Island of Speed

In the Irish Sea, a rugged isle stands tall,
Between England and Ireland, where speed demons call.
Racers gather, with hearts aflame,
Chasing glory, with bikes that bear no shame.

The TT's the stage, where legends are born,
Premier riders converge, with skills that are sworn.
June arrives, and with it, the roar of the pack,
Incredible speeds, that leave the crowd aghast and black.

Through towns and mountains, they ride with finesse,
Braking late, and accelerating with caress.
The roads, a challenge, with stone walls so high,
Two wheels, a thrill, where death and glory lie.

No electronic crutches, just skill and might,
Riders push the limit, with pure instinct in sight.
Their bikes, an extension, of their will to fly,
Fastest laps, a test of skill, where only the brave survive.

The purists' dream, where riders reign supreme,
No ABS, no traction control, just human skill's theme.
The thrill of the ride, where heroes are made,
In the Isle of Man TT, where legends are displayed.

But now the roads are closed, the weather's grey,
Riders wait and tweak, for a brighter day.
Fans like us, impatiently pace,
Longing for sunshine, and the racing's frantic chase.

Many heroes fallen, in pursuit of the win,
But still they ride, with hearts that beat within.
Mad Sunday's the day, when fans take the wheel,
Riding fast, with nerves of steel.

By Stephanie Veronique