Floribama Riders

“Never underestimate the power of an idea”

Marines are crazy. Good boys, but crazy in the best kind of way. Two of my best buddies on the planet are Marines. Guys that not only are Marines, but the types that fly fast machines and ride fast bikes. My kind of people, actually.

Last year, after a trackday by Sport TrackTime, Dutch Roell and Butch Nunnally were hangin’ at the casa having an adult beverage. We all knew that both of them were going to be redeployed back to the “Sandbox” as they call the theatre of operation Iraq. During our conversations about life in general, most of us motorhead types generally will see our discussions at one time or other cycle back to riding, riders, and places to ride. We reminisced about old times, good rides, and bikes we had. We talked about races and racers. We discussed places to go, and things to see… basically, it was a typical BS session that most guys partake of. During our discussions we talked about Nicky and Valentino, we talked about Mat and Ben, we talked about riders past and present, and finally we talked about Joey.

In my opinion, Joseph William Dunlop was the greatest rider of all time. I think all 3 of us agreed that it took a special racer to accomplish what Joey did at the Isle of Man TT. Did someone say, Isle of Man? Butch noted that this year was the 100th anniversary of the race and wouldn’t it be cool if we made the trip over. Being the impulsive type, I told the guys, if you wanna do it, I will put it together. The 3 of us “shook hands” and promised when they got back from this tour we would make the special pilgrimage across the pond to see the races. Little did I know what we would all be in for, and what adventures the trip would hold.

Now, three is a nice number for traveling, but when you are making something like this come together, why not a double deuce? 4 felt correct from a karmic sense so I started putting out feelers… hey Lloyd, wanna see the 100th? Bam… da Poet was in, just like that.

At this time, Bekay was very, very sick from her bout with IBC, and a lot of time was spent soul searching in a very lonely hospital room. We both pledged that our lives were going to be full bore with each other and with life in general, basically, no more kissin’ life on the cheek, from now on it was full on French or nothing. Bekay told me, make this happen as she promised that she would be more than well enough for me to travel. I don’t argue with the redhead, so went ahead with the plans. What I didn’t realize was that the rest of the world had a two year head start on us. Mind you, my first forays into booking the trip were made in September of last year, almost 8 months in advance. Our first challenge was the ferry… the Steam Packet company that holds a monopoly on the crossing from the mainland of England or Ireland was completely and totally booked for both bikes and passengers for the TT race week. Ah oh. But, they don’t call it the “fortnight” for a 7 day
race, so I decided to try to get us a booking during practice week. Using the internet, I got four bookings on Sunday the week before the race, and a return on the following Sunday, which we found was “Mad Sunday”. Ok, step one, done.
Lloyd hopped in and got on the TT website with the listings of private homes, as I was having a heckuva time finding two rooms for us. We got so desperate that we talked about shipping a tent over with aerobeds and hiring a local to set it all up for us before we got there. We would NOT be denied, so our focus was total in securing a place to sleep.
Lloyd found a host family that, come to find out, had to choose from the 4 of us and about 20 others in line for their bed space. As things would turn out, they weren’t just a host family, but are FBR family in the best of sense. Things came together fairly rapidly after that, with my shopping determining that our best mode of travel over to the UK would be via Virgin Atlantic Airlines out of Orlando. Steps 1, 2, and 3, now completed (Lodging, Air, Ferry), it was time to start sorting out the logistics. How do we get from Manchester to Liverpool to catch the ferry? How do we get to Orlando? How will we get around on the Island? Will we have bikes to ride? The questions were endless, but via the net we were able to piece together the multiple logistics needed to make this come together. Trains, planes, ships, ferries, and motorcycles were all we needed to pull this off.

As time rolled on, Butch and Dutch got home. Both guys had told their C/O’s about the time needed, but the Dutchman had his wings clipped and had to pull out. Oh crap. Ok, back to 3, but somehow, the quattro still felt like the right number for this adventure. An email to the Big Dog, Stu Vernon and whammo, just like that, Dutch’s spot was filled. I was amazed at how little arm twisting I had to do… basically it was “hey, you wanna see the 100th running of the Isle of Man?”, and the answers were a very quick, “yep, let’s do it.”

