Motorcycle Racing
on the
Isle of Man

Excerpt from Dillon’s Tale
by Rob Mahan
Copyright © 2025

The Victorian-era electric tram slowed to a halt at the Bungalow Station, near the summit of Snaefell Mountain, the highest point on the Isle of Man. The smooth two-lane double bend that snaked past the station and up the mountain formed part of the famous thirty-eight-mile-long Isle of Man TT Mountain Course. A scattering of spectators had already taken up vantage points all along the S-curve, many sitting just feet from the edge of the roadway.

“Come on, now,” Regan said as she stepped off the tram and slung her backpack over one shoulder. “My favorite spot is down inside the first bend.” A woman on a mission, Dillon jogged to keep up with her long strides.

Regan looked down at her phone and slowed to a walk so Dillon could catch up. “Okay, sure. The next race is startin’ soon, down at the grandstands in Douglas. We’ve got a bit o’ time.”

They walked along shoulder to shoulder for a few minutes. Now that he had caught up with Regan, Dillon marveled at the scenery stretching in every direction. The sun was out in full force, and the last vestiges of rain on the light gray asphalt were disappearing. “I wondered why it was so quiet. This countryside is beautiful, and the view from up here is amazing.”

“We’re near the highest point on the isle. Why it’s called the Mountain Course, I guess.” With people sitting on the gentle grass slopes near the roadway, they found a lone unoccupied bench and sat down. “That was a stroke of luck, sure,” Regan said. “Maybe the same luck will be with Guy today, too.”

Dillon set his backpack between his feet and pulled out a baggie of homemade trail mix. When he offered it to Regan, she declined. “Thanks, no. My stomach’s always in knots on race days.”

“Why are you nervous? We’re just here to watch, aren’t we?”

Regan nodded and looked down at her phone again. “Okay, they got the green flag in town. Guy’s in this heat.” She puffed her cheeks and blew out a long breath. “They’ve been racin’ this course in one form or another nearly every spring since the early 1900s.”

“Wow, that’s quite a history.”

“It is, sure,” Regan replied. “These days, the average lap speed is over a hundred and thirty miles an hour. Some o’ the best are hittin’ near two hundred in the straightaways. Even the news helicopters canna keep up with ‘em.”

“You’re kidding!” Dillon looked around and shook his head. “ On these roads?”

“Not for nothin’. They call the Isle of Man TT one of the most dangerous racing events in the world. All in all, there’s been nearly three hundred deaths on the course, including a few marshals and more than a few punters who were only just watchin’.”

Dillon was still shaking his head. “Gee, now my stomach is in knots, too.” He nearly fell off the bench when the first rider zoomed past in a blur of noise and motion like a giant angry hornet blasted out of an unseen cannon.

Regan jumped up and pumped both fists in the air. “We’re racin’ now, mate!”

Dillon stood and tried to keep his eyes on the next motorcycles that came into view. Several riders shot past them from the left, deftly leaning at extreme angles as they traced the racing line through the double bends. Seemingly within inches of each other, men and machines accelerated into the far straightaway and out of sight near the summit of Snaefell Mountain. His head snapped around as the whine of another bike approached from the left and, seconds later, disappeared over the summit.

In the momentary quiet, Dillon looked at Regan, who was squinting at the empty road to their left. “Why are they so far apart already?”

Frowning, her eyes flicked to his face and returned to the road. “We’re over three-quarters of the way around the course up here. That’s plenty of miles for the best riders to pull ahead of the pack, even on the first lap.” She squinted harder into the distance. “We shoulda seen Guy by now.”

Separated by several lengths, two more riders wound through the bends. Almost in unison, nearly everyone along the roadway tracked them with cellphone cameras. The trailing rider leaned into the first bend, and a shower of sparks flew from where his inside knee came in contact with the pavement.

“Whoa!” yelled Dillon. “Where are those sparks coming from?”

As the two riders chased over the summit, Regan shook her head. “Some of these muppets are usin’ titanium knee sliders instead of plastic or the old wood ones like Guy still uses. They think the sparks make ‘em look deadly.”

“Yeah, I bet they’d look just plain dead if someone had a fuel leak …” Dillon’s words were drowned out by a group of at least fifteen riders snaking through the curves as if connected by an invisible force. The combined drone of the powerful engines faded as the last of the riders disappeared over the horizon, where the green mountaintop met blue skies.

“Shite!” Regan thumped down on the bench and started to flick through screens on her phone.

Dillon sat down beside her. “What’s wrong?”

