It was a massive project and something that I could not turn down, although it meant breaking my ties with Ducati. The call to my old team boss Davide Tardozzi was one of the hardest I have ever had to make, but Ducati appreciated that this was a once in a lifetime opportunity. So suddenly I was a team owner and facing a whole new set of pressures. Petronas wanted us to start in the 2002 season and we set ourselves a massive engineering task in order to meet homologation requirements. I managed to snap up two top-class riders in Troy Corser, my former Ducati team-mate, and James Haydon, a fast British rider with loads of potential, for our debut year. I also picked my old mate Nigel Bosworth to be team manager, as I was convinced he was the best man for the job. The next big task was to make sure the bike was competitive, as there was no point me doing this if we weren’t going to be at the front of the grid within a couple of years. It was actually that win-at-all-costs attitude that stopped me from going over to Malaysia during the early negotiations.
Whenever I’m riding a bike, whether it’s a CCM 600 up a mountainside or throwing my Honda XR100 over jumps at home, I always go for it 100 per cent.
That’s probably why I was pushing so hard at a track at Anglesey in North Wales when I suffered my latest bad injury in September 2001. I’d been booked to ride for CCM in a big supermotard race in Belgium and was keen to put in as much practice as possible, as I would have been up against people like Jamie Whitham and Ruben Xaus. I also wanted to give the regular supermotard guys a proper race. But I high-sided on a gravel section and snapped my tibia and fibula on landing. The weird thing about it was that the circuit is an absolute dead ringer for Phillip Island. It’s situated at one end of Anglesey, the sea surrounds the track, and the bend where I went down exactly matches the one where I crashed in Australia in 2000.
The first operation to reset the joint wasn’t successful so I had to stay in Bangor Hospital over the weekend in order that the doctors could have another go. I had plenty of time to think things through. As much as I like riding competitively, I can’t afford to get injured again. So I will have to stop. I’m 36 years old – not 20 any more. I don’t bounce like I used to or heal like I used to. And I do have to think of other people as well – like Michaela because she has to look after me and hump me around when I’m in plaster. But there’s no looking back, and I have no regrets as I now have the Foggy Petronas Racing team and the Foggy FP1 (the name of the new bike that we are building from scratch) to concentrate on and throw all my energies into. I want both the team and the bike to be the best. It’s as simple as that!
That kind of commitment and desire made me the best superbike rider of all time. Four world titles are proof of that fact. Sure, a lot of the other riders had the talent, but not the same hunger for success. That is something that cannot be taught. It has to be there inside you. But there are certain techniques, practices and principles that can give you an edge over the next guy. I was never a textbook rider; I had my own distinctive and aggressive style around the track. It was the same in my early days in motocross, not to mention on the road circuits where I won another three world titles, before clinching my first world title on the track with the World Endurance Championship in 1992.
It goes without saying that much of the advice contained in this book is not best suited to safely riding your own bike – preferably a Foggy FP1!! – on the country’s roads. But after reading about the secrets of my success – as well as the scrapes, problems and laughs along the way – every rider, whether a world championship contender or a weekend plodder, will be able to get even more performance and enjoyment out of his or her machine.
Section 1 What Makes A World Champion
‘I’ve always admired Carl as one of the world’s best motorcycle riders of the 1990s, regardless of whether you’re talking 500cc or superbikes. Carl won four World Superbike Championship titles and no one gets lucky four times. He worked hard, he had talent and determination, and he deserved all the success that came his way.
‘Our careers had a lot in common. Both of us won our first world championship in 1994, and we each had more than 50 race wins in our respective categories. Unfortunately we were also both forced out of the sport by injuries from crashes within a few months of each other.
‘So what makes a world champion? To be honest, there’s no secret recipe. Every rider is different and so much depends on your team, the support of the manufacturer you’re racing for, the level of competition, tyres, plus a slice of luck here and there.
‘I went to quite a few World Superbike races over the years and Carl seemed to have a good relationship with his team and Ducati. He also had a strong attitude, and the right level of self-confidence that you need to win – a bit like Eddie Lawson had when I first went into 500cc.
‘Sometimes both Carl and I were called ruthless when we were racing. What people don’t always understand is that on race weekends the main priority is getting yourself in the best possible position to go for the win on Sunday afternoon. Winning gives you the most satisfaction, and Carl did plenty of that.
‘Over the years I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been asked, by the British in particular, how I think Carl would have gone on a 500. I’m sure he would have been very competitive, but he had a good, longstanding relationship with Ducati in superbikes, like I had with Honda in 500cc, and he may have felt better off staying where he was. You spend years building up working relationships, and it’s a big risk going to another team, or category. That’s one of the reasons I stayed with Honda throughout my 500cc racing.
‘At the end of the day Carl didn’t have to race 500cc to prove he was a good motorcycle rider. He’d already done that in superbikes. He was a great champion and role model for young British riders. Above all, he was someone who knew how to win.’
Michael Doohan
Five-times 500cc World Champion
Ever since I was a small boy, I hated losing. At school, I could not stand losing at football. Nobody else seemed to be all that bothered. I did not take part in athletics because I knew I wasn’t good enough to win. Looking back, that was the wrong attitude to have because I missed out on a lot of fun – but then again, the boy who thought coming second was pathetic turned into one hell of a winner.
Bike racing was the only thing I knew I would be good at. But even when I started racing, I had a fear of what people might say if I did not win a race. I imagined them laughing or pointing at me behind my back. So, as a boy, I was always more comfortable flying around the fields on my own or racing against a few mates who had hardly ever ridden before, situations where I knew I would come out on top. Some of my mates were able to do tricks, like pulling wheelies, better than me. I did not seem to have that natural feel for a bike. But I hated it if they didn’t tell me I was faster, and I would really get off on it when they did.
We even tried to do wheelies on a step-through Honda 50 – a ‘plastic chicken’ as they were called, because of their shape. I never really knew who owned that bike because it was just left at our house, and it soon became a total wreck. One day, when me and a friend were bored, we decided to trash the thing by throwing it in the stream at the bottom of my house, then setting fire to it. A couple of weeks later, a lad who lived up the road called round to ask if anyone had seen his bike. ‘Nope, I’ve