A Morning at K-Tree

The best decisions are always born in a bar. So there I sat, just under a year ago, pint in hand at the top of The Triangle circuit on the balcony of The Tides in Portrush. Michael Dunlop, Ian Hutchinson, and Michael Rutter were screaming down Black Hill, duking it out and drafting one another for the lead of the North West 200, when my mate Mark looked at me and declared, “We’re going to the TT.” Hops, barley, a roomful of rabid fans, and the sound of superbike exhausts reverbing off of the homes and hedgerows of Northern Ireland may have lead to a snap judgment. I nodded my head and we clinked glasses. It will stand as the best decision I’ve ever made.

Mark and I recount this story amongst a pack of likeminded fans filling a plot of land near the 22nd milestone of the 37.733-mile road racing mecca. Many of them smile knowingly and welcome us to their fold. Conker Fields, as it’s called, is a popular spot for those in the know because this section of roadway is highlighted by something called K-Tree. Literally a tree with a white “K” spray-painted on it, K-Tree marks a left kink at the bottom of a small decline that immediately follows a high-speed, rising right. It’s rumored to make for some hairy visuals. At the moment it’s plugged with fans trying to get where they need to be. Most around us are enjoying lunch or queuing up for tea at a makeshift hospitality tent, while others still are jockeying for prime positions as close to the road as possible—smartphones, GoPros and SLRs at the ready—getting ready to capture the action. That’s where we are. Pressed up against barbed wire, listening to stories of TT history and sharing how a Canuck ended up here with his Northern Irish buddy. 

The roads of the Snaefell Mountain Course will be closed to public traffic soon enough, and the narrow, two-way streets will all run clockwise. We rode up here with little time to spare, and the corner marshals are already in position. Unlike at closed circuits, the silence of this empty course serves to spike adrenalin and prick up ears. The Course Inspection Subaru WRX STi is the first to rouse attentions as it womps by. It’s moving pretty damned quick, or at least that’s what I initially think, from two yards away. Minutes later, the first bike appears: a Fireblade SP (CBR1000RR) piloted by the track marshal in full day-glow orange, it makes the Subie look like it was standing still. The audience oohs, ahhs and we all do a gut check. Given his pace, we’re about 20 minutes from the first pack ripping through. I swap lenses on my rig and go through the motions of following an invisible bike through the route. Every hair on my body begins to stand at attention. A husband-and-wife team of 20-year veterans beside me bickers in heavy Scouse about whose turn it is to roll a smoke, barely batting an eye.

A sunny day Conker Fields... not a bad setting to take in a motorcycle race. Neundorf photo

The Snaefell Mountain Course is legendary. For 110 years, riders have tested mettle with metal in the pursuit of speed and glory. Two days ago, we gave it a run of our own. Thumbing our bikes to life in the belly of our overnight ferry at Douglas Harbour, we quickly disembarked to find the start/finish straight. Of course so did thousands of other riders. To say our pace was less than blistering would be an understatement. There was traffic everywhere, and the cops had set themselves up every five miles or so. Even still, I wouldn’t have the stones to warp a throttle-stop around here. The streets are incredibly narrow, there’s no shoulder to run off on, and undulations of all sizes are scattered amongst almost every one of the 264 turns. Fog on the mountain section was thick, too—even by English standards—so we kept things civilized. We clocked in at around 50 minutes… or 33 minutes slower than Michael Dunlop’s record-setting 133.963 mph average from last year.

My neighbors at the hedge snuff their third consecutive hand-rolled fag and finally take to their feet. Almost instantly, as if on cue, the howl of a tortured V4 and the scream from an inline unit can be heard through the trees. Within seconds Bruce Anstey and David Johnson are near touching leathers as Anstey’s Honda has clawed back the 10-second start gap from Johnson’s Norton. They quite literally blast by us. The arms gripping phones and GoPros retreat like horizontal dominos, and the hedges move with metachronal rhythm in the wake of the bikes. The force of the sliced and displaced air prompts me to flip my cap around before the next twosome goes by; nobody needs it flying off onto the road. All I can do is laugh. The second group warps past. All any of us along those hedges can do is laugh.

