Foggy

by Carl Fogarty

  Last, and by no means least, was the number one target, Christine Alsop. She also lived on Parsonage Road and was the same age as me. Again, even at the age of 13 when I first clapped eyes on her, I had thought she was nice. We went out together, on and off, for a while before getting together seriously, four or five years after the party. She was fairly clever as well as attractive and worked at the Royal Ordnance Factory in Blackburn after leaving school.

  My own time at school had not prepared me for the outside world in the same way. As it turned out, no classes could have taught me the skills that I have ended up using while travelling the world, facing the world’s media or handling all the money and contracts. These were all things that scared me in the early part of my racing career. Life itself was my best teacher. That said, I wish I could turn the clock back and sit in a classroom knowing what I know now. I would have loved to have been able to put my hand up and answered a teacher’s question with confidence, or just to have had enough self-belief to say ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know the answer.’ Even when I thought I knew the answer, I was too embarrassed to volunteer.

  Now I am exactly the opposite and have so much confidence that I shout my mouth off all the time and am not afraid of anything. And I can’t help thinking that, if I had had an ounce of that confidence as a teenager, I might have got in more trouble, but I would have breezed through school. It’s for these reasons that I push Danielle and Claudia to take their education seriously and we have paid for them to go to Westholme, the best school in the area. I’m just dreading the day when their homework gets a bit more complicated, because I’ll be useless then!

  My dad didn’t even push me into starting to ride bikes. Racing was something I had grown up with, and gradually turned into something that I wanted to do. Other lads had started riding motocross when they were six years old, but my dad didn’t urge me on in the same way that other dads did. I could, and should, have started riding competitively at a much earlier age. As it was, I finally plucked up the courage to enter races when I was 15, but I was absolutely shitting myself. My attitude was: ‘I don’t really want to do this. What if I come last?’

  Maybe dad was consciously making me stand on my own two feet. I suppose he might not have even wanted me to be a racer. But I felt as though I needed a bit more encouragement. If I’d had a little boy, he would have been on a bike at the age of six, if only to see if he wanted to do it. Then, if it was obvious that riding wasn’t for him, he could try something else – no problem. In my case, I was left to make my own decisions and, at that age, did not have the courage of my own convictions to give anything a real go.

  And, when I did, it was a disaster …

  CHAPTER TWO

  Boy Racer

  There is no doubt that I am not the first rider to have crashed in his first race. And I’m probably not the first to have had a blazing row with his dad after that first fall. But, it’s safe to assume that this would have been the first time it was over a packet of Polo mints.

  For Christmas in 1980, I got a brand new Yamaha 125G, made that year. The 1981 ‘H’ models were already out, the first year of the water-cooled bikes. Mine was air-cooled, but it was still pretty fast and I badly wanted to test it in a proper schoolboy race.

  But I could still not pluck up enough courage to enter that first event. I didn’t have anywhere near enough confidence to conquer the fear of losing and showing myself up. So it was almost inevitable that, when my dad eventually entered me for a 125cc motocross event at Carnforth, it would end in disaster.

  My mouth was dry as I lined up behind the elastic starting tape, waiting for the 80cc race to finish and the first of our races to start. All the other kids had brand new gear, which didn’t help my confidence. And it was dented even further when I realised that I was not wearing any gloves. I waved to dad and he dashed back to the van and brought them over just in time. Right, this was it, now or never.

  When the tape went up, it was obvious from the first lap that I was in for a right pasting. One guy shot off into the lead, skimming over the bumps. I was following every contour, like a rollercoaster. My former mechanic, Slick, calls it ‘Charlie Browning’, because the ups and downs are so exaggerated, like in a cartoon.

  Coming down a steep hill, I misjudged one of the bumps, the front wheel hit the up-slope and my chin smashed into the handlebars. I bit straight through my tongue. Blood was gushing from my mouth, so I pulled up at the side of the track and laid on the floor. Dad came rushing over. For some unknown reason, he suddenly started shoving Polo mints into my mouth.

