I move my right butt cheek off the seat and prepare to tip into the right-hander, leaning the bike over to counter the centrifugal forces that want to send both it and me in the opposite direction.
I lead into the long 180° first corner and extend my right knee outwards until the plastic knee-slider is skimming the kerb, telling me how far the bike is leant over.
This is when the tyres do their thing, the sticky, treadless rubber preventing the bike from sliding out from underneath me through a contact patch on the tarmac about the size of a credit card.
Coming out of the corner, I pick the bike up, shift myself back into a central position and put my head back down behind the screen. I’m accelerating hard towards the little left kink that is turn two and then off to turns three and four, a tight left followed quickly by a slightly more open right, like a big, fast chicane.
The nerves have disappeared and I’m focusing on braking markers, turn-in points, apexes. My head’s down, I take no risks and make no mistakes and, before I know it, I’m out of the last corner and looking for my pit-board – a summary of key information held out for me by my team, which I can glance at as I go back down the start-finish straight. I want to see the gap, in seconds, over the rider immediately behind me.
I catch a glimpse as I scream past. It’s +0.0.
No way. That can’t be! I’ve made a perfect start and done a great first lap. I’ve been so quick all weekend – I must have some kind of small margin at least.
One lap later, the gap is reading +1.5. That’s more like it. I’m away, determined to start building a lead and control the race from the front.
Then I see red flags – the race has been stopped.
A bike has crashed into a strip of air fencing, puncturing the inflatable barrier. I see it as I ride past turn five and I know we’re going to have to wait for a replacement unit, which is going to take a few minutes. I roll back up the pit-lane and into the garage where Pere is saying everything’s great, we’re in control. I asked him why the gap was +0.0 on the first lap and he says it wasn’t, it was +0.9. I must have been looking at my team-mate’s pit-board and not my own. It’s the first time in the whole weekend all the pit-boards have been held out at the same time, so I need to concentrate on finding mine. I ask Kev for another visor with three tear-offs because there are a lot of bugs out there. I hate having bugs on my visor – I’d be useless at the TT.
Now we have to go out and do a quick-start procedure – a sighting lap, one mechanic on the grid to show me my start position, no tyre warmers. Another quick warm-up lap and more stress trying to find neutral, rolling up for the second start. Another routine nod to Uri and we’re waiting for the lights again. I’ve got the bike held in launch control mode, but now there’s another problem – the lights just kind of flicker and then go off again. Yellow flags everywhere. A board is held out of the starter’s position above the track: Start Delayed. It’s the right call from a safety point-of-view, but this race is fucked up.
I switch off the engine straight away because it’s over-heating, and I wait for the mechanics to swarm back out to the grid and put the tyre warmers back on. I take another visor from Kev, because I always use a tear-off on the warm-up lap. Race control puts out a sign saying the race has been reduced to 16 laps. Off we go again – another warm-up lap, another fumble for neutral, but this time I’m worried I might have fried the clutch on the aborted start. Normally, my crew changes the clutch after one practice start. We’re about to do our third in this race.
I’m back in my grid position, the start marshal is walking off and the lights come on again, without any problem, and they go out after a similar wait. I get another good start, focus again on my braking marker and turn in for the first corner, only this time I go in pretty equal with my team-mate Tom, who’s starting from pole position. He is virtually on top of me as he tips in, causing me to sit up a bit.
So, this is first contact with the enemy – and that battle plan agreed with Fab duly goes out the window.
Fuck this. Instead of waiting for five laps for the race to settle down, I’m taking control.
I take a slightly wider line than Tom through turn one, pulling the bike back to a really late apex so I can square off the end of the corner and get on the gas hard. I cut across the kerb on the inside of turn two and rocket past Tom so fast on the drag down to turn three.
Don’t out-brake yourself. Just hit the apex, pick the bike up quickly for turn four and block him in case he tries to get back round. I’m still in front as I charge down to turn five. Now I can manage the race.
I complete a great first lap, check the pit-board – the right one this time – and it reads +0.4 and the next time around it’s +1.1, after a 1m 59.535s lap. It turns out to be the fastest lap of the race and perhaps promises another Pirelli Best Lap moment of TV gold (as long as I don’t need another piss).
The gap continues to grow, but on lap four a bug splats right in the middle of my visor, directly in my field of vision. I’m in a dilemma: if I use a tear-off now, I’ll only have one left to last the rest of the race. I decide to push on, squinting around what’s left of the bug.
Arturo’s on my pit-board and he’s almost telepathic in knowing what information I need to see. The gap has continued to build, but now it’s Marco Melandri directly behind me – he must have passed Tom, unless Tom’s had a problem. I start to wonder if Melandri’s found some extra speed for the race, but Arturo is instinctively putting the Italian’s lap times below his name on my board as well – it’s reading +3.5, Melandri, 00.5 (his lap time of 2m 00.5s) and I can see from my dash that I’ve just done a 2m 00.3s. If I can keep doing that, two- or three-tenths each lap faster than the guy behind me, I can keep pulling away. He’s not going to catch me.
This is my mindset – every corner, every sector, every lap – for the rest of the race: check the pit-board and keep going that little bit quicker than Melandri.
I’ve done so many laps of Brno over the weekend, plus a test here a few weeks ago. I know exactly where to brake, where to turn in, how each corner should feel – it’s metronomic, instinctive. But it’s the hottest part of the weekend and the front tyre is starting to degrade. As I roll gently off the gas and go into corners with some lean angle, the bars start to rock a little in my hands because the tyre is moving underneath me.
The rubber is so hot that the molecules in the tyre’s construction are moving around inside the compound. I’m aware of it as I go through the stadium section, turns five and six especially.
The front tyre is tapping me on the shoulder and saying, ‘Hey, this is the limit for today.’
If Melandri doesn’t have this problem, if his bike is set up a little differently and putting less stress on the tyre, he’s going to catch me. But I see the pit-board again, and the gap is still increasing: +3.8, +4.1, +4.5, +4.7. Just keep doing what you’re doing, don’t make any mistakes. Suddenly, my pit-board is reading L1, the final lap, I’m +5.1, and only now do I start thinking about actually winning the race.
I’m powering up the hill towards the end of the lap for the last time and the bike wheelies a little before the final chicane, turns 13 and 14.
As I exit the last corner, I catch another wheelie perfectly and cross the line on the back wheel, standing up, nodding to my crew who are crawling all over the pit-wall fence.
They’re holding a board that displays a specially-designed logo – 60 victories, Recordman – and that mantra.
Dream. Believe. Achieve.
I hardly take any of it in, because I’m still pulling this insane wheelie that feels so good I carry it the entire length of the straight, almost down to turn one. Then, as I land the front wheel, the pit-board message hits me.
It’s my 60th World Superbike victory.
Not bad for a country lad built for motocross.
I roll round turn one, taking it in.
Oh