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Knee down, wrestling with a 210-horsepower superbike and tearing up the tarmac at 180 mph. For international road-racing hero, maverick star of the Isle of Man TT, petrol-head and truck mechanic Guy Martin, nothing feels as good as the adrenaline rush at killer speeds.

In this explosive and revealing autobiography, Guy tells it straight. He takes us behind the scenes of modern road racing and into the pits with his mechanics, his bosses, his machines and his fellow racers.

Meet his family, his friends, his rivals and find out where it all began; from the small-town boy growing up watching his Dad build superbikes, to the headstrong young racer and his first taste of success at Cadwell Park and Rockingham, to the underground Irish scene and riding the greatest road race of them all, the Isle of Man TT. Discover what it feels like to stare death in the face and risk it all for the craic, to survive a horrific 170 mph fireball at the 2010 TT, and come back to do it all again.

This is the thrilling story of how a working-class lad with a passion for speed, a determination to succeed, and an endless capacity for endurance and hard graft, became an icon of world sport.

About the Author

Except for one summer spent sleeping inside a truck in a concrete yard in Northern Ireland, Guy Martin has lived within 20 miles of the Grimsby hospital he was born in, on the 4th November 1981. But that hasn’t stopped the professional truck mechanic from winning multiple international road races, including eleven Ulster GPs and eight Scarborough Gold Cups, plus scoring thirteen Isle of Man TT podiums. Neither has it prevented him from presenting three critically acclaimed prime-time TV series, being the subject of a BAFTA-nominated film or breaking British and World land speed records along the way. Not bad for a truck fitter. Guy still lives in North Lincolnshire.

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

Published in 2014 by Virgin Books, an imprint of Ebury Publishing
A Random House Group Company

Plate section one © Guy Martin
Plate section two © Pacemaker Press International, except for bottom p7
© Noel O’Reilly, top left p8 © Dainese
Plate section three © Pacemaker Press International, except for p3
© Guy Martin, p5, bottom p6, p7 © Barry Hayden

Guy Martin has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner

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My love of trucks started here. I’m thirteen months old and it’s my second Christmas. The truck was a present from Mum and Dad.

Me and my grandma, Double-Decker Lil.

My mum tells me this is Silverstone. We’d go on a Thursday and come back on a Sunday night when my dad was racing. We had an old ambulance converted into a camper that the four of us, Mum, Dad, me and Sal, would sleep in.

Me and Big Rita. The best mum I could hope for. A proper grafter who didn’t take any nonsense. Looking back, she did everything the right way as far as I was concerned.

The four Martin kids and my dad. He still looks the same now, over 20 years later. That’s Sally at the back, with Kate in front of her, Stu next to her and then me.

On my Raleigh Chopper with my dad’s bike workshop, a converted chicken shed, in the background. I spent many a night after school watching him build his race bikes.

The Martins. Me, eight; Kate, two; Sally, nine; and Stuart, three.

My first-ever motorbike, a Yamaha TY80. I still have it now. The little trial bike started the motorcycle obsession. It also started a lot of arguments with my older sister Sal, who I was supposed to share it with. That’s my dad’s works van in the background.

On the KX125 at Barnetby quarry, just up the road from where I lived. My first motocross bike, paid for by working with my dad. I rode it every chance I got, more often than not in one of Mr Lancaster’s farm fields. That got him revving.

The VW LT35 that my dad painted to look like the A-Team van because we were all so mad about the TV programme.

The Transit van, M303 GRH and my Suzuki GSX-R600 Junior Superstock bike.

My first time ever on a race bike, just before I stalled it going over Cadwell’s Mountain. My dad’s BSA, and look how nervous he is!

Me, with the farmer’s daughter, dressed up for the Goodwood Festival of Speed in 2008. I may have been drinking before this photo was taken.

On the podium at Rockingham in 2002, just before the fingers-in-the-laptop moment that turned my racing life on its head.

Ryan Farquhar (left), my little sister Kate – who went on to be a race team mechanic – and me (right) at Scarborough, 2003. I have black tape on my arm, so someone must have died.

The 2009 Isle of Man End-To-End race. A year into my serious cycling habit.

Nutts Corner, 2003. That’s an Irish Superbike race and I’m on the GSX-R1000 my dad bought me, in the Team Racing colours. I’ve never had a problem racing in the wet.

From left to right are Richard Britton, Martin Finnegan, Darran Lindsay’s mechanic, Trevor, and Uel Duncan. This could be a scene from any Irish road race, but I’m sure it’s Dundalk, 2004. My team-mate Darran had crashed and broken his wrist but he could still win the Irish championship if I took a win away from Ryan Farquhar, so I agreed to ride his 250.

And that’s me high-siding Darran’s 250 at the same meeting, with Ryan Farquhar arriving on the scene. I didn’t hurt myself and tried to get back on, but the bugger wouldn’t start. Obviously, I didn’t beat Ryan that weekend, but I won at Killalane and Scarborough to give my team-mate the championship.

Another one from Dundalk that shows how wild the Irish road circuits are. They’re like motocross on tarmac. I’ll have hit this jump at over 130 mph.

