On Saturday 7 June I was out for a walk. I’d recently returned from the UK and jet lag was still playing havoc. Imagine how pleased I was when I chanced across one sign saying, “TT Start” then another: “TT Finish.” Unknown to me I was back on the Isle of Man. Suddenly I heard the mighty roar of motorbike engines and the familiar smell of 110-octane race fuel.
I crossed the rickety bridge under the towering hill of Snaefell, or maybe it was Birch Hill, recognised only by its carpet of newly planted pines and around the corner at the top of the rocky track was a rev of motorbikes. I had chanced upon the IoM TT. Amazing. Something I’d always wanted to see.
Clouds of light blue smoke hid a few of the bikes, a cumulus cloud of steam looked as if the fire extinguisher may have been needed, but nope, it was just the effects of going through one of the many puddles. It was raining, just as it had done for a few days and the nice smooth tarmac road had been washed into a muddy, rocky, and rutted route.
To accommodate the conditions the usual TT bikes of Kawasaki, Moto Guzzi and BMW had been swapped for KTMs, Suzuki RM250s and Husqvarna FC350s.
I’d never seen a TT like it: the youngest was 14, the eldest 63. This was a TT with no sex discrimination. I was beginning to doubt whether I really was in the Isle of Man, and that I was suffering some delusions with the jet lag. I was a little confused once the hail, wind and snow started. Apparently, the Isle of Man is having one of its warmest springs ever. It was time to put my mind to rest. I approached an official looking person, looking official only because she didn’t have a bike and was dressed head to toe in Hi Viz. “Is this the TT”? I asked. “Yeah, nah”. There-in lay an immediate hint, ‘yea and no.’ “Am I in the Isle of Man”? “Nah mate, Ruakokopatuna, dude; The Ruakokopatuna Enduro, this is the start of the time trial.” At that she pulled her foot back which had been holding the departing bike, the engine reached a volume greater than Concorde and off it went, nose elevated, back wheel spinning and mud covering me head to toe. The bike was lost in a cloud of exhaust and Concorde would have been left standing.
The annual Ruakokopatuna Enduro was in full, mud splattering swing. The weather was both ideal for the riders and awful for the marshals. Cold, windy and wet. Conditions under wheel were soft and boggy. Probably ideal for a water buffalo.
Participants came from north of Tokoroa and south of Christchurch. This enduro is a part of the national series. At each event the riders accumulate points and with points come prizes, but no one really knows about it such is the modesty of all the riders. It seems as if the main aim is enjoyment. After one rider swung his back wheel around to dash for the finishing line he was asked “How was your ride, have you had fun”? His reply, “I’ve had a blast, I’ve had a brilliant time, all my times have been rubbish.” He imagined a sloth and bearing in mind his entire self and bike were now a shade of thick grey mud; I imagined an underweight hippo (hippos can run very fast – Ed).
Sadly, due to the weather and recent rain parts of the Enduro were cancelled or shortened but as the organisers said, “everyone’s safety is paramount;
best to err on the side of caution” (If you were there, I think you may have sensed that caution was a subjective judgment)!
As the Sunday ride progressed bikes zoomed, were pushed or limped in and people headed to Ruakokopatuna Community Hall where a stunning community effort was in full swing. A vegetarian was barbequing sausages, the urn for hot drinks had to be refilled several times, the deer still wished he was running around the hills, local home-made pavlova, arctic rolls, chocolate eclairs, custard slice, apple strudel, fruit cake, ginger loaf and more were eaten with the same kind of joy you’d eat your Mum’s Christmas cake. A P&O cruise afternoon tea would look positively amateur by comparison. People realised they had lost their satiation gene for a moment and simply ate, more and more true stories were recounted about how sonic booms were achieved, snow created a white-out, sections were completed without a wheel, punctures were repaired ‘on the go,’ how clutch pedals had fallen off and that the third lap was completed without brakes. It was all so plausible. Yeah right!
Meanwhile, times and numbers were fed into computers and if by magic results were produced. Enduro riders are a modest bunch, no one celebrates like Alcaraz and no one cries like Sabalenka. Almost with embarrassment, Enduro riders take their trophy and quietly walk off having thanked the organisers and the young ones thanked Mum and Dad. Rightly so.
As usual the unsung heroes don’t get a mention. The stewards who waded through water, sat in snowstorms, held on to life in hurricanes, cursed the cold and revelled in the rain. Allegedly they enjoyed it. Heroes, every one of them.
The Enduro is a great big ride and a wonderful event for the little Ruakokopatuna Community.
It is also a fundraiser for the Hall and huge thanks go to all the organisers, the bakers of the valley and the participants who all pay an entry fee, some of which the community gets.
The medical team were prepared for punctured lungs, fractured femurs, broken necks, cardiac arrests and everything in between. Amazingly all of the above happened. Who needs ketamine, helicopters and an AED when you don’t need them? A great event immaculately organised and apparently enjoyed by everyone. The only complaint: “No Soup.” Clearly a failed event.
