The Lady of Mann

by Stefan Brenner

Part 1, Part 2,
Part 3 appear
in this issue.

conclusion

The Junior race started without undue problems and stayed that way for quite some time. When I pulled into the pit-lane at the end of lap three, everything was running according to plan. Tom and Siân operated the overhead quick-filler, dumping the two-stroke mix into the petrol tank, and cleared the smears from visor and perspex screen. Tom glanced over the bike, giving it the thumbs up, as Siân held a chalked ‘minus 60’ in front of my visor.

‘Minus 60’: that meant that I had a minute in hand for the silver Replica as estimated by the current leader’s lap times. I screamed the motor away from the pit-stop, slipping the clutch to keep in the power-band. Hurtling head-first down Bray Hill, I commenced the new lap with just three more to go.

No sign of McCree who had started 6 minutes behind me. To catch me by the finish, he would have to ride like the wind. Nothing but empty tarmac stretching into the distance: I had already passed the slower men with earlier start times and had fallen into a slot of my own on the roads. On and on I flew.

Approaching Ballacraine for the last time, I struck trouble. Leaving my braking late, I squeezed the lever hard, too hard, and locked up the front wheel. I heard a terrible screeching noise, and white smoke rose from the overheated front tyre. Instantly, I released the lever, allowing the tyre to regain grip, and reapplied the brakes. But the damage had already been done. I knew that I was travelling too fast to make the corner.

Taking the only course of action available, I kept the bike upright, and shot down the escape road, heading for Peel and the coast. Braking to a juddering halt, I leapt out of the saddle and battled to turn the TZ around without letting the motor die. Under the heavy leathers I was sweating profusely from a combination of physical effort, fear and sheer frustration.

The seconds ticked away, time streaming past in a rushing torrent. A couple of riders appeared, banked over, and headed up to Ballaspur. For a moment I almost despaired and gave up, but then I was back on board. As the track marshals frantically waved me on, I headed in the right direction, revving the gassed-up motor to a boiling frenzy.

How much time had I lost? It was impossible to tell, but it had felt like a lifetime. The important thing now was to keep calm, concentrate, and ride like hell to the finish. There was still a chance of the Replica if only I didn’t panic. But I felt shattered: at my relatively advanced age, five laps of the bumpy course had extracted an inevitable toll. On the other hand, there was less than a lap to go, and I would last for that.

It happened as I slowed for Sulby Bridge. Braking a tad early, another bike suddenly pulled up alongside of me. Its rider was clad in white leathers with the name ‘Jim McCree’ emblazoned across the back in red letters.

Let him go, I thought to myself. But I couldn’t. He slipped past, and I chased his wheel-tracks around Ginger Hall. Though Kerroomoar, Glen Duff, Glentramman and Milntown Cottage we rode together nose to tail. Parliament Square, and I was still with him. Cruikshank’s and I had him in my sights.

Then, diving into the Hairpin and searching for bottom gear, he found neutral instead. With the engine disconnected from the drive-train, he wobbled out of control, screaming his motor and stamping on his gear lever as he ran hopelessly wide. I powered into the corner and drove through up the inside with a muttered, “got you now.”

But approaching the Gooseneck, his front wheel nosed back up my right-hand side. I muttered dark profanities and tightened my line, blocking off the apex to hold him back. But he just kept on coming, forcing me dangerously off the racing line. The man must be mad. Behind my visor, I yelled nameless profanities, but no one, least of all Jim, could hear my cries of fury and frustration.

Our fairings touched. For a moment, the two bikes locked horns like rutting stags. My attention diverted, I never saw the granite-walled bank as it swept towards me from the left. As I struggled to maintain control, I clipped the left-hand side of my fairing on the stone and was knocked fatally off balance. The bike flapped wildly from side to side and threw me up the road. As I fell, I felt my right hand take a crushing blow.

Sliding along the tarmac, the bike skittering away before me, I caught a last despairing glimpse of Jim as he, too wobbled precariously for few yards, but eventually straightened and powered away up the Mountain climb, his exhausts emitting a howl of triumph that seemed to echo on interminably.

* * *

There had been a great deal of fall-out from Tuesday’s accident. Plunged into a state of dark despondency, with my hand hurting like hell, I decided to jack it in and go home early. But an X-ray quickly revealed that my hand was merely bruised: an ice-pack reduced the swelling and the only thing seriously damaged appeared to be my pride.

