What the TT means to those who have braved it

On June 3 2019, during the third lap of the first Isle of Man TT Superbike race, 27-year-old Daley Mathison crashed at the Snugborough section of the course. He tragically died, leaving behind a young family, and his name was added to a sobering list of 258 riders killed since racing started on the island in 1907.

In the immediate aftermath of the ACU-issued statement confirming Mathison's death on that Monday afternoon, there were calls to ban the TT.

Motorsport is an inherently dangerous activity. It means taking high-powered machinery around fast circuits, often with other competitors swarming around. Motorcycle road racing is perhaps the peak of motorsport's danger. The asphalt run-offs and air fence-lined FIM Grade A and FIA Grade 1 tracks of circuit racing are swapped for brick walls, hedges and other assorted street furniture, all being passed by riders going at frightening speeds.

The TT is the most fearsome challenge of them all. Run over a 37.73-mile stretch of asphalt winding its way from the Isle of Man's capital, Douglas, through Kirk Michael, Ramsey and over the gorgeous Snaefell Mountain, it has drawn the fearless to it for over a century.

"It's the Mount Everest of road racing", says eight-time TT race winner Phillip McCallen.

"The TT is the biggest challenge in the world, road racing is the biggest thrill in the world. We race on the public roads that people drive to work on every day. What track in the world is 37.73 miles long? The value for money in riding the TT, where you have six laps, 225 miles and two hours of racing [is high]. So why not do it? You can relate to all that. It's a challenge."

The Everest comparison is interesting, and highlights a hypocrisy among what McCallen calls the "armchair critics". Since Sir Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay became the first recorded summiteers of Everest in 1953, thousands have since gone to the Himalayan behemoth seeking to test their limits in a bid to reach its peak. Many tried beforehand, failing or perishing in the harsh climate. There have been 308 recorded deaths of climbers on Everest, well over 100 more than those killed at the TT (excluding the Manx Grand Prix and Clubman's TT, which bring the total up to 259). This year alone, 12 climbers have died on Everest.

So it could be argued that the TT is safer than climbing Everest. Yet, the news coverage of a death on that particular mountain rarely seems to forthcoming in quite the same way. Why is the TT singled out?

Every conceivable measure is taken to make this road race as safe as possible

Widespread coverage of the event undoubtedly plays a part. Video clips of the impressive speeds the riders hit at close quarters are available on demand, which often makes it an easy target. But McCallen has another thought.

"They don't understand, they don't have a passion for what they do," he says of the TT's detractors. "They don't understand what love and adrenaline is. That's why it's easy for them to say 'ban the sport'. What are they going to do? Are they going to ban everything else?"

"I buried a couple of mates a couple of weeks ago, a 50-year old died of cancer," says 23-time TT race winner John McGuinness. "I'm 47 now. If somebody said 'do you want 50 great years, or 60 shit ones?', I'd take 50 all day long."

McGuinness has been racing the TT for over 20 years, and has been on the receiving end of road racing's highs and lows. In 2017, at the North West 200, the throttle on his Honda Superbike stuck open on the run through the Primrose Hill section. He ended up on a golf course, his right leg snapped in half. It took him two years to fully recover, but he returned to the event this year. In 2003, his best friend David Jefferies was killed during practice in one of the TT's darkest days. But McGuinness continued to race, winning the 400cc race that year.

"When David Jefferies got killed in front of me, my best mate, we were all in bits," he reveals. "The strongest person in the paddock was his mum. [She said] 'Get on that fucking bike, that's what Dave would have wanted you to do. Get on that bike and get on with the job'. So, we did. It is what it is."

And it's dangerous, certainly. But it's not reckless. And TT organisers have made numerous changes over the years to remove the avoidable risks.

Racing in the rain, for example, has been outlawed for almost two decades. Safety barriers line the side of the course to try to prevent serious injury or worse in a crash. Newcomers now must have an impressive racing CV before even being considered to compete, and come over once a month to learn the course with rider liaison and TT winner Richard Quayle - himself a survivor of a monstrous crash at the TT in 2003 - beginning in the winter. Clerk of the course Gary Thompson is also in constant discussions with riders over any issues they may have.

Every conceivable measure is taken to make this road race as safe as possible. After that, it's down to the rider to make the decision if they want to take part or not. What happens next, sometimes, is partly down to luck.

"Well, there's no gun to our heads, is there?" says McGuinness. "You only do it because you want to do it. Daley was loving it, he was living the dream, he was coming of age.

"I always find these things frustrating, because was it a failure, did something happen, did he make a mistake? Nobody will ever know. But he died doing what he loved, nobody was going to stop him doing it."

From 1949 to '76 the TT formed part of the grand prix calendar. In '72, Gilberto Parlotti was killed, and his great friend, 15-time world champion Giacomo Agostini, boycotted the event from that point. Many others would follow, leading to its demise as a world championship event.

But the TT survived, and was all the better for it because it stopped riders being forced to compete. With little prize money, compared with what's on offer in most professional sports now, the TT is purely for those who want to engage in such a tough test.

So, without wishing to be flippant, how is that any different to those who want to climb Everest?

Life, ultimately, is about discovery. It's the reason the Wright brothers built planes; it's the reason humans went to the moon; it's the reason people attempt landspeed records - to see if it can be done, to push the limits of man and machine, and redefine what we think is possible.

This is what the TT is about. When Bob McIntyre set the first 100mph lap of the TT course in 1957, no one thought there would one day be 130mph laps. McGuinness redefined what was possible in 2007, as did Peter Hickman with his 135.452mph from last year. Riders will keep on coming to the TT because of this, to move the goalposts, to try to win one of those famous races, and to just simply take on the course.

It's also why over 50,000 people flock to the island every year. In a world of regular sanitisation of sport, the TT, in a sense, represents an example of wild freedom, where something truly extraordinary is allowed to happen.

To hang over the fence at St Ninians school and watch 1000cc Superbikes fly past, or listen as Michael Rutter's Honda MotoGP replica threatens to tear a hole in the fabric of reality as it thunders by at 180mph on the Glencrutchery Road is like nothing else. It's such a visceral experience; once you've been, the TT enters your blood. And until you've experienced it - much like climbing Everest - it's unlikely you'll ever truly understand what it's about.

Mathison's accident was a sad reminder of the dangers of road racing, and it's heartbreaking his family must go on without him. But he died doing what he loved, which isn't something many get to do.

McGuinness concedes the TT can be cruel and a "selfish" endeavour. But the highs of this incredible event outweigh the negatives for the competitors, and everyone who is part of it understands the risks. Mathison knew them too, yet his enthusiasm for the TT could not be dampened.

Despite what McCallen's armchair critics might say, the TT is not the shocking spectacle they claim it to be. And even if some call for it to be banned, the TT will continue.

"What I say to these people is: don't come," McGuinness concludes. "Do a U-turn, go home and play tiddlywinks or go bowling or play golf. This is our gig, what we do is 113 years old. Two World Wars couldn't stop it. Foot and mouth [disease] couldn't stop it in 2001. People will always flock back here, there will always be riders and Daley wouldn't want it to stop."