I was knackered. We had been riding for a couple of hours and had just reached the halfway point of a really tricky steep section called Walna Scar in the Coniston area of the Lake District. It was more suited to trial bike riding than trail bikes – a slippery gully filled with boulders, and water running off the top of the mountain. I remember once following Dougie Lampkin, the world trials champion, up there and he made it look easy. I had already fallen off three or four times but I still managed to catch a lad called Kevin Moore, who had come past me laughing his head off. He was always pretty quick up that section because he had strong legs from his days playing football for Swansea City, when they were at the top of the old First Division. Sure, you need strong arms for balance, but when you are trying to keep the bike upright and to push off the rocks when your wheels are spinning, all the effort comes from your legs.
I could just about see the dry stone wall, where we always stopped for a break and which served as a finish line for the ‘race’, and saw a chance to overtake Kevin at the last minute. So I went for the tightest of gaps, he came across and we smacked into each other. I fell off, but he fell underneath me and we were both howling with laughter as we scrambled to pick the bikes up and reach the wall first. For the record, I won!
During the break, the banter was flying round about the exploits on that last section. Another mate of mine, Austin Clews, a director of a company in Blackburn called CCM which makes motorcycles, came round to have a good look at the new bike I was riding, a Suzuki DR400. It was a bit lighter than the other bikes because I was still struggling with my injured arm. Then, before we’d hardly had a chance to catch our breath, someone shouted, ‘Right, we’re off!’
The next section was also full of rocks and shale, so I decided to try and ride on the moorland grass, thinking I would manage to get up to the top if I got a good enough run at it. By this time the weather had closed in and I could hardly see more than a few yards ahead because of the mist. I just about made it over a little ridge at the top of the slope when the engine suddenly cut out. Every time I tried to start it, it died straight away, and I was getting more and more tired just trying to hold the bike up on the steep slope. It did not have a kick-start, so I was worried that the battery would go flat. Everyone else had cleared off. I could barely hear them, never mind see them.
When the bike eventually fell over, I decided to go back down the hill and try to start the thing on the way down. It would not bump-start because it was sliding on the grass, and even the electric-start would not work. What the hell is wrong with this thing? I thought during a minute’s rest back down at the wall, staring at the bike in frustration.
Then it hit me: the fuel had been switched off. It must have been Austin when he was examining the bike. I had been left with enough fuel in the pipe to get the bike started and perhaps run it for about a mile on the flat. I flicked the switch back on and eventually made it to the top, falling and stalling on the way up because I was so shattered. I was panting like a dog when I reached them. They had been waiting so long that Austin had actually forgotten he had switched the fuel off! Bastards!
When I smashed my arm at Phillip Island in Australia in April 2000 – the injury which forced me to quit racing – I was more pissed off at having to miss days like this one near Coniston than I was at missing the actual superbike races for the rest of that season. For me, racing in the World Championships was never fun. It was a serious business – I had to win, and people expected me to win. It was hard to enjoy something when there was so much pressure on you to do well.
Most people who own a bike find it difficult to understand that I didn’t get a thrill from putting my knee down at a corner. That’s part and parcel of the fun of bikes for them. But I can count the number of times I’ve ridden a bike on the roads in the last ten years on the fingers of one hand. I took my enduro bike out onto the roads a couple of times, just to get a feel for it and run it in for a few miles before taking it up to the Lake District. One of the other few times I have been out on the roads was when travelling between the hotel and Misano for the World Superbike round in Italy in 1999. As at most circuits on race days, the traffic approaching the track is bad. So, rather than have fans banging on the window while I sat in a hot car in a traffic jam, I decided to use one of the Ducati scooters to ride to and from Cattolica, where we were staying. I’ve seen Eddie Irvine do the same thing, and it’s quite funny watching people’s reactions when they realise who it is flying past, especially in Italy where I have a huge following because of my association with Ducati. They just about manage a ‘Ciao, Foggy!’ before I’m off down the road, riding like a typical Italian.
The bikes I keep at home are also used more as ornaments than as functional bikes. The 996 Ducati on which I won the world title in 1998 is mounted in my hallway in front of a mirror. There is also a replica of that bike, given to me by Ducati, in the new office and trophy room we designed at home. Then I have a Ducati 900 Monster, also given to me by Ducati. That bike has been fettled to make it a 960. It has a different exhaust, pistons, barrels and heads. My intention was to ride it on the roads occasionally, but I’ve had it for two years and never taken it out.
The bike I probably use the most at home is my KTM 250cc motocross bike – at least until the arm injury prevented me from using it on the small track I built in a field behind the house. I also bought two Honda XR100s from America to use at Fogarty Park, so that I could find someone to race against – and beat. Then Malaguti gave me a scooter, after they did a deal with Ducati to produce a series of Foggy replicas. It was sprayed up in the same colours as the bike on which I won the 1999 championship. That has also done zero miles! I bought Danielle a Yamaha TTR90 for her ninth birthday, and the girls also have a little quad bike. And I’ve got a Birel four-wheeler, which has a steering wheel and a four-stroke lawnmower engine. The manufacturer also sprayed that red, put some Ducati stickers on it and sold a few on the back of the fact that I owned one. It was useless for riding on grass because it had slick tyres and would not have had enough grip, but I did ride it around the paddock for a while because it looked different and a bit freaky – the Volkswagen Beetle of the biking world.
I also have a 90cc Honda Cub field bike, probably best suited to teenage lads, which I bought for £500 from a shop in Burnley in 1996. Don’t ask me why. I used it as a paddock bike when I was with Honda in 1996, and it’s a good bike for pulling wheelies as it has a lot of low-down power. You can get the back wheel up pretty easily, as long as you keep one finger on the back brakes to stop it going over! Finally, there’s the mini-moto, which lives in the lounge area of the kitchen. These are actually raced in Italy and are really difficult to control, as the engines are really ‘wick’. It’s not like a little four-stroke that just chuffs along. Danielle is already very confident on it.
But while my own are used mostly as toys, bikes still play a major role in my life. After the crash at Phillip Island I started to think about the possibility of running my own team. The logical thing was to ask Ducati for help and my company, Team Foggy Racing Limited, set about trying to attract enough sponsorship. Then I received a call from a Malaysian-based businessman called David Wong, whom I had raced for in the Malaysian championship in 1992, backed by that country’s state-owned petroleum giant Petronas.
I told David that I was thinking about running my own team and he said he would speak to Petronas. A couple of days later he came back to me, saying that he needed us to come out to Malaysia to discuss an exciting project. My manager and agent, Neil Bramwell, and a businessman called Murray Treece, who had been trying to