The bikes are hitting speeds near 150 mph through this section of turns. At this distance—roughly 3-feet—they’re a blur of color and sound. I can’t stop giggling. We move down the road a touch, closer to K-Tree, to get a more expansive view of the section. Seeing front ends aloft and front tires cocked, I’m gobsmacked by the ability, courage, and trust in rubber the riders must possess to pivot a unicycle at over 150 mph just inches from stone walls. It’s like watching the intricacies of open-heart surgery, tackled with a chainsaw. This is fucking nuts.

I’ve been up close and personal at multiple MotoGP events. I’ve watched in awe from behind Armco as a Sykes, Rea and Davies lead a pack plunging through the Corkscrew. I’ve clocked over 170 mph myself on the back straight of COTA, and I’ve poured over countless hours of TT footage on YouTube. None of it—I mean none of it—prepares you. Regardless of where you sit, the Isle of Man TT delivers the most exciting and exacting riding you’ll ever see. There’s a ferry ticket with my name on it for next year’s races. It was booked before we even left. Should you need some more convincing to join me, meet me at a bar and we’ll work on your decision-making.

It took almost 20 years for the moto bug to bite but ever since, Matthew Neundorf has been sussing out ways to work riding and motorcycles into everything he does. Working as a freelancer, in between days inspecting construction sites in Toronto, Matt has handled the bulk of motorcycle coverage on Gear Patrol and helms a weekly column on Bike Exif. Thanks to some incredible experiences through Baja, British Columbia, Eastern Oregon, and the south coast of Spain to name a few, the world of two wheels now has him constantly seeking out excuses to test and improve the limits of his riding abilities on all sorts of terrain in every corner of this world. Follow Matt on Twitter and Instagram.

The Hayden Hauler

Road racing season is approaching, and by the time this story gets posted I’ll be in Australia for the last pre-season test and the first round of the 2017 World SBK Championship. I’m fortunate to get to fly to the races these days, but back when I was an amateur, the transportation was just a bit more… modest.

Almost exclusively, our family got to the races in a box van we used to own, that my dad had decked out in “Earl’s Racing Team” livery. That thing was our garage when we were at the track, and since it had a couch in the back and a “deck” on top of the box to watch the races from, I guess it could technically be called our hospitality unit too. Although we’d often get a hotel room at the races, it was usually so crowded that some people would just use the room’s shower and actually sleep in the van—so it served as lodging as well!

Mainly though, it was our hauler. For many of the races, we’d have all five of us kids, both of our parents and maybe a friend and a mechanic or two, so it could get pretty crowded in there—and that was just the people! It might be one of his fish tales, but my dad swears we used to fit in 12 or 14 bikes sometimes, although many of them were just 60s or 80s. To do that, we had to build a second level in back, sort of a poor man’s version of what the modern factory haulers do; first we’d fill up the ground floor, and then we’d take some folding tables that we used at the track and rest them on a T bracket and the lower bikes to serve as the floor of the second level.

Even that wasn’t always enough though. I remember one time we were getting ready to head home from Florida, and we had somehow accumulated enough stuff—I think maybe we gained a motorcycle, some trophies and a few other things at the race—that there literally wasn't enough room for everything. We ended up having to sell a tent and some tires and leave a couple gas cans behind.

The Hayden wrecking crew poses with their trophy haul behind the family box van. (Hayden family photo)

Everybody knows the deal where you try to call shotgun when it’s time to get in the vehicle, but for us kids, the spot to fight over was sitting on the cooler between the two front bucket seats. It may not have been so comfortable, but it gave you a good view of the road and you could control the radio and the CB. The only downside was that when you stood up for something, one of your brothers would probably open the lid so that if you weren’t paying attention, you’d fall into the ice water when you sat back down!

Of course that’s assuming you weren’t actually behind the steering wheel; depending on who's asking, I may or may not have put a pillow behind my back so that I could reach the pedals before I was “of age.” That probably wouldn't fly these days.