This is the first photo a lot of people saw of me because it was used in a few British bike mags. It was taken by Stephen Davison, at the Scarborough Gold Cup meeting in 2004.

You can tell I was green, I’m even wearing the team’s shirt. 2004 Isle of Man TT awards with my bronze replica. I’m not sure where it is now. Maybe my dad’s got it.

Mid-Antrim 2005, I had finished second to Ryan Farquhar all day, but in this last race, the grand final, I won. I’ve raced Ryan hundreds of times. That’s the last time I raced this hardcore track. It took so much learning, because there are so many places you need to be fully committed.

Me and Trellis – my old mate, Johnny Ellis – in the pits at Macau, 2005. We are relaxing on the shipping containers the bikes are sent out to the Far East in. This was the first year I rode there.

Ireland’s Corner, Ulster GP, 2006. I won every race besides the Superstock race that day.

2007 TT on the Hydrex Honda Fireblade, at St Ninian’s crossroads, on the way to second in the Superbike TT.

This is the 2007 Superstock TT and I ran out of petrol because of a fault with the bike. This is Tower Bends, before you get to the Gooseneck. I look really uncomfortable in this photo, not in my normal riding position.

Showing my bruises a few days after a big crash at the North West 200 in 2008. I’m wearing one of my first pair of Hope shorts. I’ve probably worn the arse out of ten pairs of them.

I led both the big races at North West 200 in 2008 before mechanicals put a spanner in the works. First time, the brakes went; next race, the hose clip broke, both when I was out in front.

The Pre-TT Classic races, 2008, on the Billown Circuit. I came off in this race when the battery fell off and jammed the back wheel on the last lap, when I was leading the race by a minute. I shouldn’t be here now, really: that accident should’ve been the end of me. I spannered myself, and I had to tell my team boss, Shaun Muir, who didn’t even know I was racing, what happened.

With Valentino Rossi. The man’s a legend.

Going past the Memorial at Scarborough’s Gold Cup in 2009. That’s Stuart Easton’s bike, because the team had sold mine. A lad called Michael Pearson is behind me. He was a bit wild, but he never bothered me.

In the gutter, because the road’s all there for using. 2010 was a bit of a disastrous year. This is the North West 200 on the Wilson Craig Honda Superstock Fireblade.

This is what can happen if you crash at 170 mph at the TT. That’s the petrol tank in the top left and my foot in the bottom right. When I was in hospital I couldn’t understand why my fringe was burnt. I don’t remember the explosion, so I must’ve been knocked out for a second.

Dainese and AGV took this photo of the kit that did a great job of saving my skin in the Ballagarey crash. The paramedics cut the suit off me, but other than that it looks bloody good considering what it saved me from.

That won’t polish out. The remains of the Wilson Craig Honda Fireblade that exploded after I crashed going through the 170 mph Ballagarey corner at the 2010 TT.

In Nobles Hospital with the team on the evening of the crash. Everyone’s smiling even though I broke my back and there’s still smoke coming off my eyebrows, because they know how bad it could’ve been. I was racing three months later.

I had a few podiums during the 2011 TT, but McGuinness did the winning. I have massive respect for him.

I’m trying here. I can’t do wheelies on purpose. All I’m trying to do is get the front wheel down on the ground.

The Southern 100 takes place on the Isle of Man, but not on the TT circuit. It’s probably my favourite race of the year. It’s mid-week, the track is proper hardcore and when you sign on with the organisers they give you a handful of tea vouchers.

Pit stop at the 2011 TT. Having done both, I can honestly say I’d rather be racing than changing the back wheel. Pressure?You can’t imagine it.

The Dundrod circuit, home of the Ulster GP. I love it round there. This is the 2011 Superstock race.

Me and Mave, Mark ‘Mavis’ Davis, just before we started our first ever filming day for The Boat That Guy Built. Spellman took the photo and we’d just had a decent sized row about calling it all off. You can see by my face I was still more than half thinking of going home.

Filming The Boat That Guy Built. We crashed Reckless, as she was called, a good few times that day. Didn’t feel like a real job then and still doesn’t now.

Getting my John Thomas out in front of the crew for the shower scene in the boat series didn’t bother me one bit. Here I am trying to show Mave I didn’t have skid marks in my boxers. What a couple of pros.

I think this is the biggest crash I ever had, and I came away unscathed. It’s the North West in 2012. I’ve crashed a lot of motorbikes and I always know why; I’ve been trying too hard or I’ve done something wrong, but the cause of this crash is still a mystery to me.

The TAS Suzuki team at the Ulster GP in 2012. Team owner, Hector Neill; me; team boss and Hector’s son, Philip Neill; and my team-mate that year, Conor Cummins.

I’ve had some battles with Michael Dunlop at races like the Southern 100 and Ulster GP. Sometimes I come out on top, sometimes he does. This is one of the times, in the Superbike race at the Ulster in 2012, that I did.

Like a spaniel with its head out of a van window. This is the locomotive 5164 I had a hand in restoring for the How Britain Worked series. I need to be involved in TV where I’m getting my hands dirty.

The MacMillan, a pioneering bicycle with wooden wheels and metal ‘tyres’ that me and Mave helped make a replica of for the telly. Not suited to crossing cattle grids at speed.

