TT3D

I finally had the opportunity to watch the Isle of Man TT documentary TT3D: Closer to the Edge and I'm struggling to find words to appropriately describe the film.  Words like "amazing", "fantastic", "astonishing", "incredible", and so on don't come close to describing it.

Every motorcyclist worth his weight in fouled spark plugs knows about the TT.  It's an awe-inspiring celebration of all things bike laid out over a two-week period on the picturesque Isle of Man.  For those two weeks, the island is filled to capacity with bikes.  And that's not including the race bikes, which fly around the island while nudging 200 mph.  The TT is simultaneously wonderful, if only for the sheer madness of it, and tragic, which it is for the number of riders the TT has claimed.

The film mainly follows the exploits of English rider Guy Martin at the 2010 TT.  Martin is an easily-likable guy who looks all-the-world like Wolverine.  And since Martin is from North Lincolnshire, his speech is virtually indecipherable.  Even with closed captioning, it's hard to understand what he's saying.

The film allows a look into the inner workings of the TT, following several riders in addition to Martin as they train and prepare for the race.  It's amazing how much time goes into the preparation for this event.  The preparation is similar to what goes into a whole season of circuit racing.

The TT course is another beast entirely.  The Snaefell Mountain Course is almost 38 miles in length and is fraught with danger.  The roads are lined with trees, hedges, stone walls, and other obstacles.  And that's just the roads in town.  Once you're out on the mountain, there are hills on one side and big drops on the other.  The road surface is very narrow and uneven.  There are numerous jumps and the bikes flying around the course never look settled.  They always look one slight move away from total loss of control; I guess because they are.

Anyway, back to the film.  The tragic side of the TT is also presented with a look at the family of Paul Dobbs.  Dobbs, a rider from New Zealand, was killed in a Supersport 2 race during the the 2010 TT.

Under the ambition and history of the TT is a rather dark underbelly.  The TT has claimed quite a number of lives since the first one in 1907 and that trend probably won't change in the near future, either.  It really hits home seeing Dobbs' young children who'll grow up without him.  It's really surprising the TT still goes on, to be frank.

And since the results of the 2010 TT are easily accessible, I'll spoil the ending: Martin's search for TT glory is dashed by a horrific accident.  Martin loses the front of his bike in a fast bend and becomes separated from it.  The bike goes one way and slams into a wall, bursting into flames before tumbling down the track.  Martin goes the other way and tumbles in his own right.  Martin is taken to the hospital where the extent of his injuries are diagnosed: broken ribs, punctured lung and so on.  Let's have a round of applause for modern motorcycle safety gear.

Really, watch TT3D if you have the chance.  It's a fantastic film that helps you to respect the effort and ambition behind the riders even more.  It's easy to pass them off as loons for undertaking such a mad race but a lot of the ambition is in their blood.  Martin's father raced in the TT.  Conor Cummins was born on the island.  For the Dunlop brothers, being the sons of Robert Dunlop and the nephews of TT great Joey Dunlop, it's is a family tradition.

For me, I just wish I knew what Guy Martin was saying...

I woke up on Saturday with the idea of spending the weekend on my bike.  I rolled over, peered through the blinds and saw a beautiful morning outside.  The sky was cloudless and there were a million birds in the yard.  It looked like the Winter was finally over and Spring was here a little early.

I sprung from my bed and ran downstairs like a kid on Christmas.  It's beautiful outside, I thought; beautiful for riding.  I walked into the kitchen to check the thermometer and it read...19° F.  With that, my dream of riding on Saturday lay smashed and broken at my feet.  Disgusted, I sauntered back to my bed.

Sunday started the same way: a beautiful morning and thoughts of riding.  This morning, I went downstairs with a bit less verve.  I expected to be greeted with low temps again.  To my surprise, the thermometer read 41° F.  In other words, riding temps!

In a much brighter mood, I downed my breakfast (Cocoa Krispies) and grabbed my gear.  I was halfway out the door when I realized I didn't brush my teeth, which was very gross.  Okay, teeth brushed, now I can ride.

I wheeled my bike into position, put my helmet liner and helmet on, hit the starter button...and nothing happened.  My Bonneville's battery was stone dead.  Okay, no big deal.  I took the seat off, hooked up the charger and proceeded to wait.  A few minutes later I thumbed the starter button and life happened.

My British twin roared to life, igniting a grin across my face.  I threw on the rest of my gear and headed out on the roads of my native land.

I chose a longer route than I normally do, taking advantage of a beautiful morning and an empty schedule.  I hit some back roads, rode past the Shippingport Atomic Power Station, did a bit of superslab, and then hit some more back roads.  In all, it was a glorious return after a long, cold Winter.

And it wasn't without some excitement; excitement other than running the bike up through the gears, of course.  I was on my favorite back road, totally in the zone.  It was horse and rider as one.  There was no one in front of me and I was just going.  Everything was perfect: accelerating, braking, downshifting, and cornering.  I felt like Barry Sheene, Wes Cooley, Wayne Rainey; any pro rider you can think of.  

I had just dispatched a set of corners and was cresting a small rise when I was met with a 'Road Closed' sign on the other side.  It was all I could do to keep from slamming into the signs and the Mazda Tribute turning from a side street.  I grabbed as much brake as I could, whipped the bike onto the side street and rode on pretending I didn't just cock up.  It was definitely a butt-clenching moment.  

A ways up that side street I came to a stop sign next to a golf course.  To make myself feel better, I thought I'd annoy the golfers.  When the one golfer was set to make his tee shot, I revved the bike and disrupted his concentration.  I did this about three times until I was met with words I can't repeat from the golfers.  I smiled at them and rode away laughing.

After a month or so with no riding and a season of sporadic rides, it was nice to spend a few hours in the saddle.  It was nice to be reminded how much fun it is to ride a bike.  Blasting down a back road in a poor grand prix rider impression is fun but then riding a bike anywhere is fun. 

And annoying those golfers was fun, too.