Foggy

by Carl Fogarty

  I thought the worst when I saw the blood around her head. But then she groaned, ‘Oh Carl, I’m never riding a bike again.’ I realised then that she would be okay. I knew that the leg would heal. It’s when you bang your head that you can have real problems. Within an hour everything had settled down and I had almost forgotten about the whole incident. It was the start of a big weekend for me and, to be perfectly honest, it didn’t affect me in the slightest.

  Mandy was taken to the nearest hospital, had a long operation to pin her leg back together and stayed in Germany for the next week. Obviously we checked on her condition every day but it wasn’t something that preyed on my mind in the build-up to the races. By the time we were back in England, it was something I could even joke about.

  I told everyone that Michaela had tried to kill Mandy, although I’m not sure that Michaela appreciated the joke. Mandy is still having a few problems and needed a bone graft from her hip to help the fracture heal properly. The gaps between the two ends of the bone had been too wide for it to knit together and calcify properly. Then the bone developed an infection and the doctors decided to take the plates out, again hoping that would not stop the healing process. In many ways she was lucky, although she probably wished she had never met us after this and the fall in Ibiza.

  Qualifying was none too smooth, either. A clutch problem during Superpole meant that I was seventh on the grid, at a track where I wouldn’t be able to go easy on the bike and just pick up the points. The long straights at Hockenheim mean that there is maximum strain on the engine for long periods, and that’s just to stay in the draught of other bikes. During the Sunday morning warm-up I was obviously a bit tense.

  One particular fat little German marshal had annoyed me the previous day by not letting me out of pit-lane, which meant I had to stop the bike and get the mechanics to run down and start me up again. On the Sunday, I had been out on one bike and was about to go out on the number two bike. Just as I was approaching the end of pit-lane, the red light, which signals the end of the session, came on. All I wanted to do was go out, do one lap, and come back in. But the steward leapt out with his red flag and he was determined not to let me out at any cost. I almost ran into him. I was swearing like a madman although he couldn’t understand a word I was saying. I backed the bike up a few yards and pretended to run straight at him, stopping just short, of course! By this stage he was crapping himself because I was still furious and giving him the finger. A woman was stood close by and she was indicating that she had seen everything that had happened. She was obviously going to love grassing me up.

  When the first race eventually arrived I was confident with our choice of tyre. Again I went for the hardest that Michelin had, similar to the tyre we used throughout 1995. From what I had seen, the others were struggling and I thought I was the only one who had done a race distance in practice – and I had done it twice. Davide, watching from the pit lane, didn’t think that I got off to a good start. In fact I had charged through from the second row and was leading going into the first chicane. That made me uneasy. All the time I was wondering where Troy was, because I only needed to beat him to win the title. Yet again I had to talk to myself to keep focused. ‘Look, just do what you do. Keep your head down and keep putting in fast consistent laps,’ I told myself.

  At the start of the last lap I thought my board was telling me that Troy was in ninth. That was perfect, there was no point getting into a dice with Slight in second place. He came past and was weaving all over expecting me to come back at him. I wasn’t interested in him in the slightest and was looking behind just to make sure Troy wasn’t there – but knowing that the world title was mine. For once in my life I wasn’t bothered about winning the race and crossed the line in second with a big wheelie. I stopped the bike in front of the grandstand, where there were around 30,000 Brits who had made the journey. I punched the air and then dropped to my knees in the sand saying little prayers of thanks.

  The T-shirts were out in pit-lane saying, ‘Carl Fogarty: Four times world champion’ and I noticed, behind the podium, that Aaron Slight was furious. Someone came up to me and said, ‘You’ve won the race!’

  ‘No, Aaron won the race,’ I said, confused.

  It turned out that the red flags had been out on the final lap after an accident, which meant that the result stood from the start of the last lap when I was leading. It was a bit embarrassing but I didn’t care because I had won the title.

  Slight didn’t appear on the podium and I probably would have done the same because he won the race fair and square. He made a protest but it was rejected. And, as far as I was concerned, the trouble with the marshal from the morning had also been forgotten. But team manager Davide Tardozzi had been ordered up to race control. The organisers originally wanted to fine me 3,000 Swiss Francs, until I was talked into going up there to apologise to everyone and they settled for 1,000 Swiss Francs, about £400. It was no skin off my nose.

  The relief during the break between races was amazing. Davide had to remind me that there was another race because I turned up at the garage with a big grin.

  But, as soon as my helmet was on, there was no smiling. It was back to business as usual, although Chili just edged me into second in a good race. The Alstare Suzuki team threw a big party in the paddock, with some strippers, but I had an early flight in the morning and there would be plenty more celebrations back home. So we didn’t have a really late night in Germany. A few press were waiting at the airport again, including a right nugget from the Manchester Evening News. He knew that I had won a world title, but did not know whether I rode a bike or a snail. I could have won the tiddlywinks world title for all he cared.