The trip finally arrived… fly to Orlando with Lloyd, meet Butch and Stu on Saturday, then board our flight over. My, oh my, if you EVER get a chance to fly Virgin Atlantic Airlines, do it. Cocktails are no charge and they serve a couple of very nice meals. In coach. And the stewardesses are dressed impeccably with make-up and hair that would shame most fashion models. We passed out little stuffed puppies for them to pet, as a gesture of being “good Americans”. The puppies were popular, and 11 Scarlet clad lasses left the plane with a sweet little companion from their FBR friends. An 8 hour trip over, we landed in Manchester early on Sunday morning to clear customs, exchange our dollars to pounds, and collect our belongings. We knew that we had to catch the train to Liverpool, so we hauled our luggage about a half a mile to the train depot through an enormous walkway. Stu and I both had purchased the Ogio travel bags made to carry motorcycle dirtbike gear. It has a pocket
on both ends for a helmet and for boots, with enough space in the middle for 10 days of cloths. The 9900 Cavern is highly recommended. All of us laughed watching the poor guys trying to load my bag onto the plane … Big Daddy’s hernia machine was not made for little squirts. I literally had a one-man bag. It was so stuffed with presents for the family, that I had to carry my underwear in its own stuff sack onto the plane. 15 pair of skivvies and socks makes for quite a lump.

After we got to Liverpool, we checked into our hotel which was only minutes from the ferry area.

By now, we were hungry and tired, but more hungry than tired, so went on a search for food. The horror stories of Brit food are somewhat founded, but, not altogether true. We found a Sports bar that seemed to really not want to do business with anyone, but grudgingly opened its doors two hours after the posted opening time. We wanted to see the WSB race at Silverstone and common sense told us to “go to a sports bar”. Doh. Those folks couldn’t find their butts with both hands, much less a WSB race, but we finally coerced the surly cook to switch channels. It was really kind of a crappy first experience with marginal food, a complete dork for a waitress (cute, but very Polish) and awful techno music blaring while we tried to watch the race. I finally had had enough and pulled the Big Daddy shuffle to the door…

We went back to the hotel to shower, nap, and get ready for our evenings repast. I had made us a reservation at a Russian restaurant called St Petersburg, and arranged to meet Stu after he visited his friends at a local pub. I had never had authentic Russian food, and was pleasantly surprised at the choices we made. The boys begged me not to order the pickled cabbage for fear of a sneak gas attack, but I figured, “while in Rome, get some of that Caesar”. We had a round of some obscure Vodka with a “nostrovya” to our host, and enjoyed the view of a group of Albanians and Liverpool lovelies at a birthday party. It wasn’t long until the Albanians and Americans were toasting each other with multiple “nostrovya’s” and 11 rounds of potato juice put us into a bit of a giddy mood. Jetlag? The heck with that! We have a city on holiday to explore! So we headed out into the night in search of pubs, people, the birth of the Beatles, and birds. British types. It seemed as if every
person in town was out to have a good time… guys with hair slicked back and ladies with skirts that would have made better hankies than garments. Whoohoo! FBR hats on, we went from pub to club to pub to club. In that order. And with each stop, we talked to locals, shook hands, bought pints, and basically laughed and smiled a whole lot. It was a good start to the trip, and Butch and I finally made it home around the crack of 3 AM after having lost Lloyd and Stu to the pillow fairy.

Monday morning came early. My butt hurt from to much, ummm, walking. My head hurt from, ummmm, the flight induced sinus. Yeah, right, if you believe that, I have some land in Iraq to sell ya. But, we had had a ball the night before, and now we had to get to the ferry. As some had seen, the Steam Packet folks were not exactly on top of their game and had completely messed up hundreds of reservations… luckily, the fab four was running on Cherry vibe from my magic tattoo and we made our crossing without a hitch.

As we were waiting for the boarding, I heard a “yootie hoo”. Now who the heck is THAT, yelling across the tarmac? During the previous weeks, Lloyd and I spent quite a bit of time on the TT forum, asking questions, and talking to different folks. Lloyd had posted for folks crossing on the ferry to give us a shout out, and I followed that with, if you see our FBR hats and say “howdy” I would buy a pint. Well, Bubbles and Eddy had spied the FBR hats and were calling in their just rewards. Come to find out, it was a mum and daughter headed over to the races and had been going under the moniker of Bubbles and Eddy on the TT forum. It was cute, we all had a good laugh, and they got their pints, many times over. Butch, being the gallant Marine, made sure the ladies were well taken care of.