Welding a gear for a Victorian lawnmower. Mowing used to be the thing that helped me relax, getting all the lines dead straight and then tidying up the headlands. Now I don’t even get time to do that.

And sometimes I even have to get my feet dirty.

Tower Bends,TT 2013. That bike never ran right, it took everything for me to scrape into the top ten. Look at those beer bellies! Proper.

Without doubt the most scared I’ve ever been on two wheels. 113 mph on a pushbike, an inch or two from the back of a racing truck. Riding blind and tearing the muscles off my bones to keep going. A hell of a buzz, though. I’m still amazed it didn’t go pear-shaped.

The engineering department and students at Southampton University were the brains and I was the brawn, pedalling like hell to get our HPA – human-powered aircraft – off the ground. It worked, too. More people have been into space than have flown under their own steam.

The sledging record in Channel 4’s Speed series was the perfect mix of cutting-edge engineering and danger. Flying down the side of a mountain in a carbon-fibre sledge, designed just for the top speed record. I crashed on the practice run, then did 83 mph, smashing the existing record that stood at 62 mph.

The 2013 Le Mans 24-Hours stands out as the best thing I’ve done with motorbikes. I just love racing bikes and to do it for over eight hours in two days is great.

PROLOGUE:

GAME OVER

I’D JUST LEFT the pits after the fuel stop. Head down, wrestling the 210-horsepower Honda Fireblade through the outskirts of Douglas, the Manx capital, and out onto another 38-mile lap of the island. One of my mechanics, Cammy, had told me I was in the lead, but only by a second. I could hear a difference in his voice. He’s normally as calm as if he was reading a shopping list, but there was an edge this time. He knew we could win.

It was the start of the third lap of the 2010 Isle of Man Senior TT, the last race of the fortnight, the race I have been desperate to win since 2004, and the last chance to get a TT win for another year. I was pushing hard.

I had already missed out on a win by three seconds that week. Three seconds in a race held over 150 miles. A race that lasts one hour and 12 minutes, or 4,320 seconds. That means the winning margin was 0.21 per cent. It’s obvious that every second counts in modern real road racing.

Down Bray Hill, with a full tank of fuel and a new rear tyre. The bike goes from nearly bone dry to brim full, and the extra 24 litres of unleaded always makes a difference to the handling, but I know how to deal with it.

Then, three miles from the pits, comes Ballagarey. This is the kind of corner that keeps me racing on the roads. It’s a proper man’s corner. You go through the right-hander at 170 mph or more, leant right over, eyes fixed as far down the road as it’s possible to see, which isn’t very far. Like so many corners at the Isle of Man, and most of the other circuits I specialise at, it’s blind. I can’t see the exit of the corner when I fully commit to the entry.

I’d been through Ballagarey 100 times flat-out, but this time something happened. This time the front end tucked, lost grip and started sliding. It’s the beginning of a crash. That’s not unusual. I’m saving slides regularly when I’m pushing for wins. Through the fastest corners the bike is always on the edge of crashing, just gripping enough to keep on going in the right direction. Go slightly too fast and the tyre shouts, ‘Enough!’ Go slightly too slow and you’re no longer in the hunt for wins.

As the front tyre carried on skidding across the top of the road, I tried to save the slide. I thought, ‘I’ve got it, I’ve got it, I’ve got it, I’ve got it …’ I can sometimes get away with front-end tucks, when the bike is leant so far over that the front tyre eventually loses grip and begins to slide. You can save them on your knee, or give it a bit of throttle and it’ll come back to you. One thing’s for sure, you don’t do anything major, like grabbing a handful of brake, and you don’t panic because that’s when you come off.

I went through all that thought process, as the bike was steadily skating, increasingly out of control towards the Manx stone wall that lines the outside of this corner. Then the thought ‘Game over’ entered my head. At those speeds, on a corner like that, you’re not jumping off the bike, just letting it go. I was leant over as far as a Honda CBR1000RR will lean, and a little bit more. I released my grip on the bars of the bike and slid down the road. I didn’t think, ‘This is going to hurt,’ – just, ‘Whatever will be, will be.’

CHAPTER 1

NO MIDDLE NAME

I REGULARLY USED to say I was born and bred in Kirmington, because up until recently I always thought of the real town of my birth as a shithole. The truth is I actually arrived in the world in Grimsby, in 1981. I was born in the maternity hospital in Nunsthorpe, the roughest estate in the town. I was, and still am, Guy Martin – no middle name.

My dad missed my arrival. He was in the hospital for the birth of Sally, my older sister, but he had to stand outside because she was in breech and the father wasn’t allowed in when things were getting complicated back in those days. When it was my turn to pop out, Dad was there with my mum waiting for me to appear, but at eight at night the midwife told them nothing would happen until midnight, so Dad went out to get some bits from Scanlink, the local truck part specialist, for a job he was working on and missed me being born at just gone ten. He was there for Stuart’s birth and Kate’s, though. My little sister’s was so quick she wrecked the interior of his Ford Granada on the way to Grimsby Maternity Hospital.

