Michael Dunlop - Road Racer: Its in My Blood

First published in Great Britain in 2017 by

Michael OMara Books Limited

9 Lion Yard

Tremadoc Road

London SW4 7NQ

Copyright Michael Dunlop 2017

Text written by Jeff Hudson 2017

Text copyright Michael OMara Books Limited 2017

All rights reserved. You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN: 978-1-78243-779-6 in hardback print format

ISBN: 978-1-78243-792-5 in trade paperback format

ISBN: 978-1-78243-801-4 in ebook format

Follow us on Twitter @OMaraBooks

www.mombooks.com

For my dad. My hero. My inspiration.

CONTENTS

WHEEL-TO-WHEEL RACING. Theres nothing like it.

Im doing 160 miles an hour, inches from Christian Elkin, the British Champion, and John McGuinness, winner of everything. Were that close you can smell each others cologne. One false move from any of us will take the pack down like dominoes. Thats not going to happen. Im not going to fall. Im not going to fail. I cant afford not to win this race.

Its 17 May 2008, the North West 200, the most popular sporting event in Northern Ireland and one of the fastest road races in the world. There are more than 30,000 spectators lining the streets of the nine-mile Triangle course, and to them were a neck-ache-inducing blur. But from where Im sitting, I see everything.

I see the people. Theyre everywhere. Along the pavements. Waving out of houses. Theyre on roundabouts, in shops, sitting on post boxes and walls. At 100 miles an hour or 200 miles an hour, I see them all.

I see the lamp posts. I see the kerbs. I see the flowerpots, the jagged country walls, the signposts, the shops, the hotels, the pubs, the trees. And the hedges. I go so close to them my overalls will be green by the end. Its not advised. Its not sensible. In fact its bloody dangerous. But its me. Its how I ride.

Im nineteen. Ive got a lot on my mind. I dont actually remember much about the race until this moment, until this, the start of the very last lap. Everything from here is as clear as if it happened yesterday.

Elkin and McGuinness have both just passed me. More fool them. Its the wakeup call I need.

Im not having this.

Its like a switch goes on in my head. Elkin, hes hungry for this race, he really wants the North West on his CV. And the wee bugger can ride. McGuinness is McGuinness. Great driver, always there or thereabouts, a legendary figure. He was impressive in qualifying but now its different. Hes not racing the clock any more. Hes racing me. And that boys going to know about it. By the time we start the last lap, Ive got my place back from him.

Were going across the start and finish line, three peas in a pod, synchronized swimmers on two wheels. Were bombing along Millbank Avenue, up Primrose Hill. I get past Elkin. But at what cost? The hairpin at York Corner is coming up quicker than I can deal with.

Im not going to make it. Im not going to make it. Im not going to make it

I smack the brakes on, I throw that Honda down left and, for a moment, I think shes put me off. I think its all over.

But Im not in the mood to quit. I wrestle her back just as Elkin goes past again. Its okay, Ive got time. The two of us are at it the whole way round the anti-clockwise course. Im having a go at him and hes having a go at me. There is no love given, no love lost. Im thinking, He has no choice, I am going past or through him. I dont mind which.

Then boom, its done.

Were going round the Metropol, I am in the lead and Im pushing and pushing. Its the last leg. Im on the edge and Im drifting. I know the chicane at Juniper Hill is coming. I know its the last place where a normal racer can pass you. I know that Elkin will be having a go if he gets half a chance. I dont care what it takes.

I have to be first through here.

Im going flat out, so fast I dont know if I can stop. Somehow the brakes bite, the tyres grip and I find the strength to force her round right, then left.

Were bombing up the hill again now. As we come to the top, I can see people out of the corner of my eye going bananas. The chequered flag is within touching distance. I soar across the line and lift my visor. I have to hear the crowds. Theyre cheering, theyre jumping, theyre having a party all in my name.

Ive never heard anything like it. Im not one who really likes the crowds or the fuss, but this must be what its like for Mick Jagger or Paul McCartney or one of those boys when they go on stage. Thousands and thousands of people screaming for you, showing their love. It never happens to me. It never happens to any racer. But then, what Ive just done has never happened before.

The second the race finishes Im done. Im not seeing anything. My visors open but its steamed up. My heads full of tears. Im numb. Im spent. I pull up before I get to the pits and am vaguely aware of Christian slapping me on one side and John patting me on the other. Im really not in control of anything. Ive won the race but I cant find any happiness in it. Theres no celebration to be had today, for one simple reason.

Tomorrow I bury my father.

Death is a familiar foe to road racers. Shes always there, just out of the corner of your eye. Watching, waiting. Since the Isle of Man Touring Trophy began in 1907 there have been 252 fatalities on that famous Snaefell Mountain Course, not including the losses to spectators and officials. My uncle, Joey Dunlop, the legendary King of the Mountain, died during a race in Estonia. Thereve been fifteen deaths at the Ulster Grand Prix, five at the Killinchy 150, five at Tandragee, and nineteen here at the North West. My dad, Robert Dunlop, was number fifteen.

Death is responsible for the man I am today my dad going, my winning that race the day before his funeral, continuing the Dunlop dynasty those events shaped me in ways I could never have imagined if they hadnt happened. I know that. All my achievements, everything, it started then. Im the fastest man in history around the TT track. I hold the lap records virtually everywhere Ive ever ridden. Ive got thirteen TT trophies so far. Ive achieved everything there is to achieve in my sport and Im only twenty-eight. What burns me is that my dad never saw any of it.

Id give it all up tomorrow to have him back just for a day. But then this would be a much shorter book. And anyway, thats not the way of things. You dont get to write your own script. Life moves on. Life will wait for nobody. Not me, not the prime minister, not the Queen. Not even my dad.

Like it or not, this is my life. This is the script Ive been given. This is who I am.

Im Michael Dunlop: Road Racer.

LEEDS, ENGLAND. A BIT OF YORKSHIRE. Im over to take a look at a bike with a mechanic Ive known for a while. I trust his judgement. Before we can leave, he has a car in his yard that needs fixing. While hes finishing, the owner walks in.