The cargo of the ship was packed to the gills with bikes. Touring bikes, sport bikes, old bikes, customs, and antiques. There were almost no cruisers. None. This was truly a gathering of gentle people for a special occasion. We met several riders on the way over and enjoyed comparing notes about roads, bikes, gear, and other motorcycle related banter. Heaven baby, but this was just the start.

As our ship slipped in to dock, the sheer beauty of the Isle of Man became evident. Douglas, the capitol, is nestled along the coastline with a large cliff looming over it. The houses and businesses are like something out of a Mary Poppins movie, but without the London grime. Pastels of many colors make the place feel like a holiday camp. Clean water, clean air, clean streets, clean houses, I guess my impression of Douglas was that it was remarkably well put together. From the stone castle keep in the harbor, to the lighthouse, you get the impression right away that this is an area that is steeped in lore and history. I had to shake my head in disbelief. We are here…. This is Joey’s Island and we are gonna visit the Kingdom of the King of the Roads. I chilled as the reality of almost 9 months of work, and many years of dreaming became evident that we were actually going to experience this.

Our host, Martin Townend, met us at the docks. We smiled and said polite “hello’s” Little did we know that our tentative handshakes would be full on hugs upon departure. Martin and Sue live on a small side street in a town named Onchan. Falkland drive. Number 15. Remember it. If you are there, and happen to be hanging out in the Terminus pub, I hope that you run into them. If you are lucky and do run into them, tell them you are FBR and Sue will cook you a wonderful meal, or Martin will bend over backward to make sure you see only the best spots to view the TT. These two folks were wonderful and treated us like family. (I can still hear Sue giving us all a “take off those shoes unless you want to Hoover the carpet!”)

The four of us made camp upstairs, with Stu and I rooming with each other. I have traveled enough with Stu that he knows my foibles of sleeping, so it was a good match. One Loo, or crapper was all the house had, so I made sure I had a plan B in effect. A block west of the Martin abode is a stop for the electric train… complete with full restroom facilities. I took a hike most mornings.

Martin had taken the week off for the TT, so he was our host, our tour guide, and our chauffeur. This guy, as well as the majority of the inhabitants on the island, are hardcore fans of the TT. They know all of the riders, their histories, the teams, and all the behind the scenes gossip that is like manna to us. Martin took us to his favorite spots to view the practices, names that I had only read about or seen on the videos. Creg ny baa, Ballaugh Bridge, Sulby Straight, Kate’s Cottage, Governor’s, Glen Helen, and on and on. We would stop, watch, take pictures, and marvel at the complexity of the road course. Bumpy, tight, and dangerous, it is a spectacle that is within inches of you as the riders hurtle by. Imagine a road, with no curbs, that has been squeezed between two hedge rows, which you could reach out and touch from the open window of a car. Imagine 45 degree turns, between buildings, doing over 100 mph. I was afraid to watch on occasion, as the slightest
mistake was not only dangerous, but potentially fatal. Over the next 5 days, we visited at least 12 viewing spots on the 38 mile course.

Stu, being the beer snob that he is, was in heaven. He sampled bitters and ales and bocks and God only knows what else was being brewed on the Island. Bushy’s is the biggest brewer, making several types of lagers and stouts. The Big Dog lapped long, and he lapped deep. I got a kick out of watching him enjoy his pints of bitter. Lloyd, would be cool, asking for a Budweiser, opining that the Brit beers were too strong for him. What Lloyd didn’t realize was that the Bud was brewed over there and to an alcohol content that was almost twice the US version. Wimps. I enjoyed watching Lloyd go, “holy crap, what IS this stuff?” The locals all pretty much drink heavily… Sue’s self proclaimed analysis of the inhabitants of Man was “79,000 alcoholics, clinging to a rock.” The pub and the church are equally important in the overall life of the Manx. I loved the juxtaposition.

