Tandragee 100

So. On the 18th of May, me and Lasse checked into the Ryan-air flight to Dublin from Gothenburg. Mr Svensson had been shitting bricks for the last 24 hrs as he does not trust drivers with silly hats who needs to carry a briefcase with instructions to get them on the go. If only he knew what was to come...

Well in Dublin airport, we pick up the rental car and both begin by heading for the wrong side of the car.

Lasse has driven in the UK before, so ofcourse it gets to be my job to get us the 130 km's to Tandragee. Gearbox protests as I do my best to wrestle the lever into place with the wrong hand. Lasse's getting the first taste of panic before we even get out on the motorway.

Cool as a cat on a sunny porch I steer our way towards Northen Ireland. Lasse slowly lets go of the door handle.

Finally we see the signs for Tandragee and the road gets nice and twisty. As I get into the rythm and start to spray some dirt on the cars we pass it goes very quiet inside the car. When I'm 0,5 mm off clippin' the side mirror of a parked car in Tandragee someone beside me lets out a strange noise.

We quickly find the hotel and by using the crow bar from the trunk we can bend Lasses fingers from the dashboard and get the fook out of the car.

As I'm ordering two well earned pints of the black stuff, someone is supposed to drive the car 50 meters and park it in the back yard of the hotel. It takes another two pints before Lasse regains some colour back on his face.

Pints swallowed we ask for directions and head for the Castle Corner to witness the practise. It's only a 15 minute walk from the hotel and we get there in time. We buy a couple of programs before climbing our way over the fence into the inside field.

Bikes start coming down to Castle Corner from over a right hand crest. Pace is modest as it's all the newcomers to the track that are out, all classes, all together. Pace picks up after a lap or two but it still feels fairly controlled as we stand looking at the bikes as thay sweep into the 90 degree right hander.

Time for the superbikes and we walk some 50 - 100 meters further along the hedges to see the bikes coming out from the corner (you can't see through the corner due to the hedges). As we both stick our heads down through the green it's like two or three missiles have been shot up the road from the actual corner. Ooouuuuiiiiii, oooooouuuuuiiiiii, oooooouuuuuiiiiiiii!!! I can't stop laughing for 30 seconds. This is absolutely crazy!!! The bikes simply explodes from the corner and pass about a couple of meters away from underneath where we stand. They lift the front wheel as they past a small crest in the road and drift the full width of the road on the back wheel before sweeping left, slightly uphill, left again before going out of sight.

We hang around for the whole training session. Or so we think. Ofcourse I read things wrong and as we leave the big bikes are out for the last time. It's getting dark but the guys are still racing around with black visors. Posers... :-)

Fish and chips and a couple of more pints and we hit the sack.

Saturday. Race day. Big day.

We walk, and walk, and walk our way up to the paddock area. Oh! Look! It's Finnegan on the push bike. And there's Donald's and Amor's bikes. We scout around, take photos and mingle with the best of the best. Living legend Robert Dunlop tinkers with his and his sons bikes. Archibald eats a banana and Finnegan shows off his brand spanking new MV. There are maybe a couple of hundred bikes in the paddock area getting ready to be raced. Massive!

The racing begins and we try out different spots around the paddock area. We grab burgers and black stuff at the Orange Hall. Sun is shining. Life coulnd't be better.

We head down quickly to Cabra Straight to catch the 600 race. The local guys let us have the best spots as they realize we've come all the way from Sweden to watch the heroes. The bikes are flying past us, having just set down their front wheels again. Take a step out and you can actually touch them! Doing in excess of 200 km per hour. Insane!

Third lap and the guys come cruising past. Red flag! The locals get the message from mates in the paddock area. One of the most experianced guys have fallen at the sand bag "chicane" as he's tried to avoid clipping another rider. Minutes past. Tension. Then the news that are un-real. The fallen rider has been declared dead at the scene. This can not be! We saw the guy laughing in the paddock with his team members this morning.

The rest of the races are cancelled. We've just had a too big a portion of the down-side of the real roadracing...

Our minds wander off to remember a couple of other top riders who have lost their lifes in the past couple of years. Britton. Lindsay.

Later in the evening I overhear a conversation between two old war-horses in the loo. It ends with "That's racin'...". In a way I understand. These two-wheeled heroes are somewhat like modern gladiators putting on an extreme adrenalin show for us spectators. And I can easily understand the rush running through their veins as they head down these roads. Full throttle. Must be like extreme rock climbing. I mean. You know that if you put one foot wrong it will have concequences. Still you keep on doing it. Rush. Respect.

Even if it could be on a better note, I must confess we still enjoy the rest of the trip.

We survive the trip back to Dublin and it only takes us about an hour or so to find the hotel...

Dublin's a good place and we do the tourist route. Yes. The black stuff tastes even better in its home town. Or so we'd like to think anyway.

Monday morning we head back home without any further adventures. I've even become friends with the gear stick.

All in all. It's been a superb long weekend. We will be back!!!