The Isle of Man has always given me mixed feelings. When I was 18 years old I packed a rucksack and rode my trusty VFR400 from my home in a sleepy Cotswold village to watch Joey race around the infamous course. The few days I spent there were a blur of beer, large ladies exposing their breasts to the baying crowds and bikes being ridden at a terrifying pace on the public roads.
I remember a few of the grimmer parts, the local news reporting two racers being killed in morning practice, seeing crashed bikes parked on Douglas highstreet with signs on them saying ‘cut up on the mountain by a twat on a Fireblade, please give generously’ and stories of German riders being involved in a head on crash during Mad Sunday. But I was young, the whole experience was mind-blowing and, at my tender years, I was only just starting my journey of discovery about the delights of alcohol. So everything was exciting and new.
Time has passed and events have made me think about the Isle of Man in a different way. Being involved in the motorcycle world I’ve got to know a number of riders who race at the TT, which casts the annual event in a different light. I can no longer watch and marvel at the sheer spectacle of racing at over 180mph on the public roads, instead I watch minute-by-minute timing to check that my mates have made it home.
Most of the time they do, but in the last few years several have not. At these times I find myself questioning the validity of an event where life is lost so easily and regularly, which is why I don’t think I’ll ever return to the island when the racing is on. I’m in no way one of the ‘ban the TT brigade’, the racers know the risks and love competing in the TT, and I love the fact that in this pathetic nanny state we live in such an event can still happen. But for me personally, the magic of the racing has been lost by a few tragic and needless events.
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