Foggy

by Carl Fogarty

  So I tried to forget it all by getting pissed out of my head while Jamie’s band, The Po Boys, played in the tent at Assen. I managed to block it out, but there was no way this was just going to be forgotten by Ducati.

  Their top brass were soon involved and heard Virginio’s side of the story, as well as our version. I felt a bit left out of it all back in Blackburn, because Chili was in the factory every day, crying his eyes out. ‘I didn’t do anything. It was all Carl, he’s so dangerous,’ he whined. He was also quoted as saying that he would try to knock me off in Japan. Fortunately, Ducati saw sense and it all backfired on the other team. Chili lost his job and Virginio lost control of the team. That might have happened in any case, but they didn’t do themselves any favours.

  I think Ducati had always felt that they were banging their heads against a brick wall when they tried to get information from Virginio. He was a nice enough guy, but always disorganised. We would often nearly miss flights because he had left things until the last minute. Instead of looking after the important things, he would spend hours making sure that the stickers were in line on the bike. He was weird like that and it would have been interesting to see how he handled Anthony Gobert on a Bimota in the 2000 season, but the team folded because they ran out of money.

  I also had a really good relationship with Chili, up until that season anyway. He has since ridden for the Corona Suzuki team and tries to be a kind of father figure to the riders, speaking up on their behalf on safety matters, money and things like that. In short, he’s a typically temperamental and fiery Italian who has fallen out with a lot of sponsors and teams. Even at the start of 1998 we got on well, probably until he became a title rival at Austria – and on a quicker bike. We have buried the hatchet since then but I now keep him at arm’s length. It’s never a good thing to get too close to another rider, as you need to keep that competitive edge.

  And I needed that edge more than ever at Sugo. The trouble was, I also needed to rest and the tension leading up to the final round was affecting my sleep. I had been seeing an osteopath in Blackburn called David Gutteridge because the crash at the Nurburgring had aggravated problems that I had been having with my back. He had already helped me to sleep in the past by telling me there was no point in lying on a hard mattress. This time he suggested I try acupuncture, so I gave it a go although I told him, ‘This ain’t going to work’ after he stuck a load of needles in me. ‘Just have a rest on there,’ he told me as he left the room. When he came back in, I was still wide awake!

  The tension was not being caused by contracts because, by the time we got to Japan, I had been told by Ducati that I would be riding for them the following season, with Corser as my team-mate and Davide as team boss. Although Troy was leading the championship, I didn’t see him as the main threat. He had been unconvincing all year and I had beaten him in the previous four races. A lot of people were tipping Slight, mainly because the Honda was on home ground. I knew that all I had to do was concentrate and work hard on the set-up because I was in the best form.

  But, after the first half-hour, the three fastest riders were Corser, Slight, Fogarty – in that order. It didn’t bother me, though, because Corser always went well in practice but couldn’t race. Slight was the one to keep an eye on. The rest of my practice went smoothly and I was confident with the bike and tyre choice. I qualified from Superpole in fifth, which wasn’t bad considering there were a few quick local riders. Slight was left with a mountain to climb after only making the third row because starting had always been a problem for him.

  After a good night’s sleep I was quietly confident but keeping myself to myself. I posted a good time on old tyres in warm-up and then heard, just a few minutes later, that Corser had crashed out. I thought he might have winded himself, at worst. It soon became clear that it was much worse than that. The news from the hospital was that he had damaged his spleen and, luckily, the nearest hospital had the specialist equipment required for the surgery.

  Suddenly, with Slight on the third row, the pressure was back on me and I lost all my earlier control and started to fall apart. In the same warm-up session a slow Japanese rider crashed in front of me and I literally ran over his head. Luckily he was okay but it really freaked me out. I became very emotional and, when I heard the ‘It’s Coming Home’ song by the Lightning Seeds, which was playing on the CD in the garage, I started to lose it.

  Michaela noticed straight away and went to fetch Jamie, who probably understood me as well as anybody.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ he asked. ‘All you’ve got to do is keep it together and you’ve won this.’

