I’ve been to a bullfight and seen matadors narrowly escape a bloody goring. I’ve witnessed rock climbers fall, coming within inches of splitting their melons open, and I’ve been to most of the world’s greatest motor racing events, and sadly, seen many men lose their lives in the pursuit of speed, victory and glory.
I grew up outside of Indianapolis, so I’ve been a big racing fan all of my life, but I have to admit that I admire motorcycle racers the most. They have no protection at all. Helmets and leathers mean very little when you’re approaching 200 miles per hour. Motorcycle racers don’t bounce off walls and keep going. They bounce off walls and land on their heads, then slide along the track, burning through their leathers all the way to their bones. Compound fractures, rods, plates and screws are commonplace. For most motorcycle racers, their internal hardware is the closest thing to a trophy they’ll ever see. Just walking away can be a victory.
The Isle of Man is a beautiful piece of land in the middle of the Irish Sea, about halfway between Scotland and Northern Ireland. It has everything from postcard perfect beaches, lush green hillsides, ancient castles, and some of the friendliest people on earth. When you arrive at the quaint, little Ronaldsway airport, there is no feeling that you are about to experience one of the deadliest motor sports events in the world. However, there is the very distinct feeling that you are entering a huge party zone. A party that involves mainly two things, motorbikes and beer. Thousands of motorbikes descend on this tiny island, arriving on the ferry from all across Europe, and for every motorbike you see, there is a person with a pint in their hand. Without a doubt, the fun meter is pegged.
You have no sense of the danger even when you visit the paddock and pit area at the start/finish line in Douglas. Transporters, tents and motor homes are all lined up, with teams working on the bikes, and the riders waiting nearby, happy to sign autographs, take pictures or have a conversation. If there is any fear, it’s not evident, even when they are preparing to blast around the thirty-seven and a half mile course.
Standing in the pits watching the bikes take off one at a time, you have no sense of what the course is like. But once you go a mile from the start to an area of the circuit known as Bray Hill, and you see the bikes screaming by at full speed, with unprotected walls and people on both sides, it literally takes your breath away. It’s then that you realize this isn’t just another motorcycle race. It’s complete and total insanity.
Not just at Bray Hill, but everywhere on the circuit. No air fence, very few hay bales, twenty-foot high stone walls on both sides, and so many little concrete posts that you can’t count them all. In some parts of the circuit, there are homes just inches from the speeding bikes. Then there are the bumpy, narrow streets of towns like Kirk Michael and Ramsey, where it’s normal for the bikes to launch into the air instead of slow down, their frames and tires wiggling upon landing at 160 miles per hour. What sort of man would do this, and why? Obviously, the first thing that comes to mind is a lunatic, but once you get to know these guys, you realize that’s not the case.
TT legend John McGuinness is one of these guys. A seemingly normal family man who hangs out in his motor home with his wife, kids and parents. He’s friendly, funny and a huge fan favorite, who spends hours signing autographs, kissing babies and having his picture taken. The word “no” doesn’t seem to be in his vocabulary. Oh, and by the way, he’s a 17-time Isle of Man TT race winner. In order to do what he does, there are definitely some misfiring synapses in his brain. Is he crazy? No. He claims he’s only interested in motorbikes, or things related to motorbikes. He has a passion that not many people can even come close to comprehending. A passion that could very well take his life. He is a man’s man who lives the way he wants to. He understands the danger, and embraces it. Hemingway would love this guy.
Watching John McGuinness ride a motorbike on the Mountain Course is a treat. He’s smooth and in control. Makes it look easy. I’m sure he knows every twist and turn just like he knows the back of his hand. However, his smooth and in control riding style still don’t make up for just how nuts racing at the Isle of Man is. When he gets off his bike and takes off his helmet, the same smile is there. The calm demeanor is there. The seemingly normal man is there. No hint of lunacy.
Once the champagne is sprayed and victory lane becomes silent, you can’t help but think about how many men have died at the Isle of Man, doing what they loved. Three racers lost their lives in the five days I was there. Take a drive around the course and you become surprised that there aren’t even more fatalities. It’s the most dangerous, unprotected racing venue in the world. A real test of man, machine, elements, pavement, stone walls and many other obstacles lining the road. Does this fit the definition of a true sport? I think so. After all, it is motor racing, even though it's only two wheels. If you're ever lucky enough to attend the Isle of Man TT, I think you'll agree that Ernest Hemingway was definitely right.
