FIELD OF DREAMS

Glencrutchery Road, Douglas, Isle of Man. The commotion of the most famous start line in racing filters through us as we line up, single file. The ambient noise of cheering spectators and frantic mechanics slowly fades, replaced by the scream of four-cylinder engines ready for takeoff. Like parachutists leaping into an airborne battlefield via a tap on the left shoulder, each rider releases the clutch and roars down Bray Hill, which at its precipice is like riding off the edge of the world at 260km/h.

I’ve hardly had time to process what I’m about to do, thanks to the rapid fire of the start procedure. At 10-second intervals, you’re constantly shuffled along to the starting area that’s signalled by a board reading: Rider and Machine Only. It’s now just you 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 will not be me.”

But like anything 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. There’s no room for nerves – I need every ounce of mental capacity to steer my wailing metallic horse down Bray Hill and up 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.

Over the second jump at Ago’s at close to top revs in sixth, I flash past the big white house on the left and dart into the shade. Then it’s hard on the brakes for Quarterbridge, where the madness of the past 15 seconds or so is replaced by a serene first-gear, right-hand cruise for three seconds or