TEMPLE 100

Nestled in swathe of green, rolling hills, lies Temple, a small village like a thousand others peppering the Emerald Isle.
It’s quiet where I stand, about halfway down a large, steeply angled ribbon of tarmac cutting its way across the countryside. In a field, behind a waist high barbed wire fence, the three strips of wire with twisted barbs interspersed along each length. No safety here. At speed, it’s like cheese wire, with the potential of ripping limbs clean off.
Birds tweet in the trees on this warm, sunny Ulster summer evening. No, it’s not raining; yes, we do have sunshine. A light breeze rustles the trees around me and I feel at peace. This is the feeling of summer. Warm, still, peaceful, with the sweet melodies from the many birds.
Suddenly, in the distance, comes the low drone of engines. They’re coming. Oh man, they’re coming. I mentally rub my hands. I had heard the roar of them as they each simultaneously shot off the start line in a cloud of smoke and fumes. Thirty or so of them, each determined to go faster than anyone else, willing to take risks that have since been deemed outright dangerous.
I enjoy the silence as the sound of the mad rush fades in the distance. I know where they’re going; out round the back of the circuit, through the ‘twisties’. Several miles of narrow country lane, where the machine under them leaps and bounces like an unbroken stallion, across the rough uneven Ulster road. This eventually leads them to The Rollercoaster, a name so apt and fitting that it has to be seen to be believed.
The first of these…enthusiasts starts the run – the run of death – some cheesy sensationalist type rags might proclaim (in an attempt to sell papers – make money – rule the world!).
Still relying on hearing as my only form of information, the machine crests the first hill and the scream of his machine becomes louder – but only for a second as it drops down the other side into the trough. (And to all you feminists who are as I write screaming – ‘how do you know it’s not a woman?’ – women can’t race bikes with any competence. Can’t explain it myself, they just can’t – think it’s something to do with testicles).
Moments pass as the scream becomes duller with the earth between us then rises again as the rider pilots his bucking, bronco machine up the second Goliath. (At this point the rider is feeling the G forces as he’s pushed down to the tank such is the rate of climb.)
The arrival at the top is announced with a louder howl from the bike as it’s closer and then fades slightly as it heads downwards on the second of the three hills.
I know what’s coming next and my heart starts to beat a little faster in anticipation of the event.

On the other side of the hill on which I excitedly wait, the rider is racing up full throttle, somewhere around 140mph, preparing for the ride of his life. His heart is beating faster too – as he adjusts himself in the seat to settle in the best lift-off position. Throttle at the stop, the machine races up the hill. The rider pulls himself forwards, still with his head down and as the crest fast approaches, he sticks it out over the clear screen normally used for slipstreaming. He’s sitting on the tank now, his helmet jutting over the screen as his steed hits the top. The road drops away as they launch off the top of the hill, rising first, higher and higher, the combination of momentum and trajectory sending the machine skywards.

Silence all of a sudden, as the engine quietens, and the bike coasts through the air. Reaching the vertical apex, the rider and steed, start to drop towards the asphalt. Head still over the screen, he pushes down on the clip-ons until his machine is pointing downwards, attempting to stay parallel with the dropping off road. If he flips – he’s dead, it’s really as simple as that. With just balls of the feet on the pegs, the rider balances the machine, coaxing it this way and that, keeping it under control, knowing if he hits the ground wrong, it’s all over as well.
The sound gets louder as I hear the bike screaming up the hill. Louder…louder…and then…it blasts into view, the scream of the engine rapidly dying down as the rider shuts the throttle off once he’s airborne. The machine sails over my head as I watch it fly through the air. I see the rider (pilot?) pushing his mount this way and that, to achieve the optimum position. That being level, moving towards slightly downwards as the hill drops away. I feel the rush of air as the improvised flying machine swoops past on its journey.
A perfect grounding follows with the rear wheel touching down first and the front shortly thereafter with a slight wobble as its geometry forces it into line.
Over the next minutes another thirty pilots follow, some in pairs as they fight to the front of the field. Some don’t make it crashing and burning to almost certain death (see earlier deeming).
Six laps of this follow and it’s not unusual that at least one rider meets his maker.

Such is the risk in Irish road-racing. The rollercoaster has since been shut down in the form of a chicane being added to the very top to slow the riders. Some still die.