There are two types of racing. There's racing in the form of confined, highly controlled, track-born races. Think of your MotoGPs, your Formula 1s, and your NASCARs. And then there's racing. The italicized form of the word connotes pure chaos on the order of potential insanity. We're talking about the World Rally Championship, Erzbergrodeo, and the Dakar Rally.
And then there's the Isle of Man TT.
It doesn't subscribe to either of those two definitions, as it defies everything. It defies all logic. It defies all common sense. It defies the ability to conceive of what each of these motorcycle riders go through while braving the Snaefell Mountain Course. It's one of those relics of a long-forgotten past. Something akin to a coelacanth, you know, the supposedly extinct fish they recently discovered was still around after 175 million years. A remnant. One that's positively batshit in every sense of that word.