“Guy’s what’s wrong.” She tossed her phone onto the grass at her feet. “Guy was trailin’ that pack o’ spanners. If he makes a holy show of it, he’ll be ragin’.”

Noticeably slower, the last few riders in the first lap wound their way past The Bungalow. In the quiet, Dillon picked up the bag of trail mix but didn’t offer any to Regan, who had retrieved her phone and was studying a screen she had finally settled on.

“Okay, yeah, sure,” she said, mostly to herself. Nodding, she clicked the phone off and looked up at Dillon, who had just shoveled a handful of peanuts and raisins into his mouth. Chewing, he raised his eyebrows and cocked his head.

“Well, looks like Guy’s passed a few of those eejits into the second lap. There’s five laps in this heat. He’s sage. He’ll press for a decent finish, he will.”

Minutes ahead of the main pack on the second lap, the lead riders leaned hard into the first bend, just up from where Dillon and Regan stood. Regan stepped up on the bench and steadied herself with one hand on Dillon’s shoulder. She gasped when a massive shower of sparks emanated from under the knee of the first rider, pelting the rider behind and causing him to start what looked to be an uncontrollable wobble at nearly a hundred miles an hour. Shouts went up along the course as the second rider stood on his footpegs and fought against his seemingly possessed machine. Yearlong seconds passed until the rider finally compelled both wheels of his motorcycle to go in the same direction again. He leaned hard into the last bend and accelerated into the straightaway that led over the top of the mountain. Spectators along the roadway cheered and high-fived each other.

“I bet that guy has two bowling bags at home,” Dillon laughed.

Still standing on the bench, Regan frowned down at Dillon.

“You know, to carry around his big brass balls!”

“Yeah, sure,” Regan said without as much as a smile. “That’s just par for this racecourse, it is.”

Quiet settled on The Bungalow as the spectators waited for the next riders to pass. “These guys are going by fast,” Dillon said. “How do I pick your dad out of the crowd.”

“He shouldn’t be in a crowd,” Regan snorted as she scanned the roadway for oncoming bikes. “Number eight. Black leathers. Red trim.”

“He’s still pretty young, isn’t he?”

Regan tore her eyes from the racecourse to glare down at Dillon. “Sure, now? Really?”

“It’s pretty quiet.” Dillon shrugged his shoulders. “I was just wondering.”

Regan sighed, and her face softened a bit. “Guy’s just into his fifties. Ancient in this sport, he is. He grew up in Belfast. His father was a privateer motorbike racer and a lorry mechanic. His mum was a refugee from Latvia. Satisfied?”

Before Dillon could answer, the drone of approaching superbikes drew the spectators’ eyes down the roadway. The whine of the engines rose to a fever pitch and suddenly fell as the riders began to pass them. Number Eight was in the middle of the pack, leaning at an impossible angle, passing another rider on the inside of the first bend. Their fairings kissed as the riders revolved upright in unison and leaned hard into the second bend, Number Eight slowly pulling ahead of the opponent he shadowed.

“Alright!” Dillon cheered. “Looks like your dad is gaining some ground!” His elation was cut short when he saw the dark look on Regan’s face as she watched the pack crest the summit and disappear again. “What’s wrong?”

Regan stepped down from the bench, sat down, and folded her arms across her chest. Shaking her head in silence, a full minute passed without even a glance at the lap’s last few stragglers. “I’ve seen this before, I have.” She looked up at Dillon, and her pale skin was almost white. “He’s mad. He’s pushin’ too hard and takin’ stupid chances. Didn’t you see him bump that spanner in the bend just now?”

Dillon sat on the bench and put a hand on Regan’s shoulder. “I don’t know anything about this kind of racing, but yeah, they did seem kinda close for how fast they were going.”

“Kinda close?! One slip, one tiny piece of gravel … it’s a thick way to die is what it is.” Regan kicked a loose stone at her feet. “I don’t give a flyin’ feck no more.”

Detached, Regan drew her knees up to her chest, clasped her arms around them, and watched the next two laps go by. The main pack of riders spread out more with each pass, Guy still in the middle of the group. In the lull at The Bungalow, with one lap to go, murmurs started reaching them from the crowd spread along the roadway. When he heard the word ‘crash,’ Dillon watched as Regan snatched up her phone and pored over the screen.

“A crash at Quarterbridge.” A hint of panic flickered through Regan’s flat tone. “Ago’s Leap, they’re sayin’, but not who.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Let’s head down to the Grandstands in Douglas. The Quarterbridge corner is just up the course from there. It’s where pit lane is. We should find Guy …”