Foggy

by Carl Fogarty

  As a kid, I had been in awe at the big names like Joey Dunlop, Mick Grant and Roger Marshall. Now, after my motocross experience, I was thinking, ‘I can beat this lot.’ Maybe it was the size of the bikes, the crowds or just the sheer glamour of the event, but there was no turning back from that moment in 1983. My mind was made up and I went to find dad. ‘I want to stop motocross,’ I told him. ‘I want to start road racing.’

  It’s not unusual for good motocross riders to convert to road racing. For one thing, young riders have no other way of starting, as they are not allowed to race on the roads. Some riders leave it until their mid-twenties before making the switch, a bit like Chris Walker has done recently to become one of the most respected riders in the British Superbike championship. I think that is too late – you miss too much time to develop. But I was only 17. I still had time on my side.

  On returning from the Isle of Man, I spent a couple of weeks in the South of France near St Tropez with my mate John Jefferson, as his dad, who owned a chain of bookmakers, had a place down there. That was my first holiday abroad without my parents, but all I could think about was starting to race bigger bikes on the roads. When I got home, I went to watch Gary racing motocross at Cuerden Park. He was dreadful. I felt guilty, as it seemed that he no longer had the motivation because I wasn’t there for him to race against. He quit soon afterwards, which was a shame because he had a real talent.

  After I had turned 18, in 1983, dad sent off for a licence for the road racing novices’ orange jacket (which you must wear for the first 10 races) from the ACU and I joined the nearest club at Aintree, Liverpool. During that year, dad was riding a beautiful Formula 2 600cc Ducati, a version of the road bike bought direct from the factory, as well as a 500cc Suzuki. The plan was for me to ride the Ducati, which was fitting.

  The first race of the 1983 season was only two weeks away, so dad took me to Oulton Park in Cheshire for some much-needed practice. I started off on a road bike, a 500cc Honda, while dad was on the Ducati racer. The plan was for me to follow him round the track and learn the best racing lines. After a few laps doing this in the pouring rain, he dropped behind to have a look how I was doing. His version of the story is that I was all over the place, taking the inside line when I should have been wide, and lucky not to crash at every bend.

  It’s a pity he didn’t pay more attention to what he was doing as, unknown to me, he fell off at Lodge Corner, a tight right-hand bend. I carried on lapping, totally wrapped up in getting to grips with the bike, while dad frantically tried to catch me up. His only option was to cut across the short circuit – but he fell off again. When I reached that point, I noticed that he was in a spot of bother and pulled up.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I said. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Of course I’m all right. I was trying to catch you up, you bloody idiot. You were all over the show. You’ll kill yourself if you ride like that in a race,’ he shouted.

  ‘What are you on about. I was enjoying myself,’ I replied.

  ‘Shut up and go and get me a 10 millimetre spanner, my gear lever has jammed,’ dad growled.

  I was still killing myself laughing when I got back into the pits. After we had mended the gear lever, it was my turn to try the Ducati racing bike, in preparation for the Aintree race. It was my first time on board a racing bike and I absolutely hated it. My feet were in a strange position behind me and my arms were tucked in at my side. I did a few laps and called it a day, wanting to return to the road bike.

  But the following day was an open test day at Aintree, and dad forced me out on the Ducati again. ‘You’ve got to get used to this bike, and get rid of all those bad habits,’ he said. By the end of that day, I started to feel comfortable on it and was looking forward to the race – and half expecting to win. I had never been that confident in motocross. But this just felt right. ‘I’m going to show everyone next week,’ I thought. Ironically, my first ever road race turned out to be one of dad’s last ever races.

  There is no denying that dad had been a decent rider in his heyday, in the late seventies. In 1976 he rode in the Spanish 250cc and 350cc Grands Prix, his only Grand Prix races on foreign soil. It was at a road circuit near Barcelona, called Montjuich Park, and we combined it with our first holiday abroad. This was the scene of my first dice with death.

