How the Isle of Man TT survives as the world’s deadliest race

The Isle of Man TT remains more than an army of gladiators, donning their armor, heading to battle aboard 200 mph, two-wheeled missiles. It’s more than an exercise of extreme manliness, or bravery or whatever else possesses one to risk life and limb on a damp country road. The Isle of Man TT is the last of its kind – a race in which safety trails spectacle, and where speed-hungry warriors risk everything for that glorious, momentary taste of absolute freedom.

Motor racing has greatly lowered the risks to its participants over the past half-century. Most every track with a corner now brims with padded walls, or railings shrouded by spongy tires and sand traps designed to gently absorb impacts.

And that’s a good thing. Safety needs evolution, and heroes need protecting. But the Isle of Man, a self-governing spot of rock measuring just 33 by 13.5 miles in the ocean between Dublin and Liverpool, breaks all socially accepted rules. For adrenaline-thirsty riders, instead of gravel traps there are thin, wispy hay bales, and in place of tires and padding are steep cliffs garnished with skull-cracking rocks.

Every year, people die running motorcycles around the isle. But despite that toll, this historic event has been left alone to dazzle tourists from around the globe, and allow the youth to peak at life’s true sporting heroes.

Race week hasn’t yet begun for the 2013 TT, but one rider has already been killed. Japan’s Yoshinari Matsushita, 43, died during qualifying earlier this week, in what marks the 21^st death since 2000. Those statistics would practically wipe out the entire Formula 1 grid in just a 13-year period; no F1 racer has died on track since Ayrton Senna.

If you haven't yet grasped the insanity of the Isle of Man TT, watch the onboard video below.

But the official fatality figures only count actual racers. The general public, often arriving from all over the world via ferry aboard their prized motorcycles, are also given the chance to experience the racetrack on what’s known as Mad Sunday. Mad Sunday is where the track opens for all who want to experience it. Speed limits apply, and it remains heavily policed, but those aboard bikes, or in cars, or trucks, or anything, can venture around the treacherous 37.7 mile course, littered with leaf-covered crests, long mountain curves, and tight neighborhood bends. It’s not uncommon for many more fatalities to occur each year.

Once, I took to the streets on Mad Sunday piloting a TVR Griffith sports car. Powering through the mountain roads that — at least back then — had no posted no speed limits, I clocked over 130 mph. Pretty fast, I thought, until a group of six riders screamed by me like I was standing still, inches from the adjacent stone wall. During the day, I saw many riders off cliffs, ambulances aplenty as well as an abundance of beer-swigging prior to embarking. A stage on the Douglas city promenade gave home to mass entertainment, and a venue for naked women to dance like in a Vegas strip joint. The Police? Yes, they were there. Egging the ladies on to show them more, while thirsty tourists drank in beer tents before riding into oblivion.