My Favourite Bar Is A Petrol Station Forecourt
On the top of Bray Hill on the Glencrutchery Road. During the rest of the year, it’s just somewhere to fill up the car and grab a snack. During the TT Races and the Manx GP, it’s the place to be.
From behind a safety barrier next to a petrol pump, the start line is just out of sight at the top of Bray Hill. You hear the rumble of the helicopter before the bike comes into view, and the commentators over the tannoy system let you know who you’re about to see. A split second later, the colours of your rider scream past over the brow and out of sight, down towards Ago’s Leap and Quarterbridge. You see each racer for a maximum of one second. Then, once the last is through, you wait 16 minutes or so for the first to come back around, having completed their first lap of the 37 and ¾ mile course around the island. Quickly, work it out. This year the fastest ever lap was checked in by Senior TT winner Peter Hickman this year—he did it at an average speed of 135.452mph.
The buzz of the bikes coming through and past the petrol station is only part of why I love drinking here—because drinking here is what is done. All along the spectator side of the barriers and buffers are fans with cans, dressed in racers’ merch and sponsor hats, listening to the local radio’s coverage of the race. I love the strangeness of the situation, of spending time somewhere that was never intended to be used as a space for people to linger, a place I shouldn’t really be. I like the atmosphere that strangeness creates, a kind of collective in-this-together spirit, where everyone is sound, everyone chats, everyone realises the absurdity of the situation and relishes it.
In-between the snapshots of racers throwing themselves at the course, I spoke to Belgian bikers about beer (what else?), a keen local photographer about his favourite shots, and showed a retired couple who’d travelled together on their bike how to find and use the live timing app. We were all friends, exactly the same types of friends you make watching football or standing together at a gig—you are all bound by the same intense, nonsensical passion, and you would die for each other. Just for the next hour or so.
The racers bounce down their third lap. A man shouts “that’s gotta be Davey Todd” as Davey Todd passes—a statement that becomes a soundbite that defines the whole trip. I drain my can in the blazing sunshine and head inside for another four pack to share out. This is what it’s all about.
Other Stuff
I am a huge fan of beetroots. They cure cramps, you know. They also make great beer.
The independent fuel stations of Britain, with some cracking photos.
My Stuff
I’ve been writing a lot more recently, so I’ll be able to share pieces as and when they are published.
Look for my recent piece on beer and cyclocross in issue 91 of Ferment Magazine