  ‘I’ve run over a guy’s head in warm-up,’ I blubbered.

  ‘Come on! This isn’t like you. You’re tougher than this. The only reason you are in this situation is because you are so tough,’ he urged.

  His words seemed to settle me down but I was still pumped up. As soon as the lights went to green, the tyre gripped hard and I was off to a good start, trailing Haga who was pulling away on his home track. When he crashed out, I was leading and my board told me that Slight was back in fifth. I knew that I needed to break the back of the points difference in this race.

  A couple of Japs on Suzukis, Keiichi Kitagawa and Akira Ryo, came past me as my back tyre started to lose grip. ‘I can’t keep letting these guys come past or the points difference is going to be nothing,’ I thought. I dug in deep and managed to hold off Yanagawa to clinch third place.

  Slight finished in seventh behind Neil Hodgson and squared up to him on the cooling down lap. He accused Neil of brown-nosing and deliberately trying to help me, forgetting that Neil was still riding for a contract for the following year. Slight had also wound up Neil by confronting him on the second row of the grid before the race and saying, ‘If you see my wheel, mate, give me a bit of room.’ Neil was really pissed off that somebody he didn’t particularly like had asked him to help stop another Englishman winning.

  Even if Jamie Whitham was in front of me, I would never dream of asking another rider to do something like that. It probably made Neil doubly determined not to let him pass. And, suddenly, I was leading the championship by two points. All I had to do was finish in front of Slight in the final race of the year.

  The wait before the next race was unbearable and I started to lose the plot again. After such an up and down year through injuries, lack of motivation, breakdowns, team fighting and what have you, it was just the same as in 1994. It was all down to the last race. Haga nearly knocked me off at the first corner, which wound me up, and I was pushing hard in second place. The signals told me ‘Slight: P4, +1’. He was two places back but only a second behind. Soon those signals turned to ‘P5, +2’, then ‘P5, +3’. I felt comfortable in second place and was closing in on Haga. My tyres were going off, but I felt strong enough to ride round any problem.

  But with 10 laps to go the bike started vibrating and juddering like never before. It felt like a chunk had come out of the tyre. ‘Please don’t do this to me. Not now,’ I pleaded. But, still, all I had to do was keep an eye on Slight. And he had lost the plot and was quite a way back. I have never seen the pressure get to anyone like it got to him. So I could afford to slow down and dropped back to fourth. And all the time I was shitting myself – praying that the tyre would not blow at any second.

  I accelerated out of the last chicane, changed up to third and thought ‘Yes!’ Even if the tyre blew, I could have pulled the clutch in and freewheeled over the line. The title was mine.

  It felt even more emotional than in 1994. All I could do was come to a stop and slump over the bike and cry my eyes out. I just wanted to be on my own. A couple of British fans came up, including a lad called Josh from British Airways who sometimes gets me an upgrade from business class to first class. They draped a flag over me and started to pat me but I was hardly aware that they were there. I just rode off and left the flag there. Back at the pit lane the priority was to find Michaela again.

  The tears hadn�
�t stopped from the moment I passed that chequered flag. To win this championship, after so many problems throughout the season, felt 10 times better than in 1995. People had said I would never be world champion again after 1997. How wrong they were.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Recognition

  That third world title sparked my popularity explosion. There were about a hundred fans waiting for us back at Manchester Airport, plus a pack of journalists. It was all very flattering but we had been up until 5am the previous morning in a karaoke bar in Sendai and didn’t have any chance to sleep before the coach picked us up to take us to the airport 45 minutes later. I was knackered but that was just the start of a hectic few days of interviews and celebrations.

  I was invited to Old Trafford to watch Manchester United a few times, as a guest of the chairman Martin Edwards, who is a nice guy. But that didn’t go down well with one person in particular. Before one game, David Beckham’s wife, Victoria, or Posh Spice as she is better known, was giving Michaela the evil eye throughout the pre-match meal and during the interval. Even I noticed it, before Michaela said anything, and I don’t usually pick up on these things. ‘Look, she’s staring at you again,’ I kept telling her.