  ‘What the hell are doing that for?’ I spluttered.

  ‘It will help you spit the blood out,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not having a problem spitting the blood out,’ I coughed back at him.

  I still have the scar on my tongue. I cannot even remember where I came in the other two races, but I managed to stay on and the accident had not dented my confidence enough to stop me wanting to give it another go.

  At my second attempt, back at the Carnforth club, I won my first ever trophy, which I still keep in my garage, for coming tenth overall. That was against some good riders, who went on to become top British motocross racers, and I started to win trophies regularly after that.

  The main focus for my racing was the Vale of Rossendale club, which was the nearest club to home. Their meetings were not quite as competitive, so I would usually finish around the top five. I was gradually improving, but could not quite manage that first win.

  Then, on a sweltering day at the end of June, at a local track next to a quarry in Hapton, where I only ever raced once, it all seemed to be clicking into place. I was leading the first race and pulling away from the pack. But the excitement got the better of me, I lost control and ran through the ropes around the track. And it was bound to be at the exact spot where dad was marshalling. He rushed over and was frantically trying to unravel the rope, which had become tangled in the bike.

  ‘Come on, come on! They’re getting past me. Hurry up,’ I shouted.

  ‘I’m doing it as fast as I bloody can,’ he yelled back.

  It wasn’t quick enough, though. I couldn’t stand the thought of letting my first win disappear, so I let the clutch go and sped off, with my dad still holding the ropes. The friction burnt all the skin on the palms of his hands, so he wasn’t too chuffed, especially when I fell off again a few yards further on because the ropes were still wrapped around the bike. I was so pissed off, and felt a bit guilty about dad’s hands, so I tried to repair the damage in the second race of the day, but could only manage fifth.

  There was one last chance to make amends, in the last race of the day. Christine Alsop was there, as I went out with her for a few weeks that summer. She gave me a hug on the line and stuck a grass reed in a crack in the seat. ‘There, that’s for luck. Now go out and win,’ she said. Sure enough, I led from start to finish. And Christine was there at the finish line to give me a big kiss, which was highly embarrassing because all the other lads started to jeer and wolf-whistle. But I wasn’t too bothered because it was the first time I had felt that unique thrill of winning. It was such a fantastic feeling.

  I couldn’t wait to get back to ‘the caravan’, the meeting place for all the teenagers on Parsonage Road and Warrenside Close, to tell everyone. It was a big six-berther, which dad had used for travelling to race meetings. When he stopped racing, he parked it at the back of the house on some spare land near the poultry cabins. There would always be somebody in there. It could have been three people, it could have been 12, because it was such a cool place to hang out – even for people I didn’t know all that well.

  So, when I got home from Hapton, I charged straight down to the caravan and burst in shouting, ‘I’ve won, I’ve won my first race.’ Quite a few mates were in that night and they joined in, ‘Hey! Foggy’s won his first race. Good on you. Brilliant!’ I think they were probably taking the piss and laughing behind my back, because most of them were not re
ally that interested in bikes.

  The caravan played a major part in all our lives for a couple of years. While I was still at school, I would come home, wolf my tea down and head straight for the caravan to see who was there. It was a great place in which to get away from mums and dads, so people would smoke their fags in there or sneak the odd can of beer in.

  I just experimented with cigarettes in those days and I only ever smoked properly when I moved into my first flat. I gave up in November 1989 and now I find it disgusting. I didn’t even like the taste of beer, and I have never really been a big drinker, although I went along with it at the time, so as not to feel left out. The smell of whisky still makes me feel sick following one night as a 14-year-old, when mum and dad were out, leaving Georgina and me alone with the drinks cabinet unlocked. I drank nearly half a bottle of the stuff and spewed all over the bathroom. My sister thought I was dying.

  As for drugs, I wouldn’t know one if it jumped up and bit me on the arse. I have never been offered them and I don’t know anyone who does them. The Australian rider, Anthony Gobert, has been caught out, and I’ve had my suspicions about a few others. But I don’t know the difference between grass, cannabis and weed, or whether to smoke or inject them. But I do know they are no good for you, so what’s the point getting involved?

