And here it is again, the TT fortnight. The one fortnight out of the entire year where I am acutely aware that human beings are squishy sacks of breakable, tearable meat.
Don’t get me wrong, I love bikes, I love racing, I love the men and women that take these enormous risks to fulfil a need within them to be better, faster, braver. They do this year in year out, many of them sacrificing families, a stable income and two legs of the same length to do so. Some of them never come back.
I am incredibly proud of my little brother. He’s fast, really fast. On one of the days next week he has, with a dollop of talent and a smigeon of luck, a chance of a podium. He’ll be on the tele, he usually is, and I want him to win. I so badly want him to win, so then he can retire, have children, have a life that doesn’t cause us to dread this fortnight, a life where we can buy his birthday present before his birthday instead of, superstitiously, holding off until we know he’s safe. But more than anything I want him to win for him.