  I can only think that Posh Spice, who was pregnant, was jealous because Michaela is better looking. Or maybe she didn’t like us taking her place at the chairman’s table. It made Michaela feel really uncomfortable. Posh Spice still kept up the staring match when Michaela was in the toilets, with all her mates to back her up. Michaela almost turned on her and asked, ‘What the hell are you looking at?’ But, because we were guests and because Beckham is such a big name at Old Trafford, she didn’t make a fuss. Most of the guests there are very friendly. Michaela met Ulrika Jonssen at one game and they got on like a house on fire.

  It was only just beginning to dawn on me that all the other sporting stars knew who I was. If I walked past Roy Keane or Ryan Giggs in the corridor they would say, ‘All right, Foggy!’ Michael Owen is a big fan and nominated me as his most successful sportsman of the 1990s in the magazine Total Sport. I was actually chosen as their Sportsman of the Year in the last ever issue of the magazine at the end of 1999.

  The likes of Ian Wright, Jamie Redknapp and Les Ferdinand are all really friendly. But it’s funny that, living in Blackburn, I didn’t bump into Blackburn Rovers players that often. I know and like Kevin Gallacher, who moved to Newcastle, as his kids go to the same school as mine. But I found Chris Sutton a bit rude. He would actually go out of his way to look the other way if he saw me at places like Blackburn’s main nightclub, Utopia. It didn’t bother me because I don’t rate him as a footballer, certainly not worth £10 million anyway.

  Mind you, some people might have thought I was a bit rude – including one guy we met at the Stella Artois tennis championships at the Queen’s Club in London. There were lots of big stars there, with the likes of Joan Collins wandering around, and this particular bloke turned up on a Ducati with his wife on the back. He was obviously a big fan – and very rich. So I asked him what he did for a living. ‘We make furniture,’ he replied. We had just moved into our new house in Mellor, so I thought there was a chance of getting some bargains instead of having to wander round somewhere like MFI. I quickly called Michaela over to introduce her to him and help butter him up.

  ‘This guy owns a furniture shop in London,’ I said, when Michaela grabbed me by the arm, pulled me to one side and asked: ‘Don’t you know who he is? That’s Viscount Linley.’

  At another star-studded event, a charity fashion show staged by a designer clothes shop, Sunday Best, I stole the show. We were sat on the same table as Manchester United football player Phil Neville, the actor who played Billy Cork-hill in Brookside, John McArdle, and the actress Jane Horrocks. On another table there was a hairdresser from Rawtenstall, called Freddie Cunliffe, who used to cut Michaela’s hair. I was auctioning off some clothes with Steve Berry from Top Gear and Penny Smith from GMTV.

  One of the main items of the night was a long dress, but there were no takers. Freddie said he would buy it for £200, as long as I modelled it. I told him there was no deal unless he coughed up £500. I knew I would get the price. Sure enough, Freddie stumped up and I had to go backstage to change. The place erupted when I appeared from behind the curtain. The next morning, pictures of me on the catwalk appeared in the Daily Star, and I never lived it down.

  Sadly, I would be lying if I said that was my only time in women’s clothing. I’m no David Beckham – I don’t go around wearing Michaela’s knickers, or anything like that. But there was one time when I got caught out. Michaela had ordered a designer bikini and left it lying in the bedroom. I stumbled across it and knew she was alone downstairs. For a laugh, I tried it on and wandered into the kitchen to surprise Michaela. But, by then, one of her friends had popped round for a chat. I’m not sure who was more embarrassed, me or Michaela!

  The publicity surrounding that third world title meant that it was increasingly difficult to go out and relax in public. Utopia wasn’t too bad because there is a VIP room, where you’re not bothered too much. But that isn’t really my scene. Now I’m a lot happier having a few friends round to our house. At least, I can be guaranteed a bit of peace and quiet there.

  In pubs it’s virtually impossible to escape some kind of hassle. During one evening in Preston, when I was out with a few mates, including Howard Rigby, one idiot came up and slurred, ‘Come over and meet my wife.’

