by Carl Fogarty
In 1989 a total of five riders died at the Isle of Man TT, including big names such as Phil Mellor and Steve Henshaw. I have known other riders, probably better than I knew Phil Hogg, who were to lose their lives there in later years. Mick Lofthouse, who lived near Blackburn, was killed during practice in 1996 at Milntown, when he was blinded by the sun and clipped one of the kerbs. He was the favourite to win two races that year, and had only rung me the week before to ask if he could borrow some racing gloves.
Mick’s was one of the few funerals that I’ve attended. I hate them so much that I really have to know a person well to go. In 1999, another Lancashire rider, Simon Beck, who helped me out at a few meetings around 1992 and was a former winner of the Manx Grand Prix, died on the island. But the death of a rider has never affected me as badly as Phil’s did.
Even so, it didn’t stop me winning my first race there the following week, in the 750cc Production class. For this race, you rode bikes exactly as they were sold over the counter, with just the lights taped up. Two of the fastest guys that year were Dave Leach and Steve Hislop. We were still setting off in pairs in those days, and I started with Leach, 10 seconds behind Hislop. In a four-lap race, Hislop stopped three times to refuel, I stopped twice and Leach once.
It turned out that me and Dave were just behind Hislop on the last lap, although we had a 10-second advantage from the start. All the way from Union Mills, through the fast sections of Glen Helen, the humpback Ballaugh Bridge, and on towards Ramsey, I was simply trying to hang on to these idiots. But, having reached the mountain still in contention, the other two were now in my territory. The surface is smoother and you can see the bends, so this 10-mile section was more suited to my short circuit style than these road specialists. I passed them immediately and, although Leach came back alongside me with the last few corners to go, I held him off through Signpost Corner and the three Governor’s corners with some mad riding. People said I was short circuit-scraping – throwing the bike on its side, braking as late as possible and running out onto the kerbs – but they were exaggerating as you simply cannot get away with that on roads. But, by Governor’s Bridge, the front wheel was hopping because I was braking so hard and I hung on to win by 1.8 seconds.
That result proved that I had finally become a fast rider on the circuit, a proper TT racer. Hislop was particularly pissed off, because he won a record three TTs that year and became the first guy to lap at over 120mph. But I had stolen his thunder. It made up for the fact that I didn’t finish the Senior race because of an oil pipe leak. After I won, dad bought the bike back off Honda and sold it to a millionaire owner of a local discount shoe factory, Dale Winfield, who wanted it for his private collection to go alongside the 1988 bike that I had won the F1 world title on.
I was the only rider to compete in every round of the Formula One World championship that year. Following the Isle of Man TT, I won easily in Assen, where Hislop had a bad result, but he pipped me in Portugal. That result was reversed in Finland. With just the Ulster Grand Prix remaining, sixth place would be enough to clinch the title, whatever Hislop did. I was leading by 20 seconds when I pulled in for fuel, but Hislop gambled on using one tank for the whole race. By the time I came out of the pits, he had passed me but, despite a close finish, I had clinched the world championship for the second year running. It was great to win the title in 1988, but this year hadn’t meant as much to me. I had wanted to win, if only to prove the previous year wasn’t a fluke. But now I had bigger things on my mind, like 500cc Grands Prix or the World Superbike championship.
There were other highlights in the year, like a clean sweep of seven wins at Scarborough and a few wins in the British Superbike championship, although I did not compete often enough to mount a serious challenge on the title. I beat Niall Mackenzie in three races at the King of Donington meeting, which was a real feather in my cap as he was the best rider in Britain at the time, although not that used to riding bigger bikes. I also won the Stars of Darley and, in the final race of the year, I almost beat Ron Haslam on his 500cc Suzuki at Kirkistown, which was a bit embarrassing for him. I was all over him in the corners, but he nearly blew me off my bike when he flew past on the straights!