I remember one time we were headed across Texas early in the morning, when my dad asked my older brother Tommy to drive for a while so that he could climb up into the bunk and get some sleep. Not long after he drifted off, we kids spotted a sign for a water park, so we made an executive decision to pull over and wait for it to open at 10 a.m. By the time my dad popped his head out of the bunk, he figured we would be halfway home, so it was a bit of a rude awakening when he found out we were behind schedule by quite a bit.

There are a ton of fun stories based around that old box van, and maybe sometime I’ll share a few more. Like I said, it was pretty basic, but back in those days we kids thought it as the ultimate factory hauler.

Check out Nicky's personal website, and follow him on Twitter. Have a Moto Story you'd like help telling for free? Email chris@jonnummedia.com

Corky and the Headlights

“The dash light just went out,” said Uncle Corky, grimly pointing at the little pickup’s now-black instrumentation. “All we have left now are the headlights.”

We were headed home to Southern California after an amazing trail-riding trip to Silverton, Colorado, my Mazda SE5 loaded down with our Honda XRs and camping equipment, and towing a tent trailer. The mini truck's heavy burden made for slow going, so the sun had long since set when we trundled past Four Corners, which was right around the time I noticed the trailer’s lights flicker off in my rear-view mirror.

Following a pause for a fruitless investigation and a change of drivers, we once again hit forlorn Route 160 west, only to be plagued, one by one, with a series of additional electrical failures, starting with the taillights and proceeding to the horn, cab lights, turn signals and now the dash. Our concern was mounting, and as midnight ticked by, it seemed that we were all alone in the dark Arizona desert.

Our plan had been to stop at a rest area to spend the night, but with the Mazda’s headlights still gamely brightening a sliver of the Navajo Indian Reservation, Corky wisely pointed out that the situation dictated a change of plans.

“The starter’s probably out of commission too,” he said. “If we turn off the motor, we might be stranded.””

Pointing a flashlight at the AAA map in my lap, I did some calculations and determined that about an hour and a half separated us from Flagstaff—if the headlights would hold out that long.

Ever since I was in grade school, my dad’s older brother had taken it upon himself to ensure that I had a full appreciation of the American Southwest, his irregular work schedule and lifelong bachelorhood enabling us to make the best of my vacations. From fishing at Convict Lake in the Sierras to dirt biking at Dove Springs in the Mojave Desert, my youth had been seasoned with adventures with Corky, and this was one of the best—or at least it had been until the return trip.

It was 2:30 a.m. when we finally approached Flagstaff, breathing a sigh of relief as Corky downshifted so that he could seek out a suitable stopping point. He found what he was looking for in a wide, graded dirt road that descended from the left side of the highway, and we parked to one side and drifted off for a few hours’ uncomfortable slumber in the Mazda’s cramped cab.

View fullsize

Uncle Corky aboard his BSA in Silverton during an earlier trip to Colorado. (Gail Shannon photo)

After being jolted awake at sunrise by a convoy of trucks lumbering by (it turns out our impromptu lodging area was also a logging area by day), we rubbed the sleep out of our eyes, bump-started the Mazda on the dirt downhill, found a turnout to reverse direction and—being careful not to stall—headed into town. In the daylight and civilization, our predicament didn't seem nearly as dire, and some crawling around in a Pep Boys parking lot resulted in a successful diagnosis: the trailer connector harness had been damaged (we both now recalled I’d run over a retread just before Four Corners), and the exposed wires had occasionally contacted the trailer’s metal tongue, popping electrical fuses one at a time. Thanks to the headlights using a separate circuit, they had been spared the fate of the other electrical functions, and after we taped up the harness and replaced the blown fuses, the remainder of our drive home was relatively uneventful.

Although I didn't realize it at the time, my impending move away to college—and then a career, then marriage and a kid—would significantly curtail my camping and riding trips with Corky, but he was frequently in my thoughts last year as he struggled with poor health. Last month, Uncle Corky’s name was added to the long list of those who succumbed to 2016’s ruthless toll, and while he wasn’t as high-profile as many, I’m feeling his loss acutely as I peer down the unknown road of a New Year.

Have a Moto Story you'd like help telling for free? Email chris@jonnummedia.com