Foggy

by Carl Fogarty

  It was my duty to show my face at Bologna and compete. At one corner, as I was losing control, I put my leg down to try and stay on the bike. But, as it came round on me, my knee twisted badly, swelled up and caused a lot of pain for a few days.

  Nothing much was made of it at the time, because the season had just finished. But, when I tried to play squash or football during the winter, my knee kept collapsing. It was agony. In those days I was doing a lot of motocross riding at a place near Doncaster with Jamie Whitham, Neil Hodgson and Jamie Dobb, a British motocross champion. Whenever I put my foot down in the soft sand, the knee would pop out and twist back in again, making me feel sick.

  During the 1997 season, I had a scan, which showed that the cruciate ligament – the ligament which holds the knee together at the back – had snapped in half and was hanging loosely down at the back of the knee socket. I had not realised that I had done so much damage because you don’t actually need the cruciate to ride a motorbike. My knee was swelling up after races but not really affecting my performance, so any treatment was put on hold.

  The operation, by a South African specialist called Peter Turner at the Droitwich Knee Clinic, had been arranged for after the tests in Spain in early December. Using keyhole surgery, he took part of a hamstring to make a new ligament for my knee, so it’s probably not surprising that I now have problems with my hamstrings whenever I sprint – which is not that often – without stretching properly! The whole thing was videoed – I still have a souvenir copy – and he found that the joint was a bit of a mess, especially after the breaks in that leg earlier in my career.

  Within 12 hours of the operation they wanted me to put weight on the knee and to try and walk with the aid of crutches. I wasn’t so sure this was a bright idea, but I was persuaded into giving it a go. Later on, I asked the surgeon, who had done a fantastic job, how long it would be before I could get back on a bike and he assured me it would only be a few weeks. He must have thought I was going to be riding a Harley-Davidson down the streets of Blackburn, not cramped up on a racing bike.

  ‘Trust us Carl, it’s already healing really well,’ he said.

  ‘I bloody well hope it is,’ I replied anxiously. ‘I have to go testing in February and be fit for the start of the season at the end of March.’

  The recovery took much longer than I thought, despite receiving expert help from the former physio of Blackburn Rovers Football Club, Mike Pettigrew, who had nursed England football captain Alan Shearer back to fitness following a similar cruciate injury. He took me mountain biking to try and build up the knee and gave me a series of exercises to do when watching the telly, such as lifting up a book on my foot or crouching against the wall. I couldn’t be bothered to be honest. I didn’t mind the biking, and still enjoy it, but I just didn’t have the willpower to do the other stuff without Mike there to push me. ‘Have you been doing your exercises?’ he would ask. I couldn’t lie and his look made it clear that he knew he was wasting his time.

  While I was worrying about whether I would be back in action in time for the new season, the press were in a flap over how Ducati would be able to accommodate three riders. It was no big deal to me, as the contract was signed and sealed. The answer came in a phone call from Claudio Domenicali, who runs Ducati’s racing operation. ‘How would you feel if Davide Tardozzi came back to be your new boss?’ he said. I had a big, beaming smile on my face when I replied, ‘That’s perfect.’

  The team, which would be run just for me while Virginio managed Corser and Chili, was to be sponsored by Ducati Performance, which had just bought an after-sales parts company called Gia Co Moto. Ducati were a bit worried that I would feel isolated in my own team and went to great lengths to explain that all three riders would be treated equally. But this was ideal for me. After 1997, I wanted to be on my own. Working with Neil Hodgson had been a waste of time and it was no surprise when he was ditched. For much of the year, the very fact that I had a team-mate had been a distraction.

  Typically for Ducati, there was a big last-minute rush to get everything in place for the big team launch in Italy and we had to cut short our holiday in Tenerife. And, even then, the signs weren’t good that I was going to be fit as I could barely sit on the bike for the photos.

