The Manx GP.

Just back from three days at the Manx GP on the Isle of Mann. Sunny, camping, crack, (‘talk’ in case your imagination has the better of you) bacon butties in the morning with crisps, coke and chocolate the rest of the day. The TT and the MGP races are a textbook anachronism. Started in 1911 they consist of 4 or 6 laps of a 37.5 mile circuit around the island, including a ‘mountain’ of modest proportions. Old pictures show riders in shoes and trousers leaving plumes of dust from dirt roads and smoking like chimneys as soon as they finish. Considering the tracks and machinery 40mph average speed was heroic. Forward 99 years and the roads are tarmac but still country lanes between stone walls, earth banks and trees, through several villages and two towns. And the bikes have changed out of all recognition, from a Brough Superior, top speed 70mph, to a Honda Fireblade’s 200mph. Average speeds have increase from 40 to 130mph. In fact the only thing that hasn’t appreciably changed is the human being; we’re still blood and bones in a skin. The course has a hundred marshalling points, each equipped with medical stuff, stretcher, radio, flags and at least five volunteer marshals. There are at least six motorcycle paramedics each capable of at least a hundred mph lap time, and two helicopters. The time from a rider falling off to arriving in hospital is less than ten minutes. During practice and racing riders cover around 150,000 miles at speeds up to 200mph. All this on roads around 25 feet wide between walls and trees. All this is not a sensible pursuit. Though I’ve been a keen motorcyclist for some 50 years and raced off road this has gone beyond heroism; it has become a severe test of lack of imagination. But I love it apart from the price that’s paid for the slightest mistake. My heart goes out to the three vans that will go home with a person missing. So what do you do with an anachronism that kills people? I don’t know.