There are those who say Robert Dunlop should have known better. A 47-year-old father of three has no business racing motorcycles on dangerous public-roads courses like the Northwest 200. Especially one with his long history of injuries: Some 14 years after battering his diminutive legs in an accident at the Isle of Man, Dunlop had recovered to the point he was expected to win his 16th race at this year's 200 by a margin wider than the river Liffey. Unfortunately, there's the family legacy to contend with. Like the Kennedy clan, tragedy and triumph are inextricably linked with the Dunlop brand.
So I shouldn't be surprised to find myself attending Robert Dunlop's wake in the small town of Ballymoney, where I share a moment of quiet reverence with roadracing fans from all over the planet. Robert was killed when the engine of his Yamaha TZ250 seized during practice at Mather's Cross, a dangerous section that claimed the lives of several of his peers from the fabled Armoy Armada in the 1970s.
There is shock, there is disbelief and there are a few tears among the crowd drinking pints at his late brother Joey's pub, but the race, as the locals plainly put it, must go on. "The event is larger than just one man," explains Phillip McCallen, proprietor of a large, multi-line dealership in Lurgan, just outside Belfast. Known for his intense gaze, McCallen was a decade ago the fearless firebrand to Joey Dunlop's mature roads craftsman. But there was method to his madness as he won the Northwest 11 times before retiring in '99, clocking an amazing three wins during one manic day in'92.
One scene you won't see on this side of the Atlantic: Author Mike Seate parks his borrowed
Today, McCallen is still involved in the annual event which began as an actual 200-mile race in 1929. Today races are either four or six laps, and during one of the two brief practice sessions, he leads newcomers around the 8.96-mile course, mercifully lined with hay bales and sections of AirFence. A running joke among traffic cops suggests the hay bales are deployed to protect the local infrastructure. "The danger is just an accepted part of racing on the roads," says McCallen, echoing local sentiment. Racing this close to the edge may seem mad, but the event is so popular it draws around 150,000 fans each year. That's no mean feat when Northern Ireland's population is only 1.5 million. It'd be like 30 million Americans attending the Super Bowl. On motorcycles.
The Craic
As I ride my borrowed Triumph Sprint on the slender, curvy roads between Portrush and Portstewart, the unique psyche that makes the Irish natural roadracers soon becomes apparent. The roadside scenery is breathtaking, veering between windswept seaside cliffs, deserted beaches and vivid shades of green not found in a Kawasaki racing paddock. No wonder they call this the Emerald Isle. But when I pause to enjoy my surroundings, the high-pitched whine of four-cylinder engines snaps me back to attention. Small squadrons of sportbikes overtake me at race pace every few miles. Passing is legal on nearly all Irish roads, and the most foolhardy riders pass along the centerline, into oncoming traffic, often with knees scraping pavement. Scary? Let's just say I now understand why there are so many pubs.
From this environment come competitors like James McBride, a 37-year-old contractor from Northhamptonshire, England. "I got a late start racing at 27, but this is me fifth visit here and I'm placing top 10s," he says. "This is unique in sport because it presents unique challenges and is the bravest discipline going. I'm just glad to take part."
McBride, whose Spartan Pazzo Racing/Speedy.com Yamaha paddock is as modest as his approach to racing, competed at Daytona this year after meeting American racer Geoff May at the Macau Grand Prix. And he found the superspeedway undaunting. "It's actually slow compared to the Ulster Grand Prix and the Northwest 200. Well, that and at Daytona there's run-off," he laughs. There's a great deal of gallows humor amongst the low-rent glamour in the Northwest 200 paddock. Top runner Martin Finnegan's white Yamahas sit unused with his name still stenciled on his race trailer a week after he was killed racing in Ireland's Tandragee 100.
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No Hogs here: Well-trained Irish police ride Kawasaki ZX-10Rs and Honda CBR1100XX Super Bl
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HM Plant is Ireland's factory Honda effort, piloted by series hero John McGuiness who fini
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Pazzo Racing/Speedy.com Yamaha pits are far more modest, but rider James McBride still man
Veteran real roads racers like Bruce Anstey of New Zealand and British Superbike regular Steve Plater enjoy climate-controlled motor homes and six-man teams of technicians. Pretty girls, perhaps not as fetching as those at a MotoGP round, flit about in mini-skirts. These frontrunners ride World Superbike-spec machines and earn six-figure salaries. Meanwhile, privateers employ parents, grandparents and very worried significant others for pit duty, and mom-and-pop businesses are often sponsors. Even Robert Dunlop's son Michael wears the badge of "Around A Pound," a local dollar store.
Since his debut in the late '90s, Morecambe's John McGuinness has gone from sleeping in his truck as an also-ran to top dog, and he's seen some of his fastest competitors pay the ultimate price. This dubious list includes David Jeffries, Darran Lindsay and cherub-faced Richard Britton, whose status as martyr means his likeness now adorns the sides of caravans and semi-trailers like a roadracing Tupac. Still, after all the carnage and enough wins to be considered heir to Joey Dunlop's throne, McGuinness shows no signs of fatigue. "Sure, you think about the risks and the friends you've lost, but it's worth it," he says. "It's worth it for the atmosphere, the event, the people, the buzz. I don't know what else I'd want to do."
As he says this, I realize the deeper appeal of real roads racing. It's the craic, a Gaelic term pronounced "crack," meaning a really good time. McGuinness was a clam fisherman before finding his groove in the lanes, and you can't blame him for abandoning an unrewarding career that can wreck a man's body as badly as a fencepost at 190 mph. Not much craic to be had clamming.
By Simon Green
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