  Before the tests I made the trip down to Buckingham Palace in February to collect my MBE. The honour was announced in the New Year’s list, and although we had been informed in November, we were sworn to secrecy. It was very strict and we were made well aware that the award would not be granted if news leaked out. Only our parents knew anything about it and Michaela had a special MBE cake made for our New Year’s Eve party.

  I am obviously used to collecting awards, but this was totally different and I felt very honoured. So I even bought a new suit for the trip to London to meet the Queen! You’re allowed three guests, so I chose Michaela, my dad and a very proud Danielle, as Claudia was a bit young. I was not nervous, but I was worried that I would cock the presentation up. While I was waiting in line, the guy told me what to do – walk up, stop, turn and bow. My memory is terrible for things like that and I was sure I would turn the wrong way, trip up, butt her and knock her flying! In the event I was dead cool and she asked me what kind of motorcycle racing I did.

  ‘It’s circuit racing at places like Donington and Brands Hatch,’ I said.

  ‘And do you enjoy it?’ she asked.

  ‘Only when I’m winning,’ I whispered sheepishly.

  She almost grinned – before pushing me away ready for the next one! Then you step back three paces, bow, turn and go.

  As I walked back, the video caught me punching the air with relief at not having messed up. It was a great day, but it could be run a lot better. We had to wait in a room for hours without food or drink and then they had the nerve to charge us for the video and photographs!

  Meanwhile, Mike had stepped up my exercise programme for the troublesome knee but, when I tried to climb on the bike in Malaysia, the leg still hurt like hell. It wasn’t the knee itself, which was now really stable, but lower down in the leg. I was on a new bike, with a new team and a new team manager. That made me very conscious that I might be letting everybody down. But I had to get off the bike after 10 laps. ‘I can’t ride yet, my leg is just killing me,’ I told them.

  Davide took me to the Clinica Mobile, but they couldn’t really help. By the time I got back to the hotel, I was starting to panic and wondering what on earth I was going to do, as we had another test in Australia straight afterwards and only a month or so before the start of the season.

  A phone call to Mike eased my fears. ‘That doesn’t sound too bad,’ he said. ‘At least it’s not your knee that’s giving you grief. Try and go through the pain. It’s probably because you’ve not been using your leg properly for such a long time.’

  The next day it was still sore during the morning’s tests but, after a brief rest and another session in the afternoon, it started to feel okay until the knee started to ache again. This turned out to be just natural tenderness and, after the three days in Australia, I was confident that I was ready to race.

  But first I had to pass the medical. They used to be held every five years, which was a bit of a joke, but now the FIM are a bit stricter and have one every year. The World Superbike championship doctors and medical facilities are very good. But that hasn’t stopped me cheating the system just about every year. The problem is that I’ve got a lazy left eye and can only see blurred images out of it. Opticians told me that to try and correct it might actually affect the way I ride a bike. Funnily enough, the brain might adjust differently to braking with two good eyes rather than one. The medical board used to ask you to look at something from six feet six inches with both eyes and I could pass that test easily. Now, when I come to do the new one, I read the letters with my good eye and try to get the doctor talking so that he doesn’t see me slip the board down while I remember the next set. It’s a lot easier than going through all the hassle of explaining the pr
oblem or having to wear contact lenses!

  While I was confident in my knee, what didn’t fill me with a lot of confidence was the performance of the bike in the final test at Misano. All the problems from the previous year appeared to be still there. This, coupled with the knee problems, meant that motivation was a big problem approaching the first race in Australia. Instead of wanting to prove everybody wrong after missing out on the championship in 1997, I was still feeling sorry for myself. I didn’t feel ready for the long hard drag of another season and would have been happy with a top five finish in both races.

  That’s where Davide’s management skills came in. Virginio would have left me alone and let me sort myself out. But Davide, who is a lot like me because he can’t keep still for a minute, was forever on my case saying, ‘We will win this championship, Carl. I only want one thing from you – the title!’