  I had been in a mischievous mood after the Hockenheim races and told the press that I wouldn’t be travelling to Japan for the final race a month later. There was never any doubt that I would be going, but Ducati took me seriously and had a quiet word. As it turned out, there was some doubt the week before the final race because a nuclear leak threatened the event in Sugo. We were due to travel on the bullet train from Tokyo through the affected area, but Ducati made a lot of checks and we were promised that everything would be okay. It was a pity, as I really could have done without that extra round.

  Michaela felt exactly the same …

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Teamwork

  Michaela picked her moment to suggest that there was no point in her travelling to Japan, but I was busy with something else, so I ignored her. She tried again.

  ‘Carl, you don’t really need me in Japan, do you?’

  Again I didn’t respond.

  ‘I guess I’m coming to Japan, then!’

  ‘Yep, you’re coming to Japan,’ I grinned.

  She was right, there was no real need for her to travel halfway across the world for a meaningless race. But I’ve come to rely on her company at races and she has been at every round for the last couple of years. That’s a measure of the strength of our relationship. Unlike many couples, who go off to work at the start of each day and maybe spend a couple of hours together in the evening and at weekends, Michaela and I are in each other’s pockets for the most part of most days. It’s got to the stage that I don’t feel right at a meeting if she is not there.

  It can be a very lonely time in a foreign country, and especially somewhere like Japan, during a race meeting. The mechanics stay behind at the track working on the bike, so the rider has to go back to a hotel room or go out and eat alone. It’s so important to have somebody there to share a joke with or provide a shoulder to cry on. Michaela and I know each other inside out and the relationship has matured over the years. Anyone who knows us will say that we are two very strong characters. We both let people know exactly what we think about them. That can be a potentially explosive combination and obviously there are flash points. It has occasionally come to blows but I always warn her that I’ll never let the fight end until I’ve won!

  There was a period when a big row meant we cou
ld go for days without speaking. But, the more Michaela has become involved with the business side of things, the harder it is to ignore each other and now we don’t argue as much as we used to. Nowadays I can recognise when I’ve been unreasonable. Perhaps I might have snapped at her if she was in my chair in the garage after I had been out during qualifying when things hadn’t gone to plan. But her mood will soon tell me when I’ve overstepped the mark and I usually end up eating humble pie.

  It might be a sign that I am mellowing because, more often than not, I’m now the first to apologise – in my own way. I might mutter, ‘Dickhead!’ as we pass in the corridor, to try and break the ice. I actually try to avoid arguments at all costs but she sometimes pushes me to the brink and forces me to say something nasty. Days later, when it’s all forgotten as far as I’m concerned, she will throw it back in my face and force an apology out of me.

  Michaela loved to be involved with the team. Ever since around 1993 she was a regular on the pit wall, noting down my lap times for the records. A lot of the wives and girlfriends take a back seat, but Michaela was always in and around the garage and therefore on television. So she now has a high profile of her own now and is often recognised in England when I’m not there. The Italians loved our public shows of emotion after races and that’s perhaps one of the reasons I’m so popular in that country.

  Her presence also served another purpose. Biking has always attracted a glamorous female following. Around the time I first started seeing Michaela, I found it quite hard to pull girls even though I was racing all over the world. I’m no model – I suppose I’m just an average-looking guy with distinctive features. It’s a similar thing with Mick Jagger – people either think that you’re good-looking or that you’re an ugly git. Either way, it doesn’t bother me. I’ve always had good-looking girlfriends and I’ve got a beautiful wife, so there must be something there that women like. Now it would be relatively easy to pull birds because I’m well known and have a bit of cash. But, because Michaela and the kids are always around, everyone sees that I’m a big family man. So perhaps girls don’t want to get involved and leave me well alone. Sure, they occasionally give me the eye, but there have certainly never been crowds of them rushing into the garage trying to rip my pants off.

  That’s not to say that Michaela doesn’t get a bit insecure. Perhaps I do sometimes have wandering eyes. Show me a man who hasn’t. So Michaela will ask, ‘What’s she got that I haven’t?’ I’ll say ‘Nothing. I’m married to you, though.’

  It’s just not in my nature to tell her she looks beautiful all the time, so she hates it when I say that some stranger looks sexy. When a girl once asked me in the Isle of Man to sign her boob right across the nipple, she went apeshit. And she hates it whenever I’m asked to do something like squirt water on the contestants in a Miss Wet T-shirt contest (although it’s okay if she’s allowed to judge the Mr Willy competition). But that’s about the only temptation that is put in my way, which is fine by me. There is just too much to throw away, even if I was tempted. Many sportsmen can’t resist affairs and you read about it in the papers every Sunday morning. It’s not as bad in motorcycle racing as many people think, and nowhere near as bad as it is in football.

  A lot of the other superbike riders are in the same boat, as most have wives or steady girlfriends. The younger riders, who haven’t got someone in tow, are generally not famous enough to attract the interest in the first place. One or two who do have partners still play the field and get away with it, but that’s their business. Sometimes I wish it had been laid on a plate when I was younger and still in the market. But if that had been the case I would probably be washed up and living in some flat in Monaco with a drug problem – with a different woman every night. You can’t have your cake and eat it and I think I’ll settle for what I’ve got, thanks very much.