My mum, Rita, is nine years younger than Dad. She was only 16 when they met. I think the age difference caused some friction between Dad and his mates of the time, but when I see old photos of them together, even with the nearly ten-year age gap, they don’t look wrong together. They always look dead happy.

Ian Martin and Rita Kidals married six years later when my mum was 22, and their first child, Sally, was born a couple of years later. Sally was only four months old when I was conceived. Mum says it all happened at the end of her first night out after Sally’s birth.

On 4 November 1981, the Martin family, now with a 13-month-old girl and a day-old baby boy, left hospital, jumped in the car and drove the 12 miles to my very first home, a flat above the old Co-Op in Caistor. It was a second-floor flat with a nice, big garden that had a sandpit in it. Our entrance was around the back of the shop, off Bank Lane.

I don’t have strong memories of the place because we moved, when I was still only three, to the house on Gravel Pit Lane, Kirmington, where my parents still live. Now the house is surrounded by conifers, but in those days it had a barbed wire fence.

My dad was a part-time motorcycle racer, a privateer, which meant he paid for his own way, and won a bit of prize money here and there. Though he was racing for fun, never a career, he lined up with some of the biggest names of the time, competing in the Shell Oils series, the British Superbikes of its time. He raced at 15 Isle of Man TTs. He was a top privateer. He didn’t start racing until he was in his mid-twenties.

The window frames of Gravel Pit Lane had begun to rot and to have them repaired Dad eventually had to sell his P&M-framed Suzuki 1000, the race bike he finished twelfth on in the 1983 Isle of Man TT. He was the first privateer home that year. The bike had all the right bits on it and he still raves about it now, but double-glazing was more important. They must have been on the bones of their arse.

We didn’t get a telephone until one of my granddads went into hospital, when I was ten, which makes it 1991. Up until then the family would use the traditional red phone box over the road if they needed to make, or take, calls. I remember when my dad was away racing he’d have a timetable for ringing home to tell everyone he was all right. Mum would go out, cross the road and wait by the phone box for it to ring.

Dad would often work seven days a week. Especially when he was saving up for a bike. He would fix trucks six days a week, well, five and a half really, then on Sundays he would sometimes drive trucks for another company, and me and Sally would jump in the cab with him, sitting on the bunk-bed in the back. The money earned on Sunday would go towards his racing or bike projects.

Dad has worked for himself since 1995. When I was born he was employed by R K Hirst, the hauliers, in the same yard in Caistor he works from now. After he met my mum, but before they were married, he was in Nigeria, working as a fitter for a crew of road builders. At the same time Mum was in Germany working in a hotel. They had a break from the relationship for a bit, and it was when they were thousands of miles apart that they realised how much they missed each other and that’s when they decided to get married. One time Sally and I were in the garage and came across the love letters Dad sent from Nigeria. They both arranged to come back to England and were married three weeks later. That was over 35 years ago and they’re still together now.

Even in his mid-sixties, and still not retired, Dad looks the same as he does in photos from when we were kids well over 20 years ago. I think this fact has gone a long way to shaping much of my view of work and life. Hard work never hurt him. The opposite, in fact. My dad has grafted on trucks for over four decades and he’s as strong as a bull. He works in the pit, under Scania 4210s, with the 20-foot doors of the garage wide open whatever the weather and with nothing to protect him but his blue overalls, a few pints of stiff tea and cod liver oil. And he’s fitter than a lot of men half his age.

If you met Ian Martin 30 years ago, you’d definitely recognise him now. He has always gone from having a full beard, to a goatee and then on to a porno-style handlebar ’tache. It’s a three-yearly cycle, and I’ve never worked out what sets off the changes in the style of his facial hair. He has also worn spectacles as long as I’ve been alive, always the same size and style: big, rectangular ones, as thick as the bottom of a pint glass.

These specs were legendary in the Lincolnshire market town of Caistor. If Ian Martin’s glasses came off there was going to be trouble, because my dad was a scrapper. I never have been, but he was a renowned fighter in Grimsby, Market Rasen and Caistor. If the glasses came off, stand back. I’ve heard the stories, but, I’m happy to say, I’ve never seen him in a fight. I think it was all part of a good night out for him: go out, get drunk, have a fight.

The famous Elton John song of 1973, ‘Saturday Night’s Alright (For Fighting)’, was written about the rivalry between Caistor and Market Rasen, because Elton’s co-writer, Bernie Taupin, came from Normanby-by-Spital, 15 miles from Caistor. At the time there was a feud between lads of these towns just eight miles apart. It was the time of mods and rockers and anything went. One night the songwriter, then still unknown, was in the Aston Arms in Market Rasen when the Caistor mob came to town for a punch-up. Dad knows for a fact he was one of the Caistor lads causing bother that Taupin would write about.

It was good being Ian Martin’s son, because it meant I rarely got in any bother. I’ve inherited a lot of Dad’s traits, more than perhaps I’d like, but I’ve never been handy in a scrap. I’ve thrown the odd punch in self-defence, when I’ve had to, but I’ve never gone out looking for trouble. But those who did enjoy throwing fists around perhaps thought twice before picking on me. Another thing that helped me avoid the kind of trouble that kicks off every Friday and Saturday night in towns and cities all over Britain was that I’ve never been much of a boozer either, so I didn’t go to pubs much. Still, I haven’t escaped unscathed. I have no sense of smell after getting lamped on a night out in Lincoln when I was a teenager.

