Motorcycle mecca, home to three-legged cats and tail-less kippers, and sceptred isle set in a silver sea. The Isle of Man is a very special place, says an emotional Tom Isitt.

For me, the Isle of Man is a glorious, wild, beautiful and enchanting place, but a place tinged with sadness. I have had such wonderful times there, but lost too many friends there as well. It can be a cruel and unforgiving place, both as a boater and as a biker.

Even though the island has more than its share of rain, for me it’s all about blue skies, cut grass, hot tarmac, rough gorse and Castrol R. And the noise - the yowl of a GSX-R through Cronk-y-Voddy, the roar of a big twin powering out of The Gooseneck, the ring-ding-ding of a race-tuned stroker going down through the gears at Creg-ny-Baa. Oh yes, memories are all about the smells and the sounds.

I will never forget the day I first saw Joey Dunlop. It was my first trip to the island, a gorgeous June day, and I was sitting with a mate on a drystone wall just before Ballacraine, dangling my feet out over the narrow verge. Manx Radio informed us that Joey was safely through Quarter Bridge and on his way towards us. A few minutes later we could hear a bike in the distance, and we leaned forward, craning to see the approaching rider. A wall of noise, a blast of wind, and the flash of a red bike and a yellow crash helmet. Joey was past us, sitting up, hard on the brakes for the 90-right of Ballacraine.

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