  While playing in the sea, I was hit by what seemed to be a huge tidal wave and dragged out of my depth. The currents were pulling me under as, in a blind panic, I struggled to catch deep breaths. I was thrashing around furiously but didn’t really realise which way I was swimming. Then a stranger grabbed me round the neck and dragged me back onto the beach. I was semi-conscious but coughing my guts up and, when I came round, could not work out why my trunks were bulging with sand. Mum and dad rushed over. ‘How did this happen? We only took our eyes off you for a second,’ they insisted. More likely, they were fast asleep in the sun.

  Despite all the drama, dad did pretty well in the race, finishing 12th, and could have done better had he been riding a more competitive machine. By the next season, he finally had enough money to buy some decent bikes and 1977 was the only year he had a real go at making a name for himself. He rode two Suzukis – a 500cc and the 750cc bike that Barry Sheene had used the previous year. He hadn’t really had enough money to compete at a higher level during his early career so, when he was eventually able to compete, he was probably a lot older than the other riders, which didn’t help. Even so, he was second in the Isle of Man TT and flew past former world champion Giacomo Agostini on the first lap of the British Grand Prix at Silver-stone before crashing out, when a top six place looked on the cards.

  That run of good rides was dramatically stopped when he crashed and fractured his skull at an airfield circuit at Carnaby, near Bridlington. Mum and me had not travelled to the meeting and, while I was watching telly, the phone rang. It was my dad’s mechanic, Ben Westall. ‘Oh my God! Oh no!’ mum groaned. She started crying so I sprang up and, tugging her arm, frantically asked, ‘Is he dead? Is he dead?’ Thankfully the injury did not prove too serious and, after two weeks in a hospital in Hull, he discharged himself.

  For the next two years, he rode for Sports Motorcycles Ducati along with one of his big heroes, Mike Hailwood, who was returning to road racing after more than a decade away from bikes, during which time he took to racing cars without too much success. Hailwood made an immediate impact in the TT, winning and breaking the lap record in that first year back. It was a big thing for dad to be racing with a guy who was possibly the best rider in the history of the sport and had no fewer than 76 Grand Prix wins in all classes to his name, not to mention nine world titles. Some of that quality must have rubbed off because, in 1978, dad won an international race in Scarborough and hit the headlines in the 1979 British Grand Prix at Silverstone – for all the wrong reasons.

  British hero Barry Sheene and his American arch rival Kenny Roberts were involved in a ding-dong battle for the lead on the second last lap, and were about to lap dad. He was actually still in the points, although his bike had started misfiring and he was running on three cylinders. Dad was blamed for obstructing Sheene as the leading pair tried to pass, but Roberts went through without a problem, pulled away and won the race. The newspapers made dad a scapegoat, but Sheene told him after the race that he wasn’t to blame.

  Later that year, he fractured his skull for a second time, coming out of the final corner at Aintree – and right in front of me. When he came round in hospital, the first thing he asked was whether the bikes were ready for the next meeting. But, even at that early age, this sort of incident didn’t really affect me. It was more a case of ‘Oh no! Dad’s crashed. I hope he’s all right’ rather than crying or screaming in the ambulance on the way to the hospital with mum. After all, it was not unusual for dad to be involved in big crashes.

  His worst ever was at the bottom of Bray Hill in the TT. If you fall off there, you usually do not live to tell the tale. He didn’t even break a bo
ne in that fall, or at any other time apart from those two fractured skulls, which caused no lasting damage other than to make him quite forgetful at times.

  Dad could have been a very good rider, especially if he’d had decent bikes in his twenties. When he eventually rode better bikes, he did not ride aggressively and go all out to win races because he had a business to run. Even so, he was second in the TT and second in the North West 200 four times, and should have beaten Tony Rutter to the Formula 2 World championship in 1982.

