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curmugeonPart 4
In Liverpool it was a time of the mods and rockers. On the street I would come acrossed groups of mods with a Vespa scooters, Nehru jackets, bob haircuts. It was like looking at a cover on a Beatles album. Then there were the rockers, with their leather and chains. They projected a tough image and in constant conflict with the mods. I dropped by the Cavern Club but it was not open. I continue down to the waterfront and found the ferry I was looking for. I and many many others crowded on to the ferry. We washed our bikes to the rails on the deck and embarked on a journey across the Irish Sea.
I arrive at the Isle of Man that afternoon. The island was crawling with motorcycles, tens of thousands of motorcycles. This was a big event, the 1971 Isle of Man TT. It was a solid week motorcycle mayhem. There was racing and rallies. I found a place to camp in the highlands above Douglas the capital. I was even crazy enough to take my motorcycle out on the racecourse on what is known as Mad Sunday. It is a day when every motorcyclist gets to ride the race course, and with the roads closed to normal traffic there is no speed limit. On one of the long straight aways I can remember seeing my speedometer pass the 120 miles per hour mark. They don't call it mad sunday for nothing. I enjoyed that week and as I was about to leave I made a mistake. In a lapse of consciousness i collided with an English taxi cab. The investigating constable was kind enough to write me a summons and tell me not to leave the island until my court date.
To be continued.
In Liverpool it was a time of the mods and rockers. On the street I would come acrossed groups of mods with a Vespa scooters, Nehru jackets, bob haircuts. It was like looking at a cover on a Beatles album. Then there were the rockers, with their leather and chains. They projected a tough image and in constant conflict with the mods. I dropped by the Cavern Club but it was not open. I continue down to the waterfront and found the ferry I was looking for. I and many many others crowded on to the ferry. We washed our bikes to the rails on the deck and embarked on a journey across the Irish Sea.
I arrive at the Isle of Man that afternoon. The island was crawling with motorcycles, tens of thousands of motorcycles. This was a big event, the 1971 Isle of Man TT. It was a solid week motorcycle mayhem. There was racing and rallies. I found a place to camp in the highlands above Douglas the capital. I was even crazy enough to take my motorcycle out on the racecourse on what is known as Mad Sunday. It is a day when every motorcyclist gets to ride the race course, and with the roads closed to normal traffic there is no speed limit. On one of the long straight aways I can remember seeing my speedometer pass the 120 miles per hour mark. They don't call it mad sunday for nothing. I enjoyed that week and as I was about to leave I made a mistake. In a lapse of consciousness i collided with an English taxi cab. The investigating constable was kind enough to write me a summons and tell me not to leave the island until my court date.
To be continued.