We enjoyed our pub food… we didn’t enjoy the restaurants. We had met David Crandall and his buddy Bill a couple of days into the trip, and spent many a good hour watching the practices with the two of them. After the practices, we would manage to find a place to convene and enjoy the company of each other with the spice of the locals to fulfill the evenings visits. We made a foray to a Chinese restaurant and had a dinner for 9. No biggie. And we had some local liquers. Again, no biggie. Until poor David picked up the check… how many $850 Chinese meals have you seen? We all pushed pounds his way after we did CPR on him.

The Douglas area had two major concentrations of shopping. The promenade, which was the walkway on the ocean, and the Strand, which was a pedestrian only walkway lined with shops and restaurants. Each of us made a foray to both areas for the requisite T shirts, knick knacks, and souvenirs. Walking on the island was a pleasure… what’s not to like about the ocean on one side, and the picaresque village of Douglas on the other? We did our level best to make sure that financially, the TT is around for next year.

Sue’s pop is a hardcore Manxman that has worked the TT for years. He also rides a Vulcan 800 and has an old Kawasaki H bomb 400 triple. He was kind enough to allow us to take a tour on his Vulcan of the road course. Stu had met a lad the evening before at the Bushy's tent from London named Phil, and Phil agreed to be tour guide for us on his Ducati Monster. After Stu’s loop, Stu commented," Phil is a good rider and you will enjoy your ride." Stu was right, Phil was a dang good rider and he took no prisoners as we hauled ass around the road course. Mental note… Vulcans are evil handling, underpowered, poorly sprung bikes that have absolutely nothing in common with a Ducati Monster. Phil would pass 6 bikes hanging behind a lorry, which was behind an 18 wheel lorry, of which, I would flog the crap out of the Vulcan to hang on the fender of Phil. I think Stu had ridden the old girl too hard, because she would pop and fart upon coming off the gas or going into deceleration
mode. We passed a LOT of bikes that in theory, would have blown my shorts into the weeds. We passed a LOT of cars and lorries that in the states I would have never, ever, tried to do. Hello corner. Hello oncoming. Hello poopy pants. I jiggled, and wiggled, and bounced my around the road course, trying all the while to imagine how it would feel at 160 mph, vs the meager 80 I was managing. I can’t imagine… or fathom, how they do it. By the time I reached the mountain course up Snaefell mountain, the fact that the road was closed to only one way traffic meant that all of those that I had, ahem, passed on the lower end, were now using my yellow jacket on the sputtering ruby bike as target practice. Take that, fat yank! I just would keep the throttle pinned and hope someone didn’t put a boot into the side of my bike. Phil finally lost me somewhere just past Creg ny baa, which is about ¾ of the way around the circuit. I grinned, knowing that he was really pumping it pretty
good. David had secured a ride from one of the competitors on a Gixxer 600… he was kind enough to offer it to both Stu and I, but I had had my lap on Joey’s road. My next one will be on my own ride.

One of my most poignant moments was visiting the Joey Dunlop memorial. It is almost at the top of Snaefell, just above the tracks of the electric train. The wind was howling off of the Irish Sea as we hiked our way up to the statue. All of us had a good sense of reverence as we touched the statue of Joey, his bike, and had our pictures made individually and as a group. We picnicked on turkey baps with butter and enjoyed Vimto box drinks. While we lunched, there was a steady stream of people from all over the world to see the statue of the great Joey Dunlop. We heard French, German, and who knows how many other languages and dialects spoken as people would pay their respects and then silently depart. It was an experience I won’t be forgetting anytime soon.

The pit area was wide open to the public, allowing us to easily move around and view the racing operations of the different teams. Watching the mechanics and riders fettle the rides was completely reminiscent of watching a WERA, AMA, MotoGP, or any motorcycle oriented event. Our love of all things two wheeled transcends all countries.

I am still amazed at all of the ancient iron running around on the island. One of my favorite photos is of a single cylinder old Norton with a full face helmet secured to it. Awesome stuff. People riding machines that we look at in awe over at the Barber museum. It really put a huge smile on my face.... more to come. The arrival of Jeff Hoffman, an Officer and a Gentleman, and ASBO's.

BD