But the real experience of the season was my first visit to the Suzuka 8 hours in Japan, the biking equivalent of Le Mans where a team of riders take turns on the bike. This is the biggest race of the year for the Japanese and I was riding for a semi-supported factory team called the Takada Racing Project. My team-mate for this race was Steve Hislop and he took his mechanic, Anthony Bass, along. This was the first time I really got to know Tony, more commonly known as Slick, who was to become my chief mechanic for six years. There are different stories as to how Tony got that nickname. I always thought that it was because he was covered in oil. Others say that it’s because he’s so quick at his work – or fast with women …
I didn’t relish taking Tony Holmes on such a long trip, so I asked a lad that I had started to mate around with, Tony Hudson, who worked in a bike shop in Preston, if he fancied it. He’d have been mad to turn it down because the Japanese flew us all out a few days early and treated us like kings, all expenses paid.
We were provided with two interpreters and our every wish was their command. If we wanted to go to McDonald’s, we were taken to McDonald’s. If we wanted to go jet skiing on a lake, we went there (and nearly killed each other). We were all given spending money, which was a bit like letting monkeys loose with hand grenades, as we immediately disappeared to the hotel bar to get drunk. We clearly weren’t taking the trip quite as seriously as the Japanese, but we had to attend one formal dinner at a posh restaurant with the team owner, Mr Kiyokazu Takada.
As Steve made polite conversation, Slick tried to make me laugh by pulling stupid faces, because I was sat opposite Mr Takada. We were like a couple of naughty boys back at school, acting the goat by bowing stupidly when the food arrived. Then the waiter brought some soup full of noodles. It was a bad move. Mr Takada picked up his spoon and noisily slurped a huge mouthful down. I burst out laughing, which set Slick and Tony Hudson off. All this time, Hislop was trying to keep a straight face. But we had obviously offended Mr Takada. He threw his spoon into the bowl and didn’t eat another thing all evening.
When I eventually stopped giggling, I was blushing badly and the rest of the meal was hard work. We were effectively sent up to our rooms early but, when the team bosses had gone home thinking their riders were safely tucked up in bed, we all came back down and set off for some karaoke bars. Me and Slick sang Beatles songs so much, and so badly, that one owner gave us a pot of money to shut up and leave. It was the first time that I had been with a mechanic who knew how to have a good time, but also put the hours in on the bike.
When the race came around, we were all feeling pretty good after a few days’ holiday and arrived at Suzuka tanned and raring to go. We were up against the likes of Wayne Gardner, riding a full-blown factory RVF Honda, which was a lot better than our bike, and other stars like Kevin Schwantz, Rob Phillis and Mick Doohan. So it was a good chance for me to make a bit of a name for myself. They were the hottest conditions that I have ever raced in but we managed to qualify around 16th, which was not bad considering the standard of the opposition. It was also the first time I had been involved in a running start, where you dash across the track to where your partner is holding the bike, hit the start button and you’re away. I got a flyer and was soon up to seventh. Steve was probably crapping himself in the pits, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to keep us up there when I came in after around 50 minutes, the equivalent of a full tank of fuel. I had been lapping around a second and a half quicker than him – and this was his bike, set up by his mechanic!
He need not have worried because, with a couple of laps of my stint remaining, I went down going into turn one. The front end rolled and tucked underneath and the bike slid off into the gravel. It was a twisted bent mess with water spurting out everywhere, but when I hit the start button it fire
d up again, so I rode it back to the pits. Slick was moaning, ‘What a fucking mess. What the hell are we going to do with this?’ Meanwhile, I was busy apologising to everyone. But, because it was an endurance race, we had to try and get back out there. I swear we spent 50 minutes trying to fix the thing, even fitting new radiators. Why we didn’t jack it in right away, I’ll never know.
Eventually, it was fit to ride again, but even then, with a couple of hours to go, Steve had to kick an engine bolt back into place after it had worked loose as he was riding. We finished 33rd but, because we had made such an effort to finish, the Japanese treated us like heroes and sprayed us with champagne. It was probably the only time I have enjoyed racing in Japan. The culture is different, the people are hard work, the food is difficult and the climate is awful. It’s fair to say it’s not my favourite place.
