BBC's Ride or Die explores the most dangerous of races – but what is the true cost of living on the edge?

A couple of weeks earlier, another annual event takes place 80 miles south in County Monaghan: a memorial ceremony where the biking community gathers to remember those of their fraternity lost to crashes.

It is a testament to a chilling fatality rate known to all competitors and fans: since 1937, there has been only one season without a death in either the Isle of Man TT or the Manx Grand Prix; five died in the 2022 TT alone. It is a sport where a helicopter sits ready to transport competitors to hospital – and in the case of the NW200, even has its own chaplain, the Reverend John Kirkpatrick.

The retired Presbyterian minister features in the BBC documentary Ride or Die, which explores the role Christian faith plays for race competitors; many don’t compete on Sundays and tuck holy medals into their racing leathers. We meet Lee Johnston, a five-time winner who is impatient to get back on the road after a 2023 crash, and Maria Costello, who opts for the community of racing over that of God.

Rob Hodson, meanwhile, hasn’t missed a race since his brother Jamie died in a crash in 2017, rationalising, “If I stop, it’ll be as if we lost Jamie for nothing.” There’s also Kevin Keyes, still grieving for unborn twins lost in pregnancy. “They’re my guardian angels,” he says. “I ask them to keep me safe.”

I wanted William Dunlop to be kept safe, too. He started racing aged 15 and accumulated 108 national wins, following the family trade in which both his father Robert and uncle Joey were celebrated legends. Robert died after crashing in a practice session at the 2008 NW200; two days later, William and his brother Michael lined up to race, with the latter pulling off a victory as emotional as it was thrilling for spectators.

I met William in 2014, and he explained how racers never think of the danger “until you’re in a hospital bed thinking, ‘Why do I do this?’ And then the pain goes away and you can’t wait to get back on the bike.” At the time, his leg was in plaster, broken in two places after a crash at that year’s Isle of Man TT. He also told me, “I can see myself doing it for a long time.”

William was a sweet, good-humoured lad, and we stayed in touch until, four years later, he crashed at the Skerries 100 and died of his injuries, leaving two daughters under three. His brother Michael continues to race.

These are people who love what they do, clearly at peace with the Faustian pact they have signed, aware that living on the edge involves the ever-present risk of falling off it. Everything meaningful has a tax, as the compassionate Kirkpatrick reflects: “In pain, we can experience the reality of God in a very powerful way.”

But it’s not just the racers feeling that pain, and my heart goes out to their loved ones. For every moment of speed, freedom and possible glory, there are days, cumulatively years, of fear and grief experienced by partners, children, the wider community. Kevin’s wife says, “It brings him so much peace and brings me so much stress.” This then is her tax for loving him.

Ride or Die cuts to the heart of what it means knowingly to sign up for something that brings happiness at a cost. It’s a challenge we all meet in our lives, if not to this degree.

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