While he was lovey-dovey with my mum, buying her big Valentine’s cards and all that, he wasn’t a very cuddly dad when I was growing up. If everything was all right he’d give us a big thumbs up. He wouldn’t say much and, as I’ve said, he seemed to be always working. Until I started working with him, part-time, we’d see him odd nights of the week, Saturday afternoon and some Sundays.

My mum, Rita, is a cracking lass, but awkward. Not socially awkward, more headstrong and stubborn. It must be where I get it from.

When I was young, I thought Rita Martin was the worst mum in the world, but I’m sure loads of people think that of their parents and only realise later how wrong they were!

Big Rita wouldn’t take any nonsense, that’s why I reckoned I was hard done by, but I look back now and think she did exactly the right thing. We learnt right from wrong. We weren’t cheeky very often and we didn’t have too much chelp. There definitely wasn’t any naughty step in our house. She’d smack us to keep us in line if we weren’t behaving. She would clip us with the spaghetti measurer, a flat piece of wood with rounded edges, basically a thin paddle about six inches long. It’s the kitchen implement that has different-sized holes in it to help you judge how much spaghetti to put in the pan. She moved on to the spaghetti measurer, as a tool of child discipline, after she realised wooden spoons weren’t working. She was handy with it as well. It was thick enough not to snap, but not too thick, so it had a bit of whip to it.

The lead-up to a whack on the backside would follow a familiar pattern and develop like this: first we’d be cheeky or not pipe down after being told to, so Mum would put a hand on the cutlery drawer and look at us. That was the first warning. If we carried on, the next thing she’d do was close the kitchen window, so the neighbours couldn’t hear us. Once the window was closed you knew you were getting it, and the spaghetti measurer would be out and the chase would begin. Until I learnt, my mum would spank my arse at least once a week, usually a quick whack while I was running away. It would come sharp, with a flick of the wrist.

Still, I got away lightly. My older sister Sally got it worse than me, and Stu got it worst of all. He was mischievous – a cheeky little bugger. He was suspended from school too, for mooning out of the bus window, throwing snowballs in class, breaking windows … Kate is the youngest and never got a spanking as far as I can remember. She nearly died, from whooping cough, when she was still very young. She turned blue, was well on her way to going, according to my dad, and was rushed to Grimsby Hospital. She survived and, I reckon, played up to it too, even until she was 11 or 12, so she never got her spaghetti measured.

We’d often hear the threat, ‘Wait till your dad gets home,’ but he never did anything. Big Rita was the enforcer in Gravel Pit Lane. Of course, we weren’t abused, I had a fantastic childhood. She was a great mum. She still is.

Rita had quite a tough upbringing herself. Once, when she was little, her school friends were all talking about Father Christmas. She raced home, all excited, to tell her mother, Double-Decker Lil, who then asked who had been filling her head with such rubbish! But Mum didn’t pass that on to her own kids. Sally was 12 before she had any real doubts about the existence of Santa Claus, and Christmas time was mega at our house. On Christmas Eve my dad would have a few drinks and tell us to bring the pet rabbits into the house. It was the only day out of the whole year he’d do it, but it happened every year. He’d be as pissed as handcarts from the pub at lunchtime. It’s the only time I remember seeing him drunk, but he’d be as daft as a brush, crawling around on the floor with our rabbits.

Rita laid down some weird rules. She wouldn’t allow us to watch Grange Hill in case it led us down the wrong path. When we were playing out in the street with kids she regarded as a bad influence, Mum would shout, ‘Your tea’s ready,’ even though we’d already had it. She wanted us to come in, but she wouldn’t just say, ‘Come in.’ Perhaps she didn’t want anyone thinking that she was looking down on anyone else in the village, even though that might have happened to us.

When Sally and I were very little, Mum had a trike, a pedal one, that she’d bought from a copper in Riby. She would pedal up to the Humber Bridge, with me and Sally sat in a basket behind her looking backwards at the traffic coming to overtake us. It was a good 20-mile round trip, with us two in the back. We had an old rusty length of chain across our laps to keep us in, but that was it! Helmets? You’re kidding, aren’t you?

It almost goes without saying Rita was the no-nonsense type. Once I fell off the monkey bars in the local playground and hurt my arm. I told her I thought it was broken, but she inspected the injury and said there was nothing wrong with it. I showed my dad when he got home and he agreed with me. So did the hospital he took me to. It was broken. By weird coincidence, on the day I broke my arm two other pupils from the 18-strong Kirmington Church of England Primary School, where I was a pupil, also broke their arms. It was so unusual, 17 per cent of the whole school breaking their arms in one 12-hour period, the local paper sent out a photographer.

When I was young we’d go to Butlin’s in Skegness for holidays, and then when I was 13 or 14 we all went to Tenerife – our first foreign holiday. Eventually, when Sally was 16 and getting to the age where she wasn’t keen to go on the big family holiday any more, the six of us all went for one last big blow-out together, to Florida. It is remembered, by all of us, as the best holiday ever. By that time, Dad’s business was well established and he was earning a decent living thanks to his hard graft.