I had made a lot of progress as a privateer during 1989 and my results had been good enough to attract offers from two teams. First, Norton invited me down to their factory with suspension guru Ron Williams, who knew the team manager, Barry Symmonds, very well. He had a reputation as a very serious and professional person who never smiled, a bit like a few football managers, so I was very nervous. I had no idea they were going to make me an offer, but Symmonds came out with it there and then. The package was £25,000 for the year plus a £10,000 bonus if I won the British championship, as well as another £20,000 if I won the TT F1 World championship. That was a good deal because the Nortons had been faster than any other bike in 1989, and looked cool with their all-black John Player Special sponsorship. I had been edgy enough just looking round the factory, but I shit myself when they started talking figures. So I mumbled that I would go home and think about it. The story made the front page of Motor Cycle News under the headline ‘Fogarty signs for Norton’. But they had jumped the gun.
Honda Britain were re-launching a team for 1990 after an absence of three or four years, to be managed by former racer, Neil Tuxworth. I had never met Neil but knew of him from my dad’s racing days. At a meeting in Blackburn, he also made me an offer, which was nowhere near as good as Norton’s. Honda’s offer was £15,000 up front plus a few bonuses and a company car. More important than the money, Honda were a much bigger company and were also offering the chance to take part in a few World Superbike rounds outside Britain, although their priority was for me to retain the TT F1 World championship. This was too good an opportunity to miss and the decision didn’t take long to make.
The money, which was not to be sniffed at in those days, allowed Michaela and me to move out of our hovel of a flat and into a detached house on Columbia Way, on a fairly new estate in an area of Blackburn called Lammack. With a bit of help from my dad, we could comfortably afford it. That was the first time I had any money of my own to speak of. So it blows wide open the theory that a load of people try to trot out, for some reason, that Michaela is only with me because I’m rich and famous. When I first started seeing her, I was relatively unknown and didn’t have what you could call very good prospects. Sure, my dad was quite wealthy through his own business, but I was no spoilt brat and I was always prepared to earn my keep.
Things were just starting to take off and we were very happy. Sure, as with any couple, there was the odd argument, particularly if she hadn’t made my tea, or if I forgot to pick her up from work and she had to walk home! In particular, there was one huge scrap before I was due at a Honda photocall at Alexandra Palace and I had to turn up with a deep gouge down my face, which was still visible on some of the publicity shots. It’s fair to say that, when we fight, the walls shake.
Michaela instantly made friends with Andrea Cooke, the girlfriend of my new Honda team-mate, Jamie Whitham. He was one of three young British riders around at the time, along with myself and Rymer, who had the chance to go on to bigger and better things. I had met Jamie before, as he’d ridden a Suzuki in the British Superbike championship in the previous two years, but didn’t really know him too well. He turned out to be one of my best friends in racing. Jamie is daft and is always cracking jokes. But he’s also very intelligent, which adds to his sense of humour. And he coped well with my moods, by acting stupid and taking the piss, which I probably deserved.
Jamie had told Honda that he no longer wanted to ride on the roads. Instead, he wanted to concentrate on the short circuits of the British championship. That left me to concentrate on the TT F1 World championship. As it happened, only five circuits applied to stage F1 races and the series was downgraded from a world championship to a new title of FIM Cup. As soon as that happened, it was clear the World Superbike championship or, even better, the 500cc Grand Prix circuit, was the way forward for me. For the immediate future, though, these were not options and, as a factory rider, the pressure was on to retain my F1 title.
I asked Neil if I could have Slick as my mechanic, as I knew from the previous year’s trip to Suzuka that we could work well together. But, during that year, when Honda were providing bikes for Steve Hislop to ride while Slick was his mechanic, various parts had gone missing. I knew that it wasn’t Slick, but all kinds of people were in and out of the depots and garages. So it could have been anyone. There was no way, though, that they would take him on and I was told that a guy called Dennis Willey would be my mechanic for the year. He was a good mechanic, quiet but pretty good to get on with. All the others on the team seemed to be Neil’s mates. It’s now the same with the Castrol Honda team. There are so many people on board from Neil’s hometown of Louth in Lincolnshire that they might as well call it Team Louth Honda.