  Strangely, I do not think I have learnt anything from him. While you can study and copy techniques or styles from videos, your own ability has to come naturally. You are either good enough or you are not. I think my talent was largely natural, rather than copied from watching dad. It’s hard to say how he would have done these days, as racing has changed so much since. For a start, the tyres were different back then and riders now slide the bikes around corners a lot more. These days racers put their knees down on the ground, whereas I don’t think my dad’s knee ever touched the ground once with his tucked-in style.

  When the big day at Aintree eventually arrived, dad entered the 500cc and 1000cc open class races. I entered the 500cc four-stroke class, but also put my name down to ride against him in the 500cc open class. That meant I was on a road bike, up against other out-and-out racing bikes such as 350cc Yamaha two-strokes. So I didn’t have a cat in hell’s chance. That was not the point, the race would provide invaluable experience. It also counted as one of the 10 races that I needed to complete in order to lose the orange jacket and the tag of ‘novice’ in time for the following season.

  I finished around 11th and, as expected, dad won easily to clinch the Ace of Aintree championship. He was, after all, an international class rider up against club riders. But I still felt that I had a real chance in my class, the 500cc four-stroke, even though I was as nervous as I had ever been.

  Numbers were drawn out of a hat for starting positions on the grid and, just my luck, I was on the back of the grid. Electric starts weren’t allowed but there was no way I was going to be able to bump start the Ducati, as I would have had to run for miles. There seemed nothing else for it. Before the flag dropped, I hit the electric start button and was off before the rest of the grid had time to blink. I weaved through the others and straight up to the front, as my dad and his mates held their heads in embarrassment.

  It was so obvious that I had used the illegal starting mechanism. I was oblivious to this and felt pretty pleased with myself. I even tried to give dad the thumbs up. The rest of the riders, although their bikes were probably not as good as mine, were a lot more experienced. So they were even more annoyed when this kid started cutting people up and veering all over the track. At one point I dropped down to fourth, but managed to claw my way back to finish second. I was the only person at the track surprised when I was disqualified, not for reckless riding, but for using the electric start. I was devastated, and fuming. ‘It’s bloody disgusting,’ I shouted. ‘I made it back to second from being fourth. That proves I didn’t need the electric start.’

  My dad didn’t know where to look – he was the main man at Aintree and his son was showing him up.

  I had wanted to win so badly, though. That was something I had never felt when I was racing in motocross. Perhaps I always knew that I would never make a great motocross rider. But, ever since I had been a little kid, something inside had told me that I would be a great road racer. It seemed somehow destined that my whole life would be dedicated to being the best at the sport that I had grown up with, following my dad to events all over the country.

  The next meeting was at an airfield in Northumberland called Ouston. In all honesty, my bike was way better than the others in the 500cc four-stroke class. But that didn’t matter when, having come second in the first race, I notched my first road racing win in the second. Again there were protests, that I had been knocking over the cones that marked out the track.

  By this time a few people were also moaning that my bike was too good for the class. They had a point, as it was, after all, a 600cc competing against 500cc bikes. There was no way, though, that they would be able to get that first trophy back off me and I made up some excuses, like the bike had been sleeved down, a modification whereby smaller piston barrels are added to reduce the capacity of the engine. And the Ducati was based on a street bike, so not much faster than a 500cc four-stroke, in any case. The rest of the season was just a mad rush to be rid of the orange jacket, racing every week at places like Mallory Park, where I won two races and was second in the other.

  This road racing business seemed a bit of a doddle – until I travelled to Cadwell Park in Lincolnshire. During practice I was over-confident and, instead of parking up after practice to concentrate on the race, I kept joining the queue to go out for another session to show that I was so much faster than the other riders. There is a fast right-hand corner on the circuit called The Gooseneck. As it tightens, you have to flick the bike back into a chicane – a tricky manoeuvre.

  I was flying as I approached the bend and realised I would not be able to get round. So I lifted the bike a bit to run over the grass, which suddenly dropped down a slope. The bike went lock to lock, where the rider has no control over the steering, and threw me off. There were no broken bones, but one badly broken bike. The frame was bent and there was no chance of me making the race. A few of the wise old heads in the paddock said, ‘It might be your first crash, lad, but it’ll not be your last.’ Dad was not quite so philosophical. He went mental.