Rita is from Hull, but her dad was Latvian. After his homeland had been invaded by the Nazis, in 1941, Voldemars Kidals was conscripted to fight for the Germans in the war. He was one of 200,000 Latvians that were given the choice: fight or be shot. Voldemars fitted Hitler’s bill perfectly. He was blond and six-foot-two, but because he wasn’t German, he and all his fellow countrymen were treated as cannon-fodder. It’s reckoned that half those Latvian conscripts died on the battlefield. Voldemars was sent straight to the Russian front, where he had to deal with the horrific winters that demolished Hitler’s badly prepared and demoralised troops. Voldemars and his mate were manning a machine-gun post and realised that if, or when, the Russian army reached them they wouldn’t be shown any mercy, so the pair of them deserted, escaping by clinging on to the bottom of a train for two days as it crossed Poland and into Germany. They were eventually captured by the Americans and put in a prisoner-of-war camp in Belgium. After that he was given the option of going to England or Canada, and he chose England. When the war ended a lot of Latvians were still housed at a camp near Leicester. After that Voldemars moved to another camp in Bransburton, just north of Hull. He learnt to speak a bit of English, but, even years later, when I was born, it was still only a bit. Everyone called him Walter.

Back in the years just after the war, Walter worked on the local farms and felt really well looked after. Lil lived in the same village, and they met at Hull Fair.

After they were married, the pair moved to Marmaduke Street in Hull. Then, in the late 1940s, they spotted a little place in a village called Nettleton advertised for sale in an estate agent’s window. Walter cycled 18 miles from New Holland, after getting the ferry over from Hull, to look at the house. He and Lil moved to the village, near Caistor, and Walter ended up working in the Nettleton iron-mines. The iron ore mined there was some of the finest in the world, I’ve been told, and it was taken straight to the steelworks in Scunthorpe on a purpose-built railway line. Walter worked there for years, below ground, as a face-worker at a time when mules were pulling the rock to the surface. Later in his life he became a builder.

He was, like my mum and dad, a proper grafter. And Walter could make anything. He would re-sole shoes and make his own sweeping brushes. He had a map of Latvia made from iron, that he cast in sections to show the different regions. About the size and height of a large coffee table, it was a decorative feature of his back garden. He came from a time and place where people didn’t automatically go to the shop and buy what they needed. Not if they could make it. When she was living at home, one of my mum’s jobs was to rip up the newspaper and thread the pieces on to a string to use instead of toilet roll. That was a night’s entertainment.

It was a long time before the Kidals bought a TV, but my dad’s family were the first in the town of Caistor to have a television set, and proud that the mayor’s son had to come to their house to watch it.

As kids we would love visiting Granddad and Granny Kidals because Walter had a smallholding with his own animals: mainly sheep, I remember one called Nancy, and rabbits, nothing too big. Walter wouldn’t say much, but he’d show us things. Every now and then, when my mum was a little girl, a rabbit that she had become attached to would go missing. As they sat around the table that night little Rita would remember to ask, ‘Where’s my rabbit?’ her mum, Lil, would reply, ‘You’re eating it.’

Walter had a load of sayings, but the most memorable for me was this, delivered in a broad Latvian accent: ‘When you dead, you dead.’ Perhaps it was memories of what he saw in the war that made him say stuff like that to his young grandkids. It was clear he didn’t believe in heaven or hell. And thinking about it now, that attitude probably rubbed off on me.

Mum is one of five Kidals children, Rita and four brothers, and a lot of this make-do attitude of Voldemars and Lil obviously passed down to my mum. We had a cooked dinner every night, with a pudding to follow, but some of the meals were best described as concoctions. Very little went to waste. We’d have bubble and squeak on a Monday night, made from the left-over vegetables from Sunday dinner. I’d eat anything, but Sally was always more picky and dreaded Monday nights. I know most of my friends and schoolmates would turn their noses up at some of our meals: mashed swede and beans in gravy and stuff like that; anything really, because that’s how my mum was brought up, just to get by. There was nothing wrong with it and it didn’t do her any harm, or my mum’s mum, Double-Decker Lil. She is 90 and going strong.

Why Double-Decker? It seems she was a big lass when she was younger. She had a stroke when Rita was 18, and Rita looked after her bed-bound mother. You wouldn’t know now that she’d had a stroke, though. Lil has outlasted all my other grandparents. She’s double hard. Around the time of the 2013 North West 200 race meeting, in the middle of May, my mum told me Lil was in hospital with cancer. When I got back from racing in Northern Ireland I spent quite a bit of time with Lil before I went away again to race at the TT. I wasn’t sure what the future was going to bring for her, and being so busy at the time I hadn’t been visiting her enough.

Lil had visited the doctors, and knew something was up, because she had some trouble with her plumbing or something. She was taken into hospital, where they told her she was pretty much riddled with cancer. She was 89 and still had all her marbles. When I visited her in hospital, she was telling me that she knew the doctors had got the diagnosis wrong because she felt fine. At the time, I didn’t know if she was trying to convince me or herself, but she sounded pretty sure and she looked much the same as usual. Then, a few days later, a doctor came to see her and said, ‘Sorry, Lil, we made a mistake.’ It wasn’t cancer, it was something else. So they let her out. She was right all along. She knew there was nothing up. You don’t mess with Double-Decker Lil.

