Chester to keep... Can't blame him!

After a day like that, I didn't see any harm in taking my leave after 3 pints and crashing out for a good 8 hours kip before wending my way on to collect bikes and people for a solid day in the garage Saturday!



As we staggered up the landing slip one quote from Fenjer sums the lot up. Thanks very much for lending this gem to sum up this writeup

Originally Posted by fenjer

That was a million shades of awesome, and then some

Massive thanks to Simon with his boat the Fyne Pioneer for making this all possible. What a trip. What a day. What a set of memories to have. My lips are sunburned, my knee does not appreciate the effects of the ride or the drive, I'm half drunk and knackered and it was totally worth it!!!

I have a few extra pointers to add... but they wont be nearly as humorous, I'll do it tomorrow.

It was blinking amazing.

[appollo1]

very informative YC. I even had a little chuckle out loud reading some of the comments.

Not jealous at all.....honest

Wow YC, you may be good with a socket set and spanner but you're a genius with the keyboard! Your write-ups leave me grinning from ear to ear. Glad you had such a memorable day.

Lol, enjoyed that
How fecking long did that take to write though ?

Originally Posted by specialone

Lol, enjoyed that
How fecking long did that take to write though ?

about 3 hours, fuelled by Jura!

[Geodude]

Superb write up Yc. We need a new stickied section with these in fella.

Your both lucky Lucky people . Sounds ace !

[dizzyblonde]

Rubbish

Fantastic write up chris, sounds like mucho fun, thought you was off the cigs though, or was it nerves after you finally seeing Titanic?