Some people ride bikes their whole lives and are completely unaware of that special moment that lights up the soul and makes a person an incurable addict. My moment came at the early morning 6a.m. practice on June 6th. 1964, and was also my introduction to the most magnificent and enjoyable road racing venue in the world. I had originally started riding motorcycles out of necessity because they were cheap transportation. From a 250cc. Indian Brave I graduated to a 250cc. A.J.S. and then in 1962 to a brand new 350cc. Velocette Viper Clubman. Owning the sportier Velo gave motorcycling a different perspective. I joined a local motorcycle club and became interested in watching road racing. Three of us covered some thousands of miles in all sorts of unpredictable British weather following our passion. Quite often on our way to or from a meeting, we would stop at a roadside "Greasy Spoon". After ordering the bikers standard meal of sausage egg and chips, we would sit there, sometimes soaking wet, and re-live races at Brands Hatch, Mallory Park, or some other venue. More often than not, someone in the dank smoke filled room, with a far off look in their eyes, would interrupt and say something like "Ah but I remember on the Island." In reverence we would fall quiet, and while finishing our food and drinking mugs of hot sweet tea, listen to yet another story of someone else's experiences on the Isle of Man. There was Mike Hailwood's 500cc. win in '61 on a Norton at an average speed over 100 m.p.h. Or Phil Read's 350cc. win, also on a Norton, beating the mighty M. V. Augusta. Or what about in '52 when Bob Mclntyre beat the M.V.'s on a Gilera, and the incredible sight and sound of the Moto Guzzi V8. And "Did you know you can actually watch the mechanics preparing the factory Hondas in that little garage just at the back of Bray Hill." Or "It's incredible you can stand and watch just a couple of feet from the racing line." We finally decided that we just had to "do" the Island. After a quick search of the small ads in MotorCycle News we arranged lodgings and made preparations for the 10 day visit to Mona's Isle. The ride up to Liverpool was the usual mix of semi-serious "scratching" and "ear'oling" around corners, no one wanting to push to the limit but nevertheless maintaining good speed on winding unknown back roads. The third member of our party took turns riding pillion. All too quickly we were at the entrance to the Mersey Tunnel. A curving three miles of white ceramic walled diesel fume filled echo chamber stretched before us. Oh joy! With much whooping and revving of engines, we crawled through it amidst the normal mix of trucks and cars. The cop at the mid point was not amused and insisted we proceed quietly or we would not be catching a boat. On arriving at the docks we suffered the indignity of having the petrol pumped from our tanks to reduce the danger of fire, and then joined a slow moving line waiting to board the ship. There must have been a thousand of us and we were all very frustrated with embarkation delays. We wearily inched our way along the dock to the bottom of the steep plank that was the only way to board the ferry. Rumors permeated the air around us. "This is the King Orrie, you know, the ship that sunk and was re-floated at least three times" and "Camathias rode his Gilera racing bike through the Mersey Tunnel with a police escort after his race transporter broke down" or "Hailwood is going to ride the new secret six cylinder Norton" and on and on. A foolhardy individual, either fed up with the wait or just showing off, broke ranks and rode at high speed to the front of the line and up the gangplank. Unfortunately he was in the wrong gear, lost momentum, rolled backwards, and for one brief moment teetered on the edge. They quickly fished him from the water, minus bike, amidst cheers and jeers and many ribald comments. Then finally we were aboard and underway. The seemingly overloaded ship edged its way from the docks and out into the Mersey river and estuary. Moving slowly and at a safe distance, we passed numerous masts and funnels seemingly growing from the river bottom. Some are the remains of ammunition ships sunk in W.W.II left to slowly rust away because of their deadly cargoes. After an uneventful 4 hour sea voyage punctuated with several meat pies and pints of beer, we arrived at Douglas. Disembarkation resembled a stampede and we then proceeded to find a petrol station and our lodgings. After settling in, our landlady Mrs. Renshaw, suggested an early night so we could rise at 4:00 a.m. to watch early morning practice. Next morning before dawn we set off, and with some sparse directions, sandwiches, and a Thermos of coffee headed for Ramsey. Travelling unknown roads and against the normal racing direction, we rode quite leisurely, taking in the sunrise and the seemingly familiar roadside signs. Cronk-ny-mona, Brandish, Creg-ny-Baa, Windy Corner, it was a virtual roll call of the place names we had heard and read about so many times. A traveling race marshal on a Triumph Bonneville met us about half-way to Ramsey. He told us the road was now closed and to find somewhere to park our bikes because we couldn't go any farther. So, with the bikes parked in the entrance to a field there the three of us sat. With our helmets off and our jackets open so we could soak up the early morning June sun, we relaxed and waited. None of us had really any idea of what it was going to be like. Until now our experiences had matched but not exceeded our expectations. Reality had not yet set in. There we were, I mean we were really there, Mecca, the ISLAND!!! It was oh so very peaceful sitting there breathing in the clean sweet air, listening to the early morning chorus of birds and insects. A barely audible persistent noise now intruded on my daydreaming. From way down the road in the direction of Ramsey, there was a low quavering buzzing. Almost like an erratic large insect the noise got louder. Could it be? No surely not! Holy Shit it is!! Exploding around the corner came a screaming red machine, urgently trying to release itself from the master on its back. The sun glinting on the fire engine red fairing, the dead bugs on the windshield, and oh! the sound, that glorious sound of the Count's M.V. on full bugle as it swept past us. And "Mike the Bike" Hailwood seemingly so cool and in control and close enough to look him in the eye! Silence slowly returned as man and machine charged onwards. From there at East Mountain Gate, it was still some seven miles over Mt. Snaefell down to Douglas and the start and finish line. The sound of those four pipes lingered almost as long as the smell of the Castrol "R" did in the still air. That day, sitting a few feet from the racing line on the famous Isle of Man T.T. course I knew there was something in my blood that was there for ever. The following week's racing was every bit as great as the enthusiasts had reported in those far off "Greasy Spoons." We returned to the Island the next year and gorged ourselves for a second time.