  My initial reaction was, ‘I really don’t need this’, before I realised how badly other people like Davide wanted me to win. It was obvious that his hands-on style was exactly what I needed, because I won the first race at Phillip Island.

  The hardest part of the race was trying to keep the bike upright in horrendous gales and my face was bright red as the wind was very hot and dry. I would probably have won the second if I hadn’t had to settle for third when my tyre blew. There was no one more shocked than I was to be leading the championship with Noriyuki Haga, a fast but unpredictable Japanese rider. The package was right for him early on, but he did not worry me. He was too erratic to be able to sustain that form.

  From the heat of Australia, the next round, at Donington, was freezing, the coldest conditions in which I’ve ever raced. It meant a real stop-start qualifying and, before Superpole, I was only 14th fastest. This was the first year of Superpole, the controversial way of deciding the starting grid. Each rider has just one lap against the clock. The fastest lap secures pole position for the two races, and so on down the grid. Riders don’t like it because, after two days of good qualifying times, anything can happen in that one-off lap which could leave you on the third or fourth row. But at Donington it should have been a godsend for me because it gave me the opportunity of improving on 14th. The top 16 riders set off in descending order of their final qualifying times, so I was third to go. It was a great lap, one that would have left me in the top six, until it started to snow and the whole Superpole was scrapped. That left me on the fourth row for the race and with a mountain to climb.

  Although my set-up was poor for the first race, I came through the field to finish a disappointing seventh. After a couple of changes – smaller brake discs and a different rear tyre – the bike felt a bit better in the second race and I had moved up into fourth place before the race was stopped after a couple of crashes. But this time I was on the front row for the restart and managed to cross the finishing line ahead of Corser and Haga.

  I had salvaged something from a miserable weekend with an overall position of third for the second race, and 40,000 or so fans went barmy. I even captured the MCN headlines with something like ‘Foggy’s late, late show’. Even so, the inconsistency was starting to worry me. And it was to be the same for a lot of other riders all season. Edwards, Slight, Haga and even Chili were all fast but inconsistent. Only Corser looked capable of stringing good results together, but he didn’t win many races.

  The track at Monza, our next port of call, is one of the fastest circuits and was sure to suit the Hondas. Realistically, the best I could hope for was two third-place finishes. Brake problems in the first race relegated me to sixth but, in the second, I managed to hold onto third going into the final lap when Slight’s engine blew up, spewing oil everywhere. My visor was covered in the stuff but I managed to tear off a rip-off, the disposable plastic sheets that cover the visor. Corser was still hanging onto me, but I held the inside line entering the final corner. I braked as late as possible but he braked too late and ran off into the gravel. Second place was a real bonus.

  Then, all thoughts of racing were put on hold for a week as we moved into our new house. It was upsetting leaving Chapel’s Farm, which had been the first home that we had built together, almost from scratch. But we needed somewhere bigger and more secluded. So Chapel’s Farm had been put up for sale in October the previous year and, while we had a few people looking round – including former Wimbledon striker, Dean Holdsworth, who had just been transferred to nearby Bolton Wanderers – there were no takers.

  So, with the season approaching, we had decided to take it back off the market and got an architect to draw up plans to alter the back of the property. But, out of the blue, the estate agent rang to say that another couple was interested. They fell for the place, put in an offer and, as always, the estate agent had another property lined up for us. ‘It’s just what you are looking for – privacy, 10 acres of land and stunning views,’ he said.

  A viewing was booked straight away, but I had already arranged a cycle ride with Mike and was covered in mud when I met Michaela at the house just outside Mellor, a village on the other side of Blackburn. It didn’t make much of a first impression. It was a bit old-fashioned inside because the house had become too big for the owners, a retired couple who only used one part of it. But Michaela loved it. When I visited for a second time, I realised there was scope to make a few alterations. Our offer of £350,000 was accepted before the first round in Australia and we moved in after Monza, the hottest week of the whole summer.

