Sweet! I love her book (
Make Haste, Slowly).
Is there a transcript of the interview anywhere?
It is a good book ...
n this excerpt from her autobiography, Michelle Duff recalls the TT's start line jitters
Jun 09, 2007
At three minutes to start time, the three-minute signboard was held up. Everyone fell silent in anticipation of the start save a low murmur from the filled grandstand. Even the loudspeakers, which had been spewing a constant barrage of verbal nothings all morning, fell silent. I took my place beside my Norton as the final countdown began. With a riding number of 77, I had many minutes to wait once the first two riders had departed.
The silence was broken with the crack of the starter's pistol. The starting flare arched skyward and the first two machines sputtered into life, accellerating away toward Bray Hill to begin the 1960 Senior TT. Ten seconds later, No. 3, John Surtees, and No. 4, Mike Hailwood, started and accelerated away to begin their race, the scream of Surtees' factory MV Agusta-Four drowning all other sounds as he crested Bray in a determined effort to appease his 350 Junior defeat.
I could feel the pressure build as the first few got away, and I summoned an official to hold my bike while I ran to the facilities to release the mounting fluid for the third time in the last half hour.
Nos. 33 and 34 had just departed when I returned to my bike, and I almost wished I was somewhere other than where I was. This wait was agonizing and I felt in need again, but I had not had sufficient fluid intake in the last three days to equal the quantity expelled this last 30 minutes. Slowly we inched forward as more and more riders departed in a monotonous roar of single-cylinder four-strokes. The sharp smell of racing oil drifted back on gentle winds as I stood trembling and sweating in wait for my turn to start. It was a fine day for racing, I felt confident in my ability, no pressure existed to win, so why did I worry?
I approached the twin starting boxes and became aware of the filled grandstand to my left. A pain of fear shuddered through me. Already the boy scouts scooted back and forth along the giant scoreboard moving clocks and pinning up painted signs as the pattern of the race, now over six minutes old, unfolded. The leaders were well past the 11th Milestone as Nos. 75 and 76 took their places in the starting boxes. I reached underneath the tank and turned on the fuel tap, bent down to turn on the chain oiler on the left side, and then over to the right I clicked the gear lever into first gear and pulled the bike back against compression. Lifting the clutch I took my place in the starting box, totally alone, fixing my gaze on the starter to my right. A Union Jack held high in his right hand fluttered gently in the breeze. The starter counted off the seconds, his eyes never leaving a clock in his left hand. He showed no emotions. At the precise second, his right hand fell. Taking a deep breath, I shoved hard forward and six steps later, I released the clutch. The Norton sputtered once then fired into song, and I leaped aboard and accellerated away toward Bray Hill.
At Union Mills, three miles out, I took a deep breath. "This is it," I whispered out loud. "I'm on my way."
Michelle Duff's autobiography,
Make Haste, Slowly, is available at
www.michelleduff.ca