Tom argued that I’d be insane to quit. At first he was reassuring: “I was fine, the Ducati had been fully prepared and it might well bring me a Replica in the Senior.” He went on and on in a similar vein: I’d just been shaken up; I needed some rest; I would feel different in the morning.

When this failed, he turned to blackmail. “If I didn’t get the bike into Mylchreest’s Garage for scrutineering, it would be too late and I would never forgive myself. I would be returning home empty handed after all the effort. He certainly wouldn’t be in a hurry to forgive me if I packed it in now; was just I going to throw away all the work he had put in fettling the bikes?

In the end, we compromised. We were booked to return home on the ferry Lady of Mann, early on Saturday morning. I agreed to ride, but only if the Senior wasn’t delayed by bad weather.

* * *

On the morning of the race, a fine drizzle fell steadily from a leaden sky, and a fitful breeze kept the sodden canvas of the tents flapping in the Noble’s Park campsite. Siân called me for breakfast with the news that the Lightweight 250cc race had been delayed. By mid-morning the weather improved, the hitherto overcast skies brightening, and the Lightweight finally got away to an 11 o’clock start, an hour behind schedule and reduced to only 3 laps.

The Senior was now scheduled for 1:30. At quarter past, the wind died and cloud descended to blanket the Mountain sections. Up at The Bungalow, the commentary point was swathed in white mist with visibility reduced to a handful of yards. It would be suicidal to try and ride in these conditions and it seemed that the race would have to be postponed. Then, with hope almost extinguished, the weather sprang yet another surprise. A strengthening Atlantic breeze began to break up the clouds and a new start time was arranged for 3 o’clock.

* * *

First time down to Quarter Bridge and I felt the rear brake pedal go soggy under my boot: instinctively, I guessed that a calliper seal had failed and I lifted my foot off the brake. Ignoring the twinge of pain from my injured hand, I applied extra pressure to the front brake to compensate. I would have to keep right away from that foot-pedal until the end of the race: brake fluid on the rear tyre would probably spell disaster.

By Kirk Michael, I was ahead on the roads. Starting early, it had been an easy ride so far. The Duke had exceeded my expectations: its flexible power was proving admirably suited to the slippery track conditions. As the Bologna twin devoured the miles to Ramsey and the Mountain, my worries seemed to fall away, receding like the road behind me.

At Mountain Box, I saw white tendrils of cloud curling across the track: like galleons, great cumulous clouds were crashing against the flanks of Snaefell and wrecking themselves on its granite shoreline. While mentally attempting to peel the deceptive candyfloss from unyielding stone, I felt my guts knot in anticipation of Snaefell’s ability to wreak havoc upon the defenceless human body.

* * *

Michael Corkill swept in and out through the swirling shroud of mist, negotiating Mountain Box and Verandah with his heart in his mouth. Then, abruptly, his vision cleared: a wipe of his suede glove-back wiping the remaining droplets from his visor. Michael wound the throttle wide open as, once more, he headed for Douglas and safety.

Approaching the fast left-handers of 33rd Milestone he kept his fingers from the brake lever until the last possible moment. Now! He willed the action, but the hand injured in his disastrous brush with McCree remained stubbornly wrapped around the twist-grip.

Almost as if it had a will of its own his right hand kept the throttle hard against the stop, pouring on the power, inexorably increasing the speed. Panic mounting, Michael jabbed the kill-button with his obedient left thumb, cutting off the motor’s sparks, slowing the headlong rush to destruction, but not enough, not close.

Thoughts whirling aimlessly, he stamped hard down on the rear brake pedal: hydraulic fluid gushed from the leaky calliper seal and spewed across the rear tyre. Adhesion stretched to the limit by the drag of the lifeless motor, the tyre’s tenuous grip on the track surface was undone by the slippery coating: man and machine hurtled uncontrollably across the road, over the sheer drop and out into the empty void.

In the long drawn-out moments before oblivion, Michael focused his remaining powers of thought on Ruth. Desperate, he strained for a vision of her violet-blue eyes as if this alone might save him. But try as he might, Michael’s mind was filled only with the dizzying emptiness of his life. Finally, he understood what he had really known all along. He was alone.