Surviving "Mad Sunday," and the deadliest race in the world

I’ve never been swarmed by thousands of angry bees, but I guess this must be what it’s like. A brief glance in my rear-view mirror tells a scary tale. They’re everywhere. I look at the speedometer. It reads 130 mph – on a treacherous mountain pass, no less. Speed limits? There are none. This is “Mad Sunday” during the Isle of Man TT. A time for mere mortals to venture onto the 37.7-mile course, likely hung-over, aboard two-wheeled missiles capable of 200 mph. It’s fun to pretend you’re John McGuiness or Joey Dunlop, at least for the day. But for me, rocketing down the country lane in my dad’s two-seater sports car – with hedges, trees and quaint Manx pubs blurred beyond recognition – it’s bloody terrifying.

A group of six or seven bikers fly past my British racing green TVR. A 5.0-liter V-8 lies beneath the fiberglass hood. A TVR Griffith weighs just 2,300 lbs., but its handling characteristics scare me more than a quiet dinner for two with Mr. Lecter. “Oh Clarice,” I imagine. Nope. Not nearly as terrifying as carving an off-camber curve around Keppel Gate, with mobs of suicidal bikers tucked into my exhaust smoke.

“Mad Sunday” isn’t exactly safe, or regulated, and it definitely is not sensible. But it’s one of the main reasons 30,000 people from around the globe visit a tiny piece of rock measuring just 33 by 13.5 miles, situated within the Irish Sea. It occurs during the two weeks of the Isle of Man Tourist Trophy motorbike races. With week one devoted to practice, “Mad Sunday” sets the stage for week two’s competition. Of course the “racers” are all professional riders, with professional teams and sponsors. “Mad Sunday” is for the general, beer guzzling public. The racetrack is open, and once out of town and into the grueling mountain section, there are no speed limits. The traffic is directed one-way, and bikes, cars, trucks — any form of wheeled transportation — is permitted. Naturally the roads are littered with motorbikes, with those in cars becoming paralyzed by the madness surrounding them.

The night before, I had dinner on the Douglas promenade – a nice but not great pizzeria adjacent to the beach. For the TT, the prom is loaded with beer tents, and police patrol the street keeping everything in order: “Were you planning a wheelie there, Sir,” said one cop to a German-looking fella who was revving his lime green Kawasaki Ninja.

“Nein Sir, I vas not,” he replied.

I watched from our table on the patio, expecting a nasty outcome. Like most riders, the guy had probably imbibed a bevvie or three.

“Well,” said the cop in his broad Manx accent, sounding like a cross between a northern Englishman, an Irishman and a Scot. “We only let you ride on the promenade if you can wheelie for more than 20 meters. If you can’t, you’ll have to take the back roads.”

“Vaaaattt?” said the confused German.

“Wheelie. You must wheelie. So make it a good’n,” replied the law.