The Second World War has had other influences on me. My dad was a baby boomer, born after all the surviving soldiers returned home and got back on the nest. And I was named after Guy Gibson, the Wing Commander of 617 Squadron, the Dambusters, who were based in Lincolnshire, not far down the road from Kirmington at RAF Scampton. When I was first told that, I didn’t think much of it, but now I realise he’s quite a man to be named after. It was my dad’s decision, not Mum’s. My dad has a lot of interest in the history of World War II. His dad was a Royal Marine; while Dad’s father-in-law, Voldemars, was reluctantly fighting against the Allies. The only thing that was ever mentioned about this, was one time when both sets of grandparents were invited to Kirmington and, after a few drinks, Walter, in his broken English, said to my other granddad, Jack, ‘Me and you on opposite sides.’ When he said that, everyone burst out laughing.

Dad talked about the war so often – the Battle of Britain, Dunkirk etc. – that when I was little I once asked Mum, ‘When is the war going to end?’ Rita wrote it on a postcard and sent it to a ‘Kids Say the Funniest Things’ type competition in one of the weekly gossip magazines she read – and won!

My dad’s father Jack was involved in the Normandy landings, one of the waves of servicemen who arrived on the beaches a day or so after D-Day. He drove a six-wheel GMC truck off the landing craft. On the trailer he was towing was the most advanced radar in the world at the time, one of only two in existence, my dad would tell us.

After VE Day, Jack came back to England and married May, my grandmother, but was then sent to South Africa to prepare for the invasion of Japan. The sea and ground attack on Japan never happened, though, because the two atomic bombs were dropped on Nagasaki and Hiroshima, ending the war once and for all.

Jack grew up in South Kelsey, less than a mile from where I bought my first house. The Martins never fall very far from the tree.

After leaving the Marines, Jack was the transport manager at T H Brown’s, a haulage firm a stone’s throw from the Moody International truck yard I now work at. They became the first Scania truck dealer in the country, and it was where my dad first started his training – working for his dad, like I later would. So Granddad Jack was in road transport, my dad is in road transport, and so am I. In fact, Jack’s dad, my great-grandfather, was the road foreman for Lincolnshire County Council. He was involved in the building of the Caistor bypass. He had his then 14-year-old son Jack involved too, changing the points on the railway line that transported the rock to Nettleton to build the 20-per-cent incline to Caistor Top. Well, he had Jack involved until the boy forgot to change the points one time and the train, full of rock, crashed through the engine shed.

Four generations. It’s in the breeding. My Granddad Martin was very much like my dad, because I remember he was all work, work, work, trucks, trucks, trucks. He was another stubborn one. He and my dad were close to scrapping no end of times, I’m told.

Grandma May Martin was always Nanny, while Lil was Granny. Nanny smoked like a damp bonfire. It was Nanny who first got me into tea. She would make it strong and always in a cup and saucer. I also remember her lifting the back of her skirt up to warm her bum by the fire.

Nanny was the first of my grandparents to die, but by then I was in my late teens. I was lucky to have had both sets of grandparents all through my growing up.

All my family lived close by when I was a child. Walter and Lil were in Nettleton, Jack and May in Caistor, us in Kirmington. With holidays in Skegness, it was rare for us ever to leave Lincolnshire, the county I’ve lived in all my life.

CHAPTER 2

THE KIRMINGTON BUBBLE

KIRMINGTON. KIRMO. A one-pub village over the A18 from Humberside Airport. A couple of miles from Immingham, one of the busiest docks in Europe, and a bit further from Grimsby. Kirmington, a former World War II prisoner-of-war camp. Oh, and the centre of the universe.

I moved there when I was one, in 1983, and eventually left Kirmington, to move to Caistor, seven miles away, in 2010. For the last few of those 26 years I had lived with my girlfriend, Kate, on her parents’ farm in the village.

The house on Gravel Pit Lane, where the four Martin kids did most, or all, of their growing up, is a three-bedroom bungalow. My mum and dad always talked about having a loft conversion, but never got around to it. I suppose they never had the money, and then when they did, there was no need, because we’d all left home.

There is a 13-month age difference between Sally and me. My brother Stuart is four years younger than me, and then there’s a two-year gap between him and Kate. So that made Sally six when Kate arrived.

I had my own room until Stu was born, then we shared, but we rarely got in each other’s way. Given the choice to do it all again, he probably wouldn’t choose the bottom bunk, but he got away lightly compared to how some big brothers treat their younger siblings. I honked on him one New Year’s Eve, after a skinful at the local pub. That night, after sorting me out, my mum, Big Rita, went to see the landlord and gave him a mouthful for selling beer to her under-age son.

