Foggy Read online

  I wear a gold number one earring and a necklace with a gold number one pendant. My car was a Porsche Carrera with a personalised number plate, FOG IE. My official web site is www.foggynol.com. My famous ‘Foggy eyes’ logo is tattooed on my right shoulder. Some people might think all that’s flash and big-headed. But I don’t care what people think. If you take 100,000 people, 95,000 might think I’m ace and 5,000 might hate my guts because I’m outspoken. There might be people who are upset by some of the things I say in this book. All I can say to them is that they are the honest opinions I held at those specific points of my life.

  I’ve actually no idea what the other riders thought of me. There’s a lot of jealousy and back-stabbing in racing because it is an individual sport. There were not a lot of people, even the riders, who I could trust. They might have said nice things in public and then, behind my back, made up some excuse about why I’ve always won – such as the fact that the Ducati is a better bike. That also used to annoy me. And it used to upset me when I got criticised. But I grew to quite like it when I wound people up and it didn’t bother me when riders moaned because the same thing was always said about other champions.

  They said that Valentino Rossi’s Aprilia was miles better than everyone else’s. They said that Doohan’s Honda was miles better. They said the same thing about Barry Sheene, Kenny Roberts, Giacomo Agostini – all the top riders. But the people in second, third, fourth and fifth have to say that. If they said ‘He’s better than me’, their team would just get rid of them. The only person who ever said that about me was Troy Corser, who last year admitted that nobody could beat me at Assen. A month later he was dumped by Ducati!

  I genuinely feel that I was very rarely beaten on equal terms on a dry track. I admit that I was not as good as some other riders in the wet. If the day had come when a rider did beat me in the dry without having a better set-up on his bike, then I would have just said ‘Shit, Foggy, you rode really well but you were well beaten.’ I was honest enough to do that. But that day never came so it might appear that nothing has ever been my fault. But it never was! If I lost a race because a fly splattered into my visor in Assen, what was I supposed to say? That it didn’t happen?

  Even as a kid I hated the fear of losing. When I raced other kids at the back of our house I always had to be first. They treated it as a bit of fun but I always had to have the last word – that I’d won. And if anyone asked me when I was 12 or 13 what I was going to do when I grew up, the answer was ‘I’m going to race motorcycles’. Even when I was motocrossing, I knew I would never be good enough to win, so it was a question of filling time before I was old enough to satisfy my addiction for road racing, at which I always knew I could be the world champion. It’s strange, because my dad was never a bad loser when he was racing. If you beat him at snooker or darts or dominoes, he hated it. But racing was just a hobby for him. He was nothing like me.

  So I suppose it’s just how you’re created. I was born with this desire to win. If you put six or seven guys in a 100 metres race, one will go faster than the others and go on to be a good runner. I grew up around bikes and I happened to be faster than the other guys. I was crap at everything else in life. When I won, I wanted to win more and more until I became such a bad loser that I would say things about another rider or criticise his bike. There’s been many a time that I’ve cried after winning an important race or championship. But I’m not ashamed about that, either. Why shouldn’t everyone see just how much it means to me? Yet crying is not something I can do at other emotional times like after a tragedy. It shows just how dedicated I am to winning.

  I just don’t see the point in doing anything unless you are going to be the best at it. Whoever came up with the saying ‘It’s the taking part that counts’ was obviously someone who couldn’t win. That’s an attitude that can make me a bit of a monster. And there are definitely two sides to my personality. People who used to meet me thought I was some scary highly tuned idiot who just went out to win races and didn’t care what it took. They found the other person, who wanted a quiet life at home and who was still probably a little bit shy and embarrassed at being called a superstar.

  It’s nice to be recognised, but a lot of the time it can be awkward. The way I see it is that I’m no different to anyone else just because I can ride a bike fast. It’s one of the reasons I didn’t enjoy racing any more. I just didn’t have my own space. The organisers needed to take some lessons from Formula One. I had no area where I could go in the paddock to get away from it all. And when I had to think about winning, I needed to have some room. I couldn’t stand it when people leaned into the Ducati hospitality area and asked for my autograph. So, at a race meeting, I was the worst person in the world to be around.

  I didn’t like talking to anybody and I was snappy with people, even with those closest to me like Michaela and the mechanics. I wanted to win so much that I just didn’t have time for other people. So, when people tried to get at me all the time, I was very ignorant and bad-tempered. You look at all of sport’s winners, they are always difficult characters. But the fans do get to see the other side of me as well.

  After I had won two races, then I would sit down at the back of hospitality and sign autographs and drink beer with them. But, until that point, I was just a focused machine, who would say anything or do anything to get my own way.

