 Guy Martin, my autobiography, by Guy Martin, read by Dean Williamson. 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, Cammie, 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've been desperate to win since 2004, and the last chance to get a TT win for another year. I was pushing hard. I'd 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 4,300 seconds. That means the winning margin was 0.21%. It's obvious that every second counts in modern, real-world 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 Baleghari. 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, let 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 Manon, 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've been through Baleghari 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 lent 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 manched stone wall that lines the outside of this corner. When 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 lent over as far as a Honda CBR 1000 RR 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 The spaghetti measurer would be out and the chase would begin. I regularly used to say I was born and bred in Kermington 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 breach 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. Sample complete. Ready to continue?