  As well as being a great place to hang out, the caravan was also a great place for me to show off my riding skills. While the other lads were inside chatting up the girls, I would try and impress them by riding up and down as fast as I could, hanging my knee off the bike like I was a superstar road racer. It was the summer of 1981 – the best summer of my youth.

  It all went downhill when I started work as an apprentice HGV mechanic for a company called Holden’s, where I stayed for nearly three years. I hated the job from the word go. I had no interest in wagons and I also hated the fact that everyone else was probably in the caravan, while I was grafting away. I couldn’t stand the fact that I didn’t know what I was missing out on. And, because I was covered in oil all day, my face became really spotty. Like most teenagers, I was really conscious of the acne. If there were any girls around, I would try and hide in a corner, or sit in the dark so that the spots were not as noticeable.

  For one awards ceremony I had loads of zits and tried to cover them up by wiping some white foundation powder all over my face. I thought, ‘Yes, man, you look the business.’ But, if any girls had been interested, they would have been scared off. Because it wasn’t until I saw all the photos of the night that I realised I’d made myself look like Casper the Friendly Ghost.

  The acne didn’t stop me trying it on with girls, though. When one of my mates, Ross Duncan, passed his driving test, he wanted to show off his new skills but his dad would not lend him his car. My mum and dad were away, which gave me an idea.

  ‘Come on, we can take my mum’s car. Let’s call on Michaela Bond. I haven’t seen her for a year, and she’s really fit,’ I suggested, remembering her from my 16th birthday party.

  She agreed to come for a ride and Ross had hardly reached the end of the block before I was trying it on and groping away. She was not having any of it. When we dropped her back at her house, I asked her if she wanted to go out on a date that weekend. She made some feeble excuse like she was washing her hair. I didn’t see her again for five years as she moved down to Oxford to live with her mum, who had left home when Michaela was 10.

  Another part of my growing pains was that I was also a bit weak at that age, which is probably why my racing was so inconsistent and I didn’t win another race for the rest of my first season in 1981. I finished around seventh in the Vale of Rossendale championship, because I lacked the strength to ride more aggressively. Motocross is a very demanding sport and, even now, I still use it for training. I cannot think of a better form of exercise, as your whole body gets a good workout and you can finish the day with your arm and leg muscles really pumped.

  Towards the end of the year, I had become a good mate of a lad called Gary Dickinson, a fellow Rossendale rider. During that summer his dad, Tony, who was a friend of my dad, had been killed at the Southern 100, a race that is held on the Isle of Man about four weeks after the TT races. I was at the meeting, because my dad was also competing, and it was my first experience of tragedy in racing.

  The accident happened in the 250cc race on 15 July, when Tony braked hard to avoid another rider and crashed. He died the following day. When I heard the news I just stared out of the window of my room at the Empress Hotel, trying to take it all in. Our room overlooked Gary’s and he also appeared at his opened window. ‘I suppose you’ve heard,’ he said. I nodded.

  There is nothing that a 16-year-old can say in those circumstances although Gary, who was a year younger, seemed to be handling it better than me. Rachel, his nine-year-old sister, was hysterical and it took her ages to get over it. From that day onwards, my dad took Gary to all the motocross meetings in Tony’s old van. Dad kept Tony’s leathers and I cut a piece off the sleeve for good luck, although I didn’t tell Gary as I didn’t want to upset him any more. Our friendship grew stronger over the years and he ended up being the best man at my wedding.

  For the 1982 season, we both rode brand new bikes, which probably cost my dad and Gary’s mum around £900 each. That was a fair amount in those days, but this was a sport where you needed cash if you were to have a chance. That year I was second in the Vale of Rossendale championship, the series of races run by the club, but I should have won it. I was inconsistent again at the start of the season, but came on strong later in the year. I was also second in the Newton-le-Willows and North West championships.

