The wind off the Irish Sea carried salt and smoke, tugging at the corners of the paddock tents on the Isle of Man. Eric Bostrom stood at the edge of a low stone wall, his arms crossed tight against his chest, watching the blur of a rider dive into Bray Hill like a fighter pilot in a street brawl.

It was beautiful, in a sick kind of way. Like watching someone skydive without a parachute and somehow survive.

He had followed his brother Ben to plenty of wild places in the name of motorcycle racing. They’d fought bar-to-bar in dirt track, AMA Superbike, split ribs and beers, Lodi with Abe, shared podiums and hospital visits. But this? The Isle of Man? It felt different. More like a cult than a race.

Ben loved it. Of course he did. He’d gone out that morning for a lap in a van with a local, eyes wide, soaking up every bump and brick wall like gospel. Eric stayed behind, reluctant but curious. When the TT started, he walked to a good spot on the course and settled in.

And then it happened.

The first bike came past so fast and so close that it nearly sucked the air from his lungs. The second one? He didn’t even see it. Just felt it — a shriek through the valley and gone again.

He made it one lap. One.

Overwhelmed by what he's seen, bikes going to fast next to stone walls, Eric laid down in the grass, stared at the gray sky, and tried not to puke. His stomach turned over like he’d swallowed a live grenade. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t blink. He just muttered, “My brain can’t compute this. I don’t know how… why… anyone would ride here.”

When Ben found him later, Eric was still lying there, eyes wide, as if he’d seen something he wasn’t supposed to — something that had rewired his soul in a way that couldn’t be undone.

Ben laughed and dropped a bottle of water next to him.
“It’s just a racetrack,” he said.

“No,” Eric said, sitting up slowly. “It’s a church made of concrete and ghosts. But I’m not watching another lap.”

And he didn’t.