  I also raced at another airfield called Flookburgh in Cumbria, where a friend’s father, Derek Shutt, was killed the following year in a sidecar race. I was one of the last people to see him alive, when he had told me that he didn’t really want to race there that weekend, but owed the organisers a favour. His passenger was badly injured. Usually the passenger would have been his son, Steven, but he was not there that day for some reason. His absence possibly saved his life.

  Despite having seen my dad fracture his skull, and having experienced the effects of tragedy at first hand when Gary’s dad was killed, I did not know the meaning of the word fear. The consequences of crashing just never entered my head. That attitude probably shone through in my best result that first season, at a wet Oulton Park in a 1000cc open class race, against some experienced international licence holders. I was only fourth but that meant a lot more than any novice or four-stroke victory. Maybe I was not as bothered by the wet as some of the other riders because of my motocross background.

  I raced at Aintree one more time that year, and I was already starting to love what had become my home track. But word was getting round the circuit, not about my ability, but about the size of the engine and the fact that I cheated by using the electric starter. By then I had learnt to blend into the pack, and to try and make it look a bit more like I was letting the clutch out to bump start the bike. I ended the season on a high note with an epic win and, despite all the usual protests that I was kicking up too much dust and riding dangerously, this time I was not disqualified. If I am honest, I think the rest of the older riders at Aintree hated my guts. They didn’t like being beaten by a young, raw upstart. But, having completed the 10 races, the orange jacket was now a thing of the past.

  I was no longer Carl Fogarty the novice, I was Carl Fogarty the road racer.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Moving up a Gear

  It was ironic that Barry Sheene retired in what proved to be my first full year of racing. The comparisons and debates have never stopped since. But, for me, there is no debate. I know that I am a far better rider than Barry Sheene ever was.

  The year in question was 1984. The Australians and Americans came over here and showed the Europeans how to ride bikes. And it was a good job that Sheene got out when he did. The face of racing was changing and he was not up to it. All of a sudden the Yanks and Aussies, such as Wayne Gardner, Freddie Spencer and Eddie Lawson, were sliding their bikes everywhere. Sheene
did not know what had hit him. I was never a big fan of Sheene – my big hero was always Kenny Roberts. There’s no doubt that Roberts was also a better rider. For a start, he won three consecutive Grand Prix world titles. But that didn’t matter as a kid. I liked the sound of his name and the colour of his bike, and that was good enough for me.

  In my eyes, Sheene was only famous because he had set out to make himself famous. It helped that he came from London, had a model girlfriend and a pretty face that sold Brut Aftershave. And, when he crashed, he really crashed. More often than not it was in a big race, so the crashes would be on News at Ten. When he smashed himself to bits at Silverstone, in the British Grand Prix, the whole country was gripped by his recovery as it was the first time people had seen legs put back together by pins and screws.

  He was a good rider, don’t get me wrong. After all, he won the world title twice, in 1976 and 1977. But that was at a time when some of the better riders, such as Phil Read and Giacomo Agostini, were past their best. And the up and coming riders, like Virginio Ferrari, were still a bit too young to mount a proper challenge. As soon as Roberts came over to Europe in 1978, where the world championship was largely based, he won the title in his first year. Until then, he had only raced on circuits and dirt tracks in America and had hardly any experience of riding over here, except for annual challenge matches between Britain and the USA.

  There were also a couple of other riders who looked like they would become better than Barry. But Pat Hennen didn’t race again after he suffered head injuries in a crash at the Bishopscourt section of the TT circuit in 1978, and Tom Herron was killed at the North West 200 in 1979. Before 1975, there was really only one rider who was any good – Mike Hailwood – and he was brilliant. The way he came back to win the Isle of Man TT was incredible. I have no argument with people who say that he is the best British rider of all time, even the best rider the world has ever seen. And I can see why some people might argue that Geoff Duke and Phil Read were better than me.