  Second place was becoming a habit, which was made worse by the fact that Gary, who was probably a better rider than me, won two of the three championships in his class, a year below the schoolboy experts’ class that I was racing in. But I was slowly becoming hooked on motocross and, because dad wasn’t racing as much on the roads, was quickly losing interest in road racing. I preferred to watch the British Motocross Grand Prix on telly and only read the motocross press, like Trials and Motocross News.

  That was the last year I was eligible for the Auto Cycle Union (ACU) schoolboys meetings and, in 1983, I decided to ride in the rival Amateur Motorcycle Association (AMCA) championship. My club, Rossendale again, was a lot stricter than their ACU equivalent. Every rider had to attend the weekly meetings and miss a race every so often to marshal. At this level there were no age group categories, just different levels of expertise – juniors, seniors and experts. Gary could have done another year at schoolboy level as he was a year younger, but he would have cleaned up because he was much better than everyone else. If I’d had that choice, I would probably have stayed at schoolboy level, so that I could win the championship. But he wanted to carry on racing with me. I passed my driving test the previous November, so we could travel to meetings on our own, as it was no longer cool to have dad in tow. I bought the latest CR125 Honda, but Gary kept his 1982 Yamaha for our first season of racing against each other.

  The first meeting was at Park Hall, Charnock Richard, in Chorley. We started in the junior class against people of all ages and for bikes of any size. The guy next to me on the starting line was huge, riding a 500cc Maico. It was all very intimidating, as we didn’t know what to expect. But, when the catgut went up, I found myself leading at the first corner, with Gary tucked in not far behind. We blitzed them. I think I won one race and was second and fourth in the other two, to finish second overall for the day. We could not believe how easy it was.

  The next race was at a top track near Preston called Cuerden Park and we were too good for the opposition again. I won the first race and Gary won the second, so we were tied on points going into the final race. A guy on a Suzuki had cleared off way in front. I finished third but Gary was second and so he won overall. That was the story of the season, the bastard always beat me. He was more aggressive and, while I would perhaps win one race, he was more consistent and still c
ame out top on points.

  Some of the meetings were too far away from Blackburn to travel to on the morning of the race, so I would drive there the night before. The transit van, which doubled up as a caravanette, was quite well kitted out. There was a sink, a small cooker and the seats became beds, with just enough space for the bikes. It also had a CB radio.

  After parking up for the night before a meeting at Leigh, Gary scanned the airwaves looking for someone to talk to. He made contact with a girl, whose ‘handle’ was Barbarella, and persuaded her to let us pop round. I wasn’t up for it at all, but he talked me into driving to her scruffy council house. She offered us some red wine and, soon enough, Gary was drunk and coming out with all the chat. ‘I think you’re really nice,’ he slurred. For once, I was acting grown up and trying to calm him down. ‘Come on Gary, I think you’ve had a bit too much to drink.’

  Then, out of the blue and without any warning, he dived onto the settee and tried to snog her. ‘I think you’d both better go,’ she screamed, as I tried to steer him out of the house.

  Despite his hangover, he had a great day and won all three races in the pouring rain and horrible muddy conditions. I felt as right as rain the next morning, but didn’t finish one race because I kept getting stuck in the mud.

  The organisers had been noting our performances and eventually decided we were too good for the juniors. But, instead of going up one level into the seniors, we were moved straight into the expert class. Funnily enough, I could beat Gary at that level. I maybe only finished around sixth, but it was usually ahead of Gary. Our final race together was in Cumbria and, significantly, the day before I was due in the Isle of Man to watch my dad race in what was to be his last TT.

  When I got to the Isle of Man, the thought hit me like a hammer. What the hell was I wasting my time in motocross for, when this was what I had always wanted to do? I couldn’t believe that motocross had caused me to forget the thrill of road racing. The fact that dad was now late on in his road racing career made the fact that I wasn’t riding even more frustrating. I was furious with him because he was lapping slower than 114mph, the absolute minimum speed he should have been achieving.