G
lencrutchery Road, Douglas,
Isle of Man.
The commotion of the most
famous start line in racing filters down like
the tip of an arrow as we line up single file.
The ambient noise of cheering spectators
and frantic mechanics slowly drowns out,
replaced in equal measure by the scream
of four-cylinder engines ready for takeoff.
Like parachutists leaping into the airborne
battlefield via a tap on the left shoulder,
each rider releases the clutch and roars
down the ever-increasing steepness of Bray
Hill, which, at its precipice, is like riding off
the edge of the world at 160 mph.
I've hardly had time to process what I'm
about to do as the pace of the start proce-
dure is rapid fire. At 10 second intervals,
you're constantly shuffled by your team
to the starting area that's signaled by the
board reading "Rider and Machine Only."
That means it's now just you, four of your
comrades ahead of you in the queue, and
the greatest challenge in racing ahead: the
Isle of Man TT Mountain Course.
This must be what it's like going to war,
knowing in your heart of hearts there's a
possibility one of you or more won't make
it back alive. Perhaps it'll be you. "No, it
won't be me," I tell myself. "It won't be me."
But like anything that's truly hard, the
contemplation of the act is often more
intimidating than the actual doing. Once
the clutch is out and sixth gear is finally
selected, any thoughts of nerves evaporate
like smoke. There's no room for nerves as
I need every ounce of my mental capacity
to steer my wailing metallic horse down
Bray Hill and up and over Ago's Leap, the
Suzuki GSX-R600's chassis doing its best
to flex itself in half with me, more or less,
just a passenger.
FEATURE I 2022 ISLE OF MAN TT: PART 2
P96