  Michaela’s involvement with the team was a way of controlling her nerves, more than anything. It’s always worse for people who are watching because they can’t do anything about what’s happening on the track. At least I was in a position to influence things. It wasn’t that she was scared, just anxious that I didn’t injure myself and, at the same time, keen for me to do well. She knew only too well that I was not a nice person for a couple of days after a bad result. But, while I knew she’s a nervous wreck, it was calming for me to have her around and especially when things got tense.

  I realise that I wasn’t always the easiest bloke to be around, as I wanted everything done to perfection. And if I were to ask for a cup of tea at home I’d probably be told to go and get it myself. At first she was like that at races, and a proper pain in the arse. But she grew to appreciate the pressures that I was under, with everyone wanting a slice of my time, and knew that it was not worth arguing. So she started to do more and more stuff, such as mixing up drinks or fetching tablets from the doctors – the type of things that I always used to do for myself. But there were certain things, like seeing to my helmet visor, which I still preferred to do myself so that nobody else could be blamed if it wasn’t done properly.

  Michaela has also got a lot better at the business side of things, which she hated at first but is now very comfortable with. She can be a very tough negotiator and runs my diary. I’ve never seen the sense in employing an agent and having to give him a 10 per cent cut of every deal, although Neil Bramwell, who helped with this book, is now arranging more and more promotional work with us. That was all becoming too much for us to handle, so it’s nice for someone to take that pressure off. Michaela was also my first line of defence from the telephone. So she was heavily involved when all the shit kicked off with my uncle Brian, my dad’s brother.

  The problem dated back to around 1994 when Brian asked me if he could try and make a bit of cash selling pieces of pottery, plates and mugs with my name and pictures on. I was only too pleased to help out because he seemed to have struggled for most of his life. Even when he did enjoy a rare bit of luck, Brian always seemed to do something stupid and blow it. For four or five years, he would set up a stall at race meetings and sell a few items – so everyone went away happy. I never asked for a cut and didn’t want a share of the proceeds. He then fell in with some people who set themselves up as Foggy Promotions, an offshoot of Motorsport Enterprises, claiming to be the official suppliers of Carl Fogarty merchandise.

  A professional outfit called Clinton Enterprises, run by Tim Clinton, who also represented Castrol Honda, had handled all my official merchandising for a number of years. But suddenly they were being told that Foggy Promotions had the sole rights to my merchandise. That was bullshit but Brian and these guys were by then driving round in a car with all kinds of slogans painted on the side, not to mention producing caps and T-shirts which they had no right to do. They even used the logo of my eyes, which Alan Pendry has exclusive rights to use after copyrighting the logo, which was based on the design owned by No Fear and looks like a Polo mint broken in half and pulled apart.

  Then they set up a new web site on the internet with the message, supposedly from me, saying, ‘This is my official range of products that I endorse. Welcome to my web site. I would also like to thank my Uncle Brian for supporting me throughout my career.’ This was totally untrue.

  This had all blown up in the middle of the 1999 championship and I didn’t want it to distract me from my racing. So I told Brian, ‘You can’t do this. I’ll have a meeting with you and your people once the season is over.’ In all honesty though, I had no intention of getting involved. I just wanted to shut them up for the time being. So, during the week after my victory at Hockenheim, it all kicked off when I was out in Italy helping to promote the Milan Bike Show. I had enough mayhem to deal with out there, without all this. Shark had asked me to sign some helmets on a specially constructed stage but had advertised the time that I would be there. It was a big mistake because Italians never form an orderly queue. I had only signed one before the crowd burst through the security and the stage collapsed. I was practically picke
d up by my bodyguards and carried to safety!

  That night, Michaela rang me to say that Brian had warned Clinton that he wouldn’t be able to sell merchandise at an event that was being organised by Blackburn Council to commemorate my fourth world title. A similar tribute night had been held every championship year, but the previous year’s had turned into a big autograph session. I was uncomfortable with this because people had paid for tickets and thought I was profiting, which was not the case. But this year the night had become the focus of this running battle for my merchandising rights.

  I went ballistic, so Michaela rang Brian to tell him exactly how I felt. He flew off the handle with Michaela. ‘I can do whatever I want,’ he said. ‘I have a contract with Carl that gives me his worldwide rights. Anyway, it’s got nothing to do with you. I have got permission off the Fogarty family,’ he ranted. Again it was all bullshit.

  The day after I returned home I received a recorded delivery letter from Motorsport Enterpises, which was also sent to Ducati, Action Performance and Clinton. It claimed they held all my worldwide rights because I had signed a piece of paper in 1995 allowing Brian to sell ‘pottery’. Apparently, I had signed it because Brian was getting hassle from some of the circuits who were asking for official documents before allowing him to sell his stuff. But Motorsport Enterprises went on to claim that ‘pottery’ was just a trading name, which included all forms of merchandise. And they threatened to take me to court if I didn’t co-operate.

  I flipped. Just at that moment, dad rang. The timing was all wrong.

  ‘What are you doing about this celebration evening at Blackburn? Alf Wright from the council is trying to get it all sorted,’ he asked in all innocence.