  ‘I’m okay here, thanks. I’m talking to my friends, but if you want to bring her over to say hello, then that’s fine,’ I replied.

  ‘No, no,’ he insisted, ‘Come over to our table and I’ll buy you a drink.’

  ‘No, honestly, I’m fine here.’

  Ten minutes later his wife turned up and growled, ‘You are a fucking ignorant bastard. I’m going to tell my son to take his photographs of you in his bedroom down when I get home. And you,’ she said, turning to Howard, who hadn’t said a word, ‘you’re a right dickhead, ’n all.’ I really don’t need that.

  It has now got to the stage where I feel like I’ve got something sticking out of my head whenever I leave the house. We took the kids and some of their friends, plus Slick, for a day out in Blackpool recently but I couldn’t walk 10 yards without someone wanting an autograph. One of the Golden Mile stalls was selling big fuzzy wigs so I bought a blue one as a disguise. Surely, with my Oakley shades as well, nobody would be able to recognise me. I was kidding myself … The first person to walk past stared straight at me. I thought it was because I looked like an idiot until he shouted, ‘Oi! That’s Carl Fogarty!’ I grabbed my wig, threw it on the floor and carried on walking while everyone else was in hysterics. You just can’t win. It’s great to have the size of following that I have attracted, but there are downsides.

  I’ve been lucky enough to keep a close set of friends over the years and Michaela rounded most of them up for a surprise party just before Christmas in 1998. I knew that something had been organised, but I had no idea how much effort she had put into arranging the night at a hotel down the road called Mytton Fold.

  The first clue as to the scale of it all was when a limousine parked up at the bottom of our drive. It was so long that it could hardly get round some of the bends near our house. I was met by a sea of faces that I hadn’t seen for ages and everyone clapped me into the room. She had tracked down people like Taste, who I used to work with at Holden’s, and John Gibbons, my former mechanic. There were also a lot of television screens and a cameraman from Sky Sports. At first I thought it was being televised live, but it was only being transmitted throughout the hotel.

  I was led into the hall, where a stage had been set up and Sky commentator Keith Huewen introduced a spoof This Is Your Life. Michaela, and my mum and dad were called up, followed by Jamie Whitham, then Neil Tuxworth. Then they started talking about Davide. ‘No, he can’t be here,’ I thought as, sure enough, he walked in. Michaela had flown him over from Italy and he had jus
t that second arrived.

  At the end Keith presented me with the big red book, which contained a few cuttings that my mum had got together, plus a porno mag which said ‘This Is Your Wife’. Jamie’s band provided the music and Michaela sang a version of Blondie’s Sunday Girl. She repeated it at the end of the evening, with me on backing vocals. It was a great night.

  After Christmas we went on holiday to Disneyland, Florida as a break before the start of the 1999 season. It was a nightmare – and cold. After two days I wanted to come home. All we seemed to do was walk around, queue up for a ride, then walk to another and queue up again. Even the kids were a bit fed up. I would rather have been on a beach somewhere nice and hot.

  Then it was time to start focusing on racing again. My contract had been sorted out within a matter of days of arriving home from Japan. The title win certainly helped, but without the fallback of their income from the replica bikes, I didn’t want to make ridiculous demands of Ducati. In fact, I agreed to take a pay cut but with a very good bonus package built in depending on race wins. And my incentive to win another world title was very good. I might well have been able to earn more money elsewhere. But that was never a consideration. At that stage of my career there was no point undoing all the work I had put in with Ducati over the previous couple of years.

  If I was in racing just for the money then it might have been an option, although it probably would have taken double Ducati’s offer to tempt me away. But all I’ve ever been bothered about was winning and I didn’t want to break up a winning team. If I improved, Davide improved and the rest of the team improved, then the bike would surely be that little bit better and we would walk 1999. When I signed, Ducati were still considering Luca Cadalora as their second rider. Within a month, though, it was announced that Corser would stay. I was glad to have a team-mate again and realised that it had been a mistake to go it alone the previous year. It would have been better to have other people to share information with, especially on the new circuits. And when we hit tyre problems it would have been better to have another person testing different tyres.