›› There are two related, and very important, concepts that the people here on the Isle of Man have come to embrace better than anyone on the planet: assumed risk and inherent risk. Assumed risk is legalese for “you knew what you were signing up for.” Inherent risk can expound on that by further noting “and what you signed up for is bad.”
It’s because both of these ideas exist that the Isle of Man TT, a motorcycle race that’s been held since 1907, still exists today. The race takes place on an island three times the size of Washington D.C. and sandwiched between Ireland and Britain — read: not all that big. Perhaps it’s because it’s so small that the race is something of a dangerous anomaly in the increasingly growing nanny state of racing.
A few people have died. A few more people have lost major or minor appendages. In fact, we’re reminded of how sensitive locals are to printed horror stories about motorcycles tumbling into houses, off of bridges or riders meeting their maker on one of the course’s many — and very hard — cobblestone walls, that there’s a separate press briefing to kindly ask that you clear any “rumors” with race control. Aside from that little sticking point, every one is guaranteed a story. I’m no different. And I very much have one to tell.
My story starts with a sleepy flight in a small twin-engine plane direct from Dublin after a major American airliner stole an entire day in my journey going over the pond.
I rub my eyes walking off the plane and immediately stumble into baggage claim — who needs a gate when there is only one room? The conveyor belt feels like a formality considering I felt like I was on a first-name basis with everyone on my flight, and it certainly doesn’t feel “foreign” here. Despite the obligatory castle, very obvious post-war architecture and British chips and meat pies, it feels like I’ve flown from Los Angeles to Albion, a small shore town on Catalina Island so near to California you can hit it with a slingshot. There’s even a poster in the lobby asking me “Have you seen Tom?”
This isn’t England. This is a small town, I guess technically a small country. (They have their own money, for crying out loud.) The small island of 80,000 attracts thousands more for this race alone. I’m not coming to watch. I am here to drive.
I missed my opportunity to acclimate to right-hand drive cars and so far, the only exposure I’ve had to the wrong side of the road has been the van I just climbed into.
For Coloradans, Subaru is very much a home team here. Per capita, more Subarus are sold within our Rocky Mountain box than is humanly possible. Nationwide, Subaru has around 2 percent market share on new vehicles sold. In the Denver-Boulder area that figure increases five-fold. In Britain, Subaru is struggling. And for residents of the Isle, who are called Manx (pronounced like “Spanx” and just as ridiculous), Subarus are as common on the roads here as the Mars Opportunity rover.
What I’ll have a chance to drive is the best Subaru has to offer. Two models in the range, the Impreza WRX STI and the BRZ, have been brought here specifically for this occasion. Two years ago, Subaru set the record for the fastest lap around the Isle of Man TT course by a production car ever in an Impreza WRX STI. That lap, driven by James Bond stunt driver and British Rally champion Mark Higgins was harrowing — even to watch. As he crested Bray Hill on the Isle of Man two years ago, a location where motorcycles lift off and literally fly, Higgins’ Subaru did the same. At roughly 140 mph his car “wiggled.” The slightest, nearly imperceptible movement in the back behind the rear tires — not unlike a slow-speed snow slide — nearly ended Higgins’ day. Crashing on Bray Hill happens. It also kills.
“I just had the moment of my life there,” he called on the radio in 2011. To recap: He’s a British Rally champion. A man who, better than anyone in his class for three consecutive years, could dodge trees two feet away from his side mirrors at 120 mph, just had “the moment of my life.”
Add to that: Mark Higgins is a native. Other than the Bee Gees, Mark Higgins and his brother Dave Higgins — a rally champion in his own right — are the only exports from an island that has no access to any natural resources whatsoever. He grew up on these roads and still has “the moment” of his life here.
These are things I’m thinking about as I wonder in the van on the way to the hotel, “So the clutch is still on the left here, right?”
Throwing me to the wolves is an understatement. Right-hand drive? A first. Right-hand drive race? First again. International spectacle? Why don’t we just make it a terrifying trifecta then? But to me Subarus are like barbecue to a Southerner, right? As a native Coloradan, boxer engines breast pumped my mother’s milk. Symmetrical all-wheel drive is a byproduct of naturally high altitudes. In other words, I got this.
Or at least I think I do.