Jamie was not to have a good year. I beat him in every race and he began crashing more and more as the season went on. But, the more he crashed, the more his confidence dipped and the more Neil Tuxworth would sulk. When I crashed, the bike would slide off the track with nothing more than a few scratches. When Jamie crashed, the bike would dig in, flip over and be smashed to pieces. Neil would moan ‘He’s cost me £100,000 in damages this year.’ It was not all Jamie’s fault, though. The RC30 was as fast as anything out there in 1989 and 1990, but very difficult to ride. It didn’t suit my style but I was able to ride round the problems with the front end of the bike, by holding it up with my knee. Jamie couldn’t do that and, whenever he tried to get anywhere near me, he came off.
Don’t get me wrong, he is a very good rider. But he was never quite good enough when it came to the world stage. At the end of the day, one rider will always ride better than another. In 1990, I rode better than Jamie and have done ever since. That, and the fact that I wanted to win more, is why I’m a world champion. He has had good results on some circuits but, to challenge for world championships, you have to finish in the top four or five on circuits that you don’t like. But Jamie would really struggle at places like Phillip Island in Australia, Sugo and Misano. He has a weird style, hanging way off the bike, and that limits how fast he can go. He has also always been a big crasher and I watched his latest, the fireball at the Czech Grand Prix at Brno in 1999, from a beach bar in Ibiza. I thought, ‘What a surprise, Jamie’s crashed again.’ Half an hour later, I heard he had been badly hurt and I contacted him as soon as I returned home.
My success has perhaps niggled him because, if I had not been around, he would have been Britain’s best rider over the last 10 years. That’s not my fault, though. And he was annoyed about some comments I made in a recent magazine interview, when I was asked why he hadn’t had a factory ride in the 1999 World Superbike championship. I said that his results hadn’t been good enough and that, unless you were consistently in the top three, no job was guaranteed. You can be lucky, sure, like Vito Guareschi and Gregorio Lavilla, who kept their World Superbike rides for 2000 despite poor results the previous year. But, having finished eighth in the championship for two consecutive years, Jamie’s chances were always going to be slim. He’s a nice guy, but nice guys don’t necessarily win anything. The truth hurts, and I am always honest. And I thought it was better coming from me than someone he didn’t know.
Obviously he didn’t see it like that and was upset with the way I had said it. We had already become a bit distant, as I also think that he has found it hard to accept my status in the sport. But we still meet up for dinner, and I’ve enjoyed seeing him a bit more since he rejoined the Supersport series.
The tone was set for both our friendship and Jamie’s season at our first race of 1990 in Daytona. From the word go, we got on like a house on fire. We rented two hire cars and I was pulled over by a traffic cop within an hour of leaving the airport, after treating a ‘Stop’ sign as a ‘Give Way’. I was handed a fine after producing my passport and driving licence but I screwed it up, threw it in the back and ignored the penalty. It was only when I returned the following year that I started to worry whether the unpaid fine would show up on my passport record.
The aim of the week, though, was to destroy the hire cars by playing dodgems. If Jamie stopped at a red light, I would deliberately smash into him. ‘Hey man! That guy’s just run in the back of you,’ shouted the stunned bloke in the next lane. ‘Yeah, I know,’ Jamie replied calmly, rubbing his neck from the whiplash. ‘That’s Daytona for ya,’ yelled the Yank as he sped off. Yet there was hardly a mark on the cars when we returned them, as the bumpers were so big and sturdy.
Daytona is a huge event in the American calendar. It is similar to the TT because the tradition of the event attracts a lot of the top foreign riders. And, also like the TT, it’s a dangerous circuit. The slope of banking is not really a problem, except that it causes tyres to blow out more than usual. The danger is the concrete wall around the track. If you hit that wall at speed, and at Daytona you’re flat out most of the time, you’re in serious trouble. Before our race, we watched that happen to an Irish lad, Gary Cowan. He was a good 250cc rider, signed by Kenny Roberts to ride in his Marlboro Yamaha team in America, and a tip to be a future world champion. He was paralysed in that crash and would never race again.