We know that we have the pace to win here – I’ve been fastest in all the longer runs we’ve done in practice – so strangely this is one of the tougher weekends mentally. I’m starting from the front row and I know I’m faster than everyone else, so the only person who can mess it up is me.
Fab reminds me of that and talks about the initial plan for the race: relax, get into a rhythm and see how the first few laps pan out. If I’m in front, I’ll do a five-lap attack, put my head down, try to build a lead and manage the race from there.
What is it they say about battle plans? None of them survives first contact with the enemy …
I’ve been nervous since I started changing. I’ve got that familiar feeling of knotted tension in my stomach as adrenalin begins to flow around my body and it subconsciously prepares for fight or flight (or maybe both).
One minute, I’m focusing on my getaway, needing it to be clean and fast. The next, I’m wondering who is going to be challenging me this afternoon. It could be Marco Melandri, lining up to my right on the front row. He’s shown some pace. Or it could be my team-mate Tom Sykes, on the other side in pole position.
Mostly, I’m starting to focus on winning. Only winning. It’s the reason I’m here, it’s the thing I’m paid to do.
It’s 12.25pm and I’m on my chair in the garage, waiting for the pit-lane to open at 12.40, running through a few last-minute details with my crew chief, Pere Riba, who is confirming which tyres we’re using and whether he’s made any final changes to the bike. We’re rolling into the race with the exact same bike we had in Superpole. I give my mechanics a tiny nod and they whip off the tyre warmers – little electric blankets that keep the tyres ready at around 90°C.
The Kawasaki ZX-10R is fired up and we’re out on the sighting lap, once around the circuit and back to form up on the grid. I take in the crowd, especially in the stadium section – a series of four corners with a massive grassy bank off to the right, a great place to watch. There was quite a crowd during this morning’s sessions, already on the beer and enjoying the Czech hospitality, so they’re pretty noisy by now. I see quite a few Northern Ireland flags as well – hello, boys.
I roll up to the front row of the grid where the crew take off my gloves and helmet. I point out to Pere that the brakes are binding a little but everything else is OK. The brakes thing is nothing major, and the guys are on it straight away, but I’m particularly sensitive to it today. Must be the adrenalin.
The nerves are really kicking in. They’ve been building since I was changing, and they make my breathing a little shorter and my mouth quite dry. I’m hydrating often, without thinking; it’s instinctive now.
I’m aware of a Monster Energy grid girl on my left and a Pirelli ‘Best Lap’ girl on the right. I’ve got the highest number of fastest laps this season and she’s there for a PR opportunity with the official tyre supplier in front of the TV cameras on the grid. But my nerves are playing hell with my bladder and I’m busting for a piss, so I ruin the TV moment by running off the grid towards a toilet at the bottom of the race control tower.
In previous years, if I was caught short I’d have a piss at the side of the grid. The organisers didn’t like it though – too close to sponsor banners – and if I do it again I’ll be fined €5,000.
When I get back, everyone’s quiet and focused – very few words from the mechanics or me. Two TV crews come over for an interview. The first is from Austria, simple questions about the race; the second is British Eurosport and their reporter Charlie Hiscott, who starts asking when I’m going to decide who I’ll ride for next season.
He asks if I have a plan, so I tell him the only plan I’m thinking about right now is getting on with this race.
The five-minute board goes up and, because I always like to have my helmet and gloves on before the three-minute board, I take off my cap and sunglasses and hand them to Kev, who’s standing just to my right. The air temperature is around 26°C, so I rub my face and hands with a cool damp towel. I pull on my Arai, tighten the D-ring strap and bring down the visor about halfway, then push my hands into my Alpinestars gloves. As the three-minute board goes up, most of the team give me a pat, or a thumbs-up, and head off the grid, leaving just me and my two mechanics – Uri, who looks after the tyre warmer and bike stand at the front, and Arturo, who takes care of the rear. Uri stands there beside me and gently rubs his hand up and down the outside of my thigh.
He and I are quite connected, almost subconsciously. Maybe that’s why we never talk about the fact that he stands there and rubs my leg during those last few minutes on the grid. But because I’m so nervous it’s strangely comforting, knowing someone’s there with me as I’m just staring at the dashboard, trying to visualise the perfect start. With about one minute and thirty seconds to go, Uri flicks the ignition on and starts the bike and, as the final one-minute board goes up, the tyre warmers come off, the bike is taken off its stands and I get a homie-style hand shake from Uri.
‘Vamos,’ he says. ‘Let’s go.’ Arturo does the same, but with no words, and off they both go. It’s me and the bike, and 18 laps of Brno.
Then we get a green flag to start the warm-up lap.
I put my left foot under the gear-shift lever and click it up to select first gear (the gearbox has a race shift pattern, the opposite to a road bike).
I accelerate away from the start line and push down on the lever to select second, again for third.
Then we’re braking for the first corner and I’m nudging the lever up to go back down a gear.
I always do a fast warm-up lap and get back to the grid quickly to give myself a few extra seconds. As I come out of Brno’s final corner, I accelerate hard in second gear and then start giving the lever the gentlest nudge upwards as I roll towards my grid position, struggling to find neutral.
I’ve suffered from false neutrals in the past – when the gearbox finds neutral instead of engaging the gear you want – so my team has deliberately made it difficult to find.
I need to find it for the start of a race because, when I click into first gear immediately after neutral, the bike’s electronic launch control system is automatically engaged.
I hold the throttle wide-open, and it sets the rpm at the right level in the torque range to maximise acceleration. I feed out the clutch to launch the bike, then I have to adjust the throttle slightly to try to keep the engine in the same rpm range. It’s a fine art, but at the end of virtually every session I do a practice start and it’s something I’ve mastered over the years.
At the same time, there’s another part of the launch control that prevents the front wheel going up in the air as I pull away from the line. But the possibility of not finding neutral before the start always makes me even more anxious.
Then I find it, and I give Uri that nod and the starting lights go on.
One … two … three … four …
The lights take four seconds to go out and we’re away, eyes focused on the turn-in point for the first corner, about 450m down the track.
My start is perfect, and, with a power-to-weight ratio not far off that of an F1 car, the acceleration is amazing.
I see nothing but the track ahead, no other bikes in my peripheral vision, although I know they’re there.
I hit my braking marker and sit up from behind the bubble of the screen as my right index finger squeezes the brake lever.
My head and chest are slammed by the force of the wind that’s trying to blow me off the back of the bike, which is itself pitching forward under the brakes.
I