The van ride to the hotel then the race feels unbelievably short. If this is Thursday — and I’m not sure it is — I’m driving today; only one lap around the track, in between motorcycle classifications, to see for myself the famed Isle of Man TT course. I have one job. The world won’t wait for a lowly journalist to make it around the course in his car, and the racers, who can reach speeds over 160 mph, close faster than bees on honey. My driving partner and I have heard that warning.
After combing the course and watching the motorcycles, we’re called. It’s 11:20 a.m. and it’s time to hit the course.
Officially, our drive is meant to comb the course for debris. But considering that on straights we’re hitting 120 mph and catching air, spotting debris from my seat is less likely than lighting a cigarette on the teacup ride at Disneyland.
For the first half, I’m not driving. And I’m glad. The terrain and small island roads seem to whip past my windows faster than the plane ride across the pond. I notice that we’re keeping pace with Higgins, who is leading the pack in a fully prepped Subaru BRZ that’s been slathered in deep blue paint and Isle of Man livery.
The BRZ is a hulking innocent. The 200 horsepower isn’t the summit by any means. But the 2,700-lbs. of car and nearly equal weight distribution means the BRZ can move.
As it stands, I’m in an Impreza WRX STI, which has 105 more horsepower and feels faster. The weight distribution isn’t the same, nor is the weight, but I’m not thinking about either. Did you see how close the spectators get to the track?
If you’ve ever watched world rally videos from the 1980s, then you know how harrowing “natural courses” can be. Spectators line the streets you’re racing through. In America, it’s as if the mailman, next-door neighbors and paperboy were cheering you on to go faster through your neighborhood. For a man, like myself, who used to raise Cain around my block, this is my dream come true.
But all I can smell is brakes.
My co-driver can too. We’re talking about the course in the Chinese fire drill we have to swap chairs. He knows I’m tired, because he’s in the same boat.
We set off and I’m shifting — albeit, left hand now — through the gears.
If you’ve never driven an STI, I encourage you to find one immediately.
For the uninitiated, Subaru’s STI is different than any other supercar in that it’s built suspension first. Domestic muscle is hood first, wheels later, but back in the 1990s, Subaru made waves in America by building a supercar that was suspension first.
Even across the pond, the feeling comes through. Even on the right-hand side of the car, the Subaru WRX feels like it’s planted to the quickly moving ground underneath me. Third into fourth – 100 mph into 120 mph goes faster than the last Manx signs I could barely understand. Everything here starts with a “Balla.” Ballasalla, Ballahick. Ballabeg. But not Sulby Bridge.
Here at Sulby Bridge, just past the halfway point, the WRX STI barrels down the road in fourth gear. My mind is reeling.
That’s not good. The mind of a racecar driver should be calm. I know because I’ve raced plenty of cars. Your eyes stay up, your hands and feet stay slow. If you’re worried, you’re in bad shape already. Fast hands are free hands.
Sulby Bridge is the first brake point past halfway. The cobblestone structure is beautiful. Green trees and a small station are on the right here. There are grandstands nearby to see the riders drop speed faster than John Belushi. Most motorcycles shuttle down to slightly slower than suicidal to make the tight, 90-degree right. I stamp on the brake pedal, which is thankfully in the middle, and unmistakable. Down to third gear. Down to second.
Down to second. Down to second. Down, please? Brakes hard, but there’s no compression to help now.
Subarus are designed like every car to naturally understeer. That’s the feeling you get when you’re turning right to avoid a snowbank and the car “pushes” forward perpendicular to the way you’re steering. I’m just perpendicular to the wall on this bridge right now, which isn’t the best feeling. I wish it were snow.
Brace.
Down to second.
I’m stuffed.
The wall, and its barrier come faster than the speed to make the corner. And Subaru’s safety systems and stiff cage take over from here. There’s bent sheet metal for sure, but there are two more people who can say a Subaru saved them.
For me, I can say a Subaru would have saved my life if I couldn’t brake any more. Sure as the cage held, my passenger and I made it out just fine. We weren’t barreling in at 160 mph like bikers, but we smacked the barrier with enough force to wake up the dead.
There were two fewer casualties this year than there could have been.
That’s the good news. The bad news: I want to go back and do it again. In that way I understand how the biker with one leg could crutch through the paddock before we left. The assumed risk is worth it here.