There's a lot more stories to tell - but it must stop.

That's all, folks.

I wanna see you,
Don't you wanna see me?
I've got a question,
You're full of Mistery.

Thank you, Howard.

I scream up the hill towards the hairpin coming out of Ramsey, IOM, and there's a guy with a pillion on a dark blue CB-X 1000 (I think) ahead of me. I'm on the AR80 - what cheek at the TT.

I stay on the throttle, take the inside line, and go up the inside as the hairpin tightens up. He does not like this, Oh No.

To restore his ego, he drops two gears, and opens the throttle. The back wheel steps out, and he's sideways as he goes past me going up the hill.

The price: he goes over the edge of the road without control, taking his girlfriend with him, and they drop into the trees below.

I spend most of the rest of the day dry retching (there's nothing more to come up) at the side of the road, telling the cops the story, knowing the guy has taken his girl to the ICU in Douglas....

...just 'cos I was a cocky little sod who couldn't resist going up the inside.

(Electric).

Somehow, in the dark, I make it to the campsite.

Somehow, I manage to get the tent up, and I crash into oblivion. The bike is forgotten.

The night is full of pain, dreams of stars, and blackness.

There can't be "Just One Last Fix"

(I'm too scared).

Clack... roar! (pause)

Clack....roar! (Ad Nauseum).

Garry and Jen have taken me to Headingley, without saying why they are doing it... I think they know something's wrong.

All I can remember is the noise, the sounds, and people talking around me. I don't remember the match, but I can still hear the sounds.

Clack... roar! (pause)

Clack....roar!

My Body is a Cage,
That keeps me from dancing
With the one I love.
- My Mind holds the key.

I'm standing on a stage of fear and self-doubt.

Thank you, Peter.

It wasn't even my bike, either.

My sons, ahhh, my sons.

I am screaming downhill from the hairpin going into Graham Hill and someone hits my back wheel just as I crank over into the bend.

I step off the bike in slow motion and my left knee hits the kerb. I stand up immediately, walk a couple of steps on the grass, and fall flat on my face. The bike goes wheeling over my head and lies down, wearily, in the grass.

You BASTARD, I was leading, you TWAT!

I force myself up off the road and find I am covered in petrol. The bloody tank filler gasket is leaking again, DAMMIT!

I can't put any weight on my right foot, and I can hear the sea somewhere over the edge of the cliff. There is no moon, and my eyes wake to the night.

I can't tell you about getting the bike upright again, 'cos I don't know how I did it. I discover my rucksack is wrapped around the left peg and I have to struggle to get it back on.

Now I have to start the bike, with a dead ankle. Oh joy.

Kick, kick, kick.
Kick, kick, kick.
Kick, kick, kick, kick, kick.......

Oh please, God, Help Me....

It's Saturday morning and I am reading the comics lying on my bed. What, at my age? Yeah. So?

Dad comes in in his dressing gown and stands uncomfortably, next to the wardrobe, and asks me a question.

He has been offered a job in Northern Ireland, as Head of Department, and he wants to know if it's OK with me for him to take it.

Why is he asking me? I completely fail to understand why my Dad is asking me for permission, as if it all hangs on me. I get the impression he's scared and uncertain, yet for me it's not a problem - I say yes, of course. I say this in spite of the daily reports that people are dying every day in Belfast and the BBC is reporting it all in grisly, joyous colour every night on the news.

So why is he asking me?

There is a blur of lights and an impression of something whizzing past my helmet without me even seeing it, then I know I have lost it and I let go of the bars.

I lie on my back. My ankle hurts. I know I am in the roadway and suddenly I can't hear anything. My leg is really cold.

They drive off and leave me in the dark, and I weep. My bike is bent and I don't know where I am.

My God, the stars!