There was a time, during those bunk-bed years, when I brought a girlfriend back to our room. When I look back now, I wonder if she only wanted me for my GSX-R600. We ended up shagging in the top bunk, with Stu in the bunk below. What was I doing? He never mentioned it. Character-building, I reckon. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

There was very little friction between Stu and me when we were young. Most of the time I’d be in the shed, taking something to bits or reassembling it, while he was more into football, something I’ve never been bothered about. We didn’t have the same friends, and because our hobbies were so different we never did what most brothers do: squabble because we wanted the same thing at the same time. Only years later, when we were both working together for Dad – all the male side of the Martin family working in the same truck yard – did we stop seeing eye to eye for a while. We were all living together and working together and it was too much. Back when we were little, though, as soon as we got the Transformers wallpaper we wanted so badly, we were happy.

One of my earliest memories is when Sal and I were given an old but tidy Yamaha TY80 kids dirt bike one Christmas.

After we went to bed on Christmas Eve, Dad would always take the handle off the front room door so we couldn’t get in early to see the presents. The year we were given the little TY80 it was literally like every Christmas had come at once. The first time I ever rode it, that Christmas morning, I went straight through the rose bushes in our garden and cut myself to rags on the thorns. My mum was telling anyone who’d listen that I was never going on that motorbike again.

Clearly, I wasn’t a natural on the motorcycle. I hear of some racers who got on their first bike, before they could walk, and knew exactly what to do, instinctively; they won their first race and then never lost another until they joined the world championship ranks. Well, that wasn’t me. I’m not blessed in the natural talent department when it comes to bikes, but I’ve loved them since I first sat on that miniature Yamaha and I don’t give up.

Sally and I were supposed to share the TY80, but I didn’t like the idea of that. I get on a treat with my older sister now, but we didn’t then, because of the bike problem: one seat, two backsides wanting to be on it.

Though we were only nippers we had the run of Kirmington. We’d rush home from school to go straight out on the motorbike. We would take it over to Mr Lancaster’s farm (where I’d end up living with his daughter, years later) and tear up the fields. He’d chase us in his Land Rover, not happy. It must have driven him mad.

The little Yamaha would do 40 mph or more and we’d never wear helmets. We’d slide off it, but never hurt ourselves too badly. While other Kirmington kids would lose fingers in go-kart chains or slice the backs off their feet in BMX sprockets, we survived countless motorcycle accidents.

For a while, Dad had an old Yamaha trail bike just to muck about on, a field bike really and a full-size thing, three times the size of our TY. He would take me and Sally for rides around the village and surrounding areas on it. One of us would sit in front of him on the petrol tank, the other behind him on the seat. None of us would wear a helmet, obviously. He was a skilful racer, so it was surprising the scrapes he would get in when he was just pootling about, three-up with his two little kids on board. Once, on a pre-Sunday lunch ride-out, we crashed and Sally burned her leg on the red-hot exhaust. Needless to say, Mum wasn’t happy and it’s hard to blame her. By now you should be getting the picture that the Martins weren’t a family that rated the health and safety side of things very highly.

The family is all Lincolnshire born and bred. My dad’s a proud Lincolnshire man and I am too. Though I’ve travelled to Asia, Australia, New Zealand, the Middle East and America, I still think Kirmington is the centre of the universe.

The village has hardly grown since I first moved there in 1983. There can’t be many places in the whole of England that have developed less. Only about six houses have been built in Kirmo in all the time I can remember. We let a few in. We don’t want to weaken the breed by bringing any outsiders in.

Kirmington is a village of 400 people, and I get the feeling I’ll end up living back there. I think we all feel that way. Me, my sister Sally and our friends Sally Harris, Mark Nichols, Simon Thorpe, Andrew Thorpe, Aaron Ash, Kate Lancaster, Craig Nichols – there are only a handful of us born within a few years of each other, but ask any of us and we’d all say Kirmington was the centre of the universe, and I think that’s down to one bloke: Mr Acum.

Bert Acum was Kirmington Church of England Primary School’s head teacher in the late 1980s and early nineties. He was the man. The younger generation, including my younger brother and sister, aren’t as Kirmo-biased as me, because they had a different headmaster. I was the last of the pure Mr Acum breed. His wife, Norma, was also a teacher at the school. Back then, the pair lived in Kirmington too, with their son, and we’d sometimes go to his house to play golf on his own personal putting green. In school time, of course.

When I was attending Kirmington Primary, just a quarter of a mile from home, I could not get to school fast enough. There were only 18 kids in the whole junior school and we all did the same lessons at the same time, but obviously at different levels. Thinking back, we used to have maths and spelling tests on Friday, but that was about it, as far as I can remember, when it came to traditional school-type lessons. The school gave a very different type of education to the one had by most people I know these days.

It was a very hands-on environment. We made loads of stuff, papier mâché Toby jugs being a favourite. Before a sports day we, the pupils, would mark the pitches out with the push-roller. Most schools would rely on a caretaker for jobs like this, and any general maintenance, but at Kirmington there was no need for one. The kids did it all.

In autumn we’d have the thrill of getting the leaf machine out. It was like a lawn-mower, but with spikes instead of blades, that would flick the fallen leaves into a bin on the back. That was another job for the pupils.

About the Book

About the Author

PROLOGUE:

GAME OVER

CHAPTER 1

NO MIDDLE NAME

CHAPTER 2

THE KIRMINGTON BUBBLE