But perhaps that’s not entirely true. The TT attracts
fans from around the world; it is more of an
international icon than even the soon-to-be-erected
Shropshire Monoliths are destined to become. And
many of those who flock to the Island each year
travel across countries and even continents like
great schools of spawning road-salmon. It’s a queer
image, I grant you, but it happens. At Warwick
Services on the M40 I met the Czech owner of the
Ducati pictured somewhere on this page; he had
ridden for days, on a motorcycle considered a harsh
ride even by modern standards of sports bike
discomfort.
He had about 150 miles left to travel before the
sanctuary of a ferry would give welcome, though
transient, relief to his shattered spine and
compressed wrists, and as we chatted he said he
was sure that his elbows were at least three inches
nearer his hands than had been the case when he
left Prague.
But who could deny that this strange foreigner was
an adventurer in the truest sense of the word? From
what I know of Ducatis, even opening the garage
door on one is a leap of faith equivalent to crossing
a sweltering, crocodile-laden lagoon on a big
GS1200.
If you look close enough you can see the kitchen sink