  Michaela tried to insist that we should hire professional people for the move. ‘There’ll be things broken and smashed glass everywhere,’ she nagged. But I stood firm because I love jobs like that. We hired a seven-and-a-half-ton truck and, with a trailer on the back of the jeep, moved everything from Tockholes to Mellor ourselves. On the way back to Chapel’s Farm for the last load, I was explaining to my mate Howard that the speed cameras on the dual carriageway were never switched on when … ‘Flash’, the bastards got me. I was fined and docked three points for driving a truck at 65mph.

  Apart from when I was caught in Scotland, the only other time I have been banned was for two weeks when I was doing 70mph in a 30mph zone in Bolton, a few years earlier. It was the best thing that could have happened to me because it meant I had a clean licence again. But the police were pathetic, hiding behind a bus shelter with a speed gun on a nice wide road with fields on one side and big detached houses on the other. Everyone gets caught there.

  The traffic problems didn’t end there. Having picked up the final truckload from Tockholes, I headed back to Mellor feeling a little nostalgic. Halfway down the road, our progress was blocked by a car that had rolled onto its roof on a sharp bend. A young girl was trapped but not badly injured. Four fire engines and four police cars turned up mob-handed and the road was blocked for more than an hour, with me impatiently wanting to get into my new home. It only needed a few blokes to roll it back onto its wheels.

  When the emergency services turned up, including my cousin Chris who is a fireman, everyone was looking at me as if to say, ‘What chaos have you caused here? You must have run her off the road!’ ‘It was nothing to do with me,’ I laughed.

  The girl was a fan, apparently, and was pretty chuffed when she found out that she had held up my house move. Michaela wasn’t quite so chuffed when I finally turned up at our new home. ‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’ she snapped. What a welcome!

  After a few hot days chopping down trees, starting work on the swimming pool and two extensions, not to mention lighting barbecues, it was back to the small matter of racing superbikes at Albacete. Corser was leading the championship but, already, there wasn’t much information being swapped between the two Ducati teams. I had raced against Troy for a few years, but always found him a bit too cool and big-headed. He was the type to brag, ‘I’ve been with this girl and that girl’ That didn’t impress me, I just wasn’t interested.

  I was quicker than both Corser and Chili in practice but, halfway through Superpole, it started to rain. Stup
idly, the last eight riders were forced to ride in the wet. Colin Edwards put his finger up to the organisers after his lap, to show his disgust. The whole thing should have been scrapped and the grid sorted out on qualifying times. I didn’t know how hard to push and crashed out halfway round the warm-up lap, shaving a load of skin off my toes, almost down to the bone. There was even a small stone lodged in the skin, which had to be dug out and I still have the scars from that. It is one of the most niggling injuries you can have, as the foot never has a chance to heal properly when it’s inside a shoe and sock. The first race was also rain-affected and, even for me in the wet, ninth was a bad result. I was pissed off and Davide was even less impressed. Things brightened up when the sun shone for the second race, and I won to pull the gap on Corser back to seven points.

  The relief was short-lived. Germany’s Nurburgring was the scene of my worst pair of single-day World Superbike results. I was 13th in both races – and it was partly down to bad luck. There was an unofficial practice day on the Wednesday before the races because this was a circuit new to the championship. I had a big crash and landed on my back and backside, when the back end of the bike let go and fired me over on an uphill curving section. At first, there didn’t appear to be a problem and I walked away. But, while I was throwing the bike from side to side during qualifying on Saturday, my back just went.

  I’ve always suffered slight problems with my back, but this time I was in absolute agony. And I’ve always had my doubts whether our race doctors were very good with back injuries. They tried to pull me round and twist the spine, when a couple of hours lying on a hard surface might have been better for it. Injections didn’t make it much less painful and, come the rainy race day, when I also had to wear an uncomfortable bigger boot because of my toe injury, I really wanted to be back home in front of the fire.