Author Matheny with his pal Joey Dunlop. image by rick matheny

I'm not one to believe in hero worship, on the contrary, my experience has shown me that those who are most prone to such worship are often the most humble and shun such infatuation.

A confessed fanatic of motorcycle racing, I'm a dyed-in-the-wool, dedicated machine of a fan who takes his race observation seriously. Easily able to recognize just about any current World Championship or AMA racer by just a glint of color from his helmet, a flash of leathers, or the way a knee protrudes as he prepares to take a corner, I have followed such competitors and their progress for almost 20 years and have a mind full of junk to match.

One race, and especially one racer, however, always caught my attention and made me long for first-hand experience: William Joseph Dunlop at the Isle of Man TT. After seeing brief glimpses of this public roads race in the early eighties, I made it one of my personal goals to attend this event and meet this gentleman. I knew little about it other than its visceral appeal to me, and I set about making it happen.

I first set foot on the Island in 1994 after meeting Steve Cook, a friend of my future wife Helen, who raced there regularly. I quickly arranged a trip there to man his pit crew, and upon arriving, met Steve in his leathers exiting the pits only to hear him lament the certain death of Britten racer Mark Farmer. He had rolled past the gruesome wreckage only moments before. Such is the cull of the profession of public roads racer, the annual toll of death. Each of the remaining group accepts it, pauses for a moment of thought, and moves on to another lap of bravado and adrenaline.

Last year, I lost my good friend Gavin Lee to a fatal accident at the Steam Packet Races on the 8-mile course on the South of the Isle of Man. Now, almost exactly a year later, it's happened again- Joey is gone.

I can't say Joey was a good friend, hardly even an acquaintance. But his exploits were always something that I felt personally proud of. My excitement spilled over to racing friends who, in turn, followed Joey's exploits and asked about the latest result. Here was a wonderful family man who spent winters helping Romanian orphans with his own money, a humble, quiet soul who loved to talk racing, but disliked talking about himself, winning race after race in his late forties on what I feel is the most difficult race track in the world. I can't describe how amazing his abilities were to me. I sped round the circuit in a tiny car more than once, shaking my head in disbelief as my racer friends insisted that it was, 'flat-out through here, just aim for that phone box over the brow of the hill...'

I met Joey in the beer tent that first year after my British friends insisted I belly up to the bar beside him. As I trembled with excitement, Joey looked at me and smiled that broad, toothy Joey Dunlop grin, an empty plastic cup in his hand.

"Can I buy you a drink?" I asked.

"Aye, vodka," the man replied, still beaming. He had just won the Lightweight TT, finishing the last half of the race with no right footpeg. Using the hot exhaust as a substitute, his lap times had hardly slowed. My veneration of the man grew with each gritty, superhuman feat until it was almost incalculable.

The thrill of meeting a hero eased into only sincere enjoyment of a Manx afternoon as we spoke about racing, with the help of a couple of Irish-to-American translators, Joey's tuner translating my phrases and my friend Steve translating the thick Northern brogue for my inexperienced ear. I had met the King of the Roads, and it might as well have been just another bloke enjoying the afternoon- so sincere and humble he was.

Now, he's gone. I can only repeat the phrase over and over. Of all the events I look forward to enjoying, the TT was most the special one, whether it was for the charm of the Manx residents or the absolute mind-blowing speeds the top riders achieved on that 37.75-mile course. Some of the charm has certainly gone for me now. Not just because I won't be able to watch Yer Maun race there, but because I won't be able to see his five children, so proud of their Dad as they wait for him to finish signing a few autographs. And because I'll never again enjoy some folk music at The Saddle pub, only large enough for twenty or so to squeeze inside, with the smiling face of Joey Dunlop lighting up one of the dark corners.

I'll certainly go again, I love that tiny Island. But it will be different, maybe a bit empty. It has to be.

Godspeed Joey, I will miss you.