The 50cc class at that time featured a mix of standard bikes like my PW50 and tuned machines that were more like a real race bike with a proper motocross chassis – bikes like LEMs and Malagutis, which were much better and faster. I lined up at the start on my little standard bike with what felt like the pressure of the world on my shoulders because I wanted to do so well.
I’d been riding for two or three years by then, with coaching and encouragement from Dad, so I was comfortable on the bike. I’d been watching Dad racing and often winning for as long as I could remember. I was always aware of his nerves in the build-up to a race; he’d smoke a bit more and go into himself. Suddenly, this was me racing – my dad was watching me, and I could sense he was nervous as well. I knew it was a really important moment: there was Granda’s prediction to fulfil. I wasn’t scared though; I just knew I had to do a good job.
I memorised all the names and race numbers I was lining up against, even though I’d never met them. I was surrounded by about 30 noisy little two-stroke bikes with riders blipping throttles and creating this huge noise of anticipation and clouds of blue smoke that just seemed to hang in the air. Lining up at the gate, I was sure I was going to get smoked by all these bigger kids on their impressive bikes, but Dad was telling me not to worry: they could only score points in their modified class, while I would be competing in the separate class for standard bikes like my PW50. It was like the independent class we have today in World Superbikes and MotoGP, a race within a race.
In some ways, there’s not much difference between me lining up then and now. Nervous, but focused and a little detached – like the lights are on but no-one’s in. I was trying just to concentrate on doing my best, like my dad had told me. I sat and waited quietly.
Motocross racers start in one straight line held by metal gates which all drop together when the starter is ready. I just stared at this gate, waiting for it to fall so we could get going.
Suddenly, there was this howl of 30 throttles being snapped open to maximum revs and we all took off. This was it, I was racing and heading for the first turn, trying not to hit any of the other riders but it was all pretty chaotic. I got through the first few turns and slotted into some kind of rhythm.
On the third lap, I rode through a puddle and got water in the electrics. The little temperamental PW just stopped. I sat in the middle of that big puddle in floods of tears. Someone had to come and get me off the track before the other riders came round again. Afterwards, Mum and Dad told me everything was OK but, for a long time, it wasn’t.
When the tears had dried and I’d calmed down a bit, I couldn’t wait to have another go.
CHAPTER 3
I was still only six when Granda died, aged just 67. The night before the funeral, his open coffin was in the house and, even though the kids weren’t encouraged to go in, I wanted to see him. He didn’t look any different to me; he just looked peaceful. The next day there were a lot of tears flowing from my dad and his family; it was the first time I saw adults cry, but maybe it was because my grandfather had looked so normal the night before that I just carried on playing with my friends.
I didn’t appreciate it at the time, but Granda had a high profile in Irish racing and made a big impact with his sponsorship. Even now, Irish racing fans from the 1980s or 90s are always happy to tell me what a grand fella my grandfather was. He’s certainly a massive part of what made me a racer, which really started to get going that year.
After that first wildcard ride at Desertmartin, we managed a few more open track sessions so I could study puddle-avoidance techniques. The bug had bitten, I was desperate to race again, so it was decided that in 1994 we would give it a proper go and we prepared to head off on the most incredible adventure.
I was lucky enough to get one of those trick modified 50cc bikes I’d seen – a Malaguti Grizzly, a genuinely fast little bike. We raced all over Ireland, in the north on Saturdays and the south on Sundays. I loved every minute of the next few years on the Malaguti and later on a 60cc Kawasaki. I was living this exciting sporting life with my family every weekend, playing with my brother, Richard, and my best friend Philip, who were also racing – just like we did on the farm and in Kilwaughter. I got a massive thrill out of the racing, running through things with Dad, checking out the track and the lines other racers used. Riding the bike itself was just an enormous buzz, especially if I did well in the races. Back then, after a race, win or lose, I was able to muck about with my mates and spend time in the little close-knit family unit that we had.
Once, Richard was supposed to be lining up for a race but was nowhere to be seen. We found him sitting under the awning about to get stuck into a big cheeseburger. Dad said, ‘What do you think you’re doing? They’re all lined up ready to go!’ Richard replied through a mouthful of burger, ‘Could you ask them to hang on, Dad?’ Dad’s face said that he wasn’t about to do that, but he always understood Richard’s attitude to racing was a little different to mine. He said, ‘Well, you’ll just have to miss the race then.’ He finished his burger.
Richard was never that fast on a motocross bike, God love him. He was riding ahead of me at an open practice day at a new track in southern Ireland when I launched this huge double jump and saw him riding up the other side where I was planning to land. I hit the end of his handlebar and broke his wrist then came down and broke my collarbone. Mum came running over and put her foot in a rabbit hole and twisted her ankle.
So, all three of us were sitting in an ambulance on our way to A&E and the whole way Richard is asking the paramedics, ‘Do you know if the hospital food’s any good?’ – not seeming to care that his wrist was in bits. Mum said, ‘Shut up, Richard! This is not the time to be worrying about food!’ I was more concerned about missing any races because of my collarbone, but that’s where we differ, Richard and me – we’re cut from slightly different cloth! He was happy enough with a takeaway Chinese we had when we finally got home, but we were all in a hell of a state sitting round the family table eating that meal.
Normal injuries could get complicated, too. One time I was in hospital and one of the nurses noticed I was covered in roost marks across my upper arms and chest, which often happens when riders in front of you kick up clumps of mud and stones with their rear tyres. The medical staff wouldn’t let my parents into the ward to see me – they were more concerned with whether they should be calling social services.
At the end of the first season, Mum took me and Richard to a meeting where I won four races. I was so excited but as soon as I’d finished, Mum packed us all into the van and drove like crazy to get us to Bishopscourt where Dad was racing in a popular end-of-season meeting. We watched from a grass bank, me still in my bright pink motocross gear and super-excited to tell Dad about my wins. He listened then said, ‘I only managed a seventh. It’s probably time I hung up my leathers.’ So that was it, 1994 was his final year of racing. I wasn’t complaining too much though; it meant I got to go motocrossing a lot more.
Over those years, I did better and better and ended up with another wildcard in the final round of the British championship at Desertmartin in 1996. I had a much better race than in my first puddle-bound outing so we decided that for 1997, when I was 10, we’d tackle the full British championship. Dad saw that there was this strong family atmosphere and social thing going on and eventually he sold the idea to Mum.
It was a massively big deal for us – me, my dad and his mate Sandy travelling the length and breadth of the UK for me to race bikes. I particularly remember the first round, at a circuit in Cheshire called Cheddleton, which had a railway track running through it at the bottom of a hill. I was feeling quite confident on my Kawasaki KX60 – the engine was strong and the suspension was great after we’d done lots of testing with my dad. But it looked completely standard, right down to the manufacturer’s stickers, and we were running a standard exhaust. I could see all these trick bikes with exotic aftermarket parts and sponsor stickers and began to feel very intimidated