Trying for a Ton

For 51 weeks out of the year, the tiny Isle of Man (221 sq. mi.) sits placidly in the Irish Sea, a quaint clinker of Celtic culture, noted mostly for its kippers and cats. But once a year the Isle is hell on wheels. Sandbags guard the sidewalks, the blat-a-tat of racing engines shatters the quiet, and gravediggers thoughtfully lay out new plots in Borough Cemetery. "Tourist Trophy Week" is at hand--and thousands of motorcycle riders arrive for a five-day carnival of racing over one of the world's most perilous courses.

Suicide for Amateurs. In motorcycle parlance a "ton" means an average speed of 100 m.p.h. It is a hazardous pursuit on the Isle of Man's 371-mile mountain course, where the hills and unbanked curves are a supreme test for even the pros. For amateurs it amounts to suicide. Yet every year, on "Black Sunday"--the day before the pro races start--thousands of begoggled young maniacs tear around the course, hoping to crack a ton. The first casualty last week was a 19-year-old bank clerk from Epsom, who did not even pause to check into his hotel before he wheeled his bike onto the course; he hurtled into a stonewall and was killed instantly. Within 24 hours another amateur was dead, and 20 more were in the hospital. Traffic cops gave up trying to slow down the thrill-crazy teenagers. "During T.T. Week," explained one bobby, "anything goes."

Finally "Black Sunday" ended and the pros took over. Factory teams from as many as six nations were entered in the Lightweight (up to 250 cc. engine displacement) and Junior (350 cc.) classes, but all eyes were on the light, whippet-fast bikes from Japan that had been sweeping "baby" races all over the world. The Japanese alone fielded three teams, each with its own uniforms (orange for Honda, blue for Suzuki, grey for Yamaha), its own smartly drilled pit crew, its own stable of daredevil riders. Honda's Jim Redman, 31, a Southern Rhodesian, stole the show: he averaged 95.6 m.p.h. to win the Lightweight race, came back two days later to win the Junior race as well--averaging 94.9 m.p.h. despite pelting rain and fog. "At one stage," said Redman, "I was hanging on with one hand, using the other like a windshield wiper on my goggles."

Flat Out for Speed. Then it was the heavyweights' turn. Britain's Mike Hailwood, 23, waited patiently while mechanics fiddled with the throttle of his scarlet, Italian-made M.V. Augusta, revving the engine to warm up heavy racing oil. "May the best man win," boomed a loudspeaker, and the starting gun fired. Legs pumping furiously, Hailwood pushed the big 500-cc. bike across the starting line. The engine caught, and he hopped aboard side saddle, gunning his throttle in the same motion. By the time he heaved a leg over the saddle and slipped into position, he was already 100 yds. down the straightaway, topping 70 m.p.h.

Hailwood leaned forward along the M.V.'s gas tank, resting his chin on a sponge rubber shock absorber, hiking his legs up like a jockey. He rocketed through "The Bungalow"--a series of left and right bends--at more than 100 m.p.h., steering by shifting his weight from side to side. Flat out on the straights, he gunned up to 150 m.p.h. Hailwood sped six times around the twisting course and flashed across the finish line more than 2 min. ahead of his closest competitor. Astonished officials announced that he had broken the course record with an average speed of 104.6 m.p.h.--and that the first three finishers all had cracked a ton.

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