Bench Racing At Joey's Bar

Both men used to operate a supporters club for Robert Dunlop in the early '80s, and they'd both pitched in to help Joey during lean points in his career. On this day they wished they'd never see, the Henrys were on their way to the nearby Joey Dunlop Memorial Garden in Ballymoney's town square. The atmosphere at the bar may have been one of back-slapping motorbike camaraderie, but in the granite square punters quietly posed beside the bronze likeness of Yer Maun. The roar and whine of motorcycle engines is ceaseless, and thousands file in for a visit to their hero's memorial and a drink at his bar. A portly man in a business suit approaches me and turns out to be the town's mayor, John Finlay. International media were expected here, Finlay explains, which he noted only tends to happen during roadracing tragedies. "We have a great number of motorcycle enthusiasts and these two men were leaders, men of distinction. The town is devastated they're gone."

By the time I've finished swallowing the foam from my third pint of Guinness, I've heard Spanish, Russian, French and a few accents I can't decipher. I've heard about Joey's extraordinary mechanical skills and his legendary generous streak that drove him to make countless journeys to Eastern Europe, where he donated much of his winnings to orphanages and the hungry. That's how he came to be racing in Estonia on that fateful day. I've heard of his odd habit of getting half-soused and driving the 37.75-mile Isle of Man TT course in some poor, condemned rental car. At night, they say, with the lights off. No wonder he knew his way around so well.

I heard repeatedly about Joey's modesty and the way he still rode streetbikes, even during racing season. But the one story that's as common in these parts as hangovers on Sunday morning is the one about Joey testing his racebikes on the local roads. During the early years of his career, when Joey was part of a talented but rag-tag crew of ambitous young Turks known as The Armoy Armada, it was common to hear the buzz-saw whine of their two-stroke Yamahas along the country lanes. "One police constable pulls young Joey over and says to him, 'Who do you think ya' are, traveling this fast: Joey Bloody Dunlop?" says Noel Coglan. "Well," the storyteller leans in with heavily fermented breath for the familiar punchline, "the bloke takes off his helmet and says to the copper, 'But I am Joey Bloody Dunlop!'" The room explodes in laughter-and does so again each time the story is retold.

It's the legend and the feeling that Joey's indomitable spirit lives on that matters most. Hanging from the ceiling above the tiny "snugs"- the traditional pub booths designed to foster close conversation-is one of Joey's TT-winning Honda RC45s. In every corner of the room, there's memorabilia donated to the family by adoring fans. This runs the gamut from perfectly rendered oil portraits of Joey dragging a knee around a Portstewart roundabout to delicate stained-glass likenesses verging on the beatific. It all seems a bit much until you realize that if this were a bar dedicated to, say, an American sporting legend, there'd be shelves full of commemorative DVDs, beach towels, electric grills and embossed bronze statuettes, yours for four easy payments of $79.95. Instead, the commercialism at Joey's Bar is tastefully limited to a few dusty old postcards and a $6 coffee mug.

Parked outside are a few replicas of the Vimto Honda RC51 on which Joey won the 2000 Senior TT, along with several hundred other sportbikes. The mood outside is only slightly irreverent, as locals mix with tourists in town for the Northwest 200. There's a crew of very drunk, very young race fans wearing identical T-shirts advertising their Manx heritage and wishing aloud that Ballymoney had more available young women. There are local men like Adrian Gibson who hold court for having followed Joey's racing career closely after hanging up the leathers himself in the '80s.

"It's kind of hard to believe I'm here for another wake, but as sad as the day is, it's simply incredible to see this many people turned up for Robert," he said. Though losing another Dunlop in a town this small is a tragedy, Gibson said the mix of joviality and honor isn't unusual. "The townspeople of Ballymoney know roadracing and we know the risks, so we're just getting on with things. The bar gives us a place to celebrate when they win and talk with each other when something like this happens. It's a pretty close community no matter where you've come from. That's unique to the sport, just like the dangers."

By Simon Green

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