  In any case, I never wanted to be the good guy. When I won the first world title there was a lot of aggression building up and it stayed there when I had to prove that I could retain it. Sure, I’ve changed as I’ve got older. When I won, and won again, I could relax a bit. There was no need to call people names. I’m now a lot quieter and more thoughtful about life. I can now devote more time to other hobbies and business interests. Before, I was so wrapped up in my racing that I couldn’t break off to go and do something in the garden.

  But I just loved sending so many people home happy – not just myself but my family, Ducati and the fans. I could never have imagined that I would attract such a massive following. Having 120,000 people at Brands Hatch last year scared me in a way. And nothing will ever replace that feeling of climbing onto the middle step and listening to the crowd go mad.

  I’ve worked really hard for that success, so I deserve some time to myself. I don’t even know this country that I live in, so there’s so much to see and do. I will always live in England, that’s for sure. Whether we’ll stay in the north is a different matter, because it’s always wet and rainy. But I need to be speaking English and eating English food, near to my friends and family.

  In some ways I couldn’t wait to give up racing so that I could do other things and spend more time with Michaela and the kids. I’ll probably be a fitter person, too, as I’ll have time to go into the gym, to go mountain-biking or enduro riding in the Lake District. At the minute, I’ve no time to do any of this stuff because I’m pulled from pillar to post doing promotions, interviews, prizegivings and official functions.

  But there is no way I’m just going to fade away into the background. I’ve talked about signing a new deal with Ducati to do some promotional work and help bring on their talented young Spanish rider Ruben Xaus. There is already talk of me setting up my own team for the 2002 season. I’ve also had offers to drive in the touring car championship, although I can’t see myself going down that road. There’s talk of a Carl Fogarty Race School at Brands Hatch and I’ll probably be involved in television commentary. There’s even talk of a movie deal, a bit like Vinnie Jones in Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, although it’s still very hush-hush. In fact I’ve been busier since people guessed I might not be returning to the track than I ever was while I was racing.

  People have asked me if I’ll miss putting my knee down on a corner or going at 190mph. But all that adrenaline buzz stuff means nothing to me. Sure, I’ve always liked anything with an engine, where I can push a button and have power. I drive fast, so I suppose I quite enjoy being on the edge. But I never even really enjoyed racin
g. I enjoyed winning. Ask me what it’s like to win a race and I’ll tell you that there’s nothing like seeing that chequered flag. The feeling when I was first to cross the line at Assen in 1999 was exactly the same as when I won that first race on the fields behind my house.

  So that’s what I’ll miss. Because winning has been the story of my life …

  CHAPTER ONE

  Cock of the North

  Let’s start with a confession. I was born at Queen’s Park Hospital on 1 July, 1965. Yes, 1965. Not 1966, and not even 1967. The confusion is my fault but I’ve no idea why, or when, I decided to subtract a year or two whenever I have been quizzed about my age. I’m sure I’m not the only sportsman who has ever lied about their age and racers are particularly notorious for doing this. But it reached the point when it became too awkward to backtrack. So you can guarantee that now, whenever my age is quoted in newspaper or magazine articles, it’s almost always a year or so out.

  Dad, George, made his money by basically working his balls off from the day he left school. When I arrived, he was a panel beater for East Lancashire Coachbuilders, but at night he would earn a few extra quid by clearing rubbish from people’s backyards. Together with his brother Phillip, they scraped enough together to buy a truck and slowly moved into the demolition business. Before too long, P&G Fogarty owned another truck and then needed a warehouse for storing equipment. So dad packed in his day job to concentrate on the business full-time, which was soon successful enough for us to move from a terraced house on Linley Street, in a working class area of Blackburn called Mill Hill, to a semi-detached – 595, Livesey Branch Road—in the Feniscowles district. That was the scene of my first ever bike accident at the age of three, and I still have a small scar on my forehead to remind me of the time I rode my three-wheeler off the edge of the patio and split my head open. I’ve been reminded of the incident so many times by my mum, Jean, that I’ve almost formed a mental picture of the scene, although I’m sure that I’ve no actual memory of it.

  But one thing about that house has stuck in my mind. My bedroom backed onto the back garden and at night, as I tried to fall asleep, the shadow of a highwayman, wearing a hat and cloak, would creep across the wall. Dad tried to tell me that the effect was caused by the headlights from passing cars. But there were no roads at the back of the house. So I had to just turn over and try to ignore it. I didn’t mention it to anyone until a couple of years later when my sister, who also used that room, said she had seen the same things. To this day, I still believe in ghosts a bit.

  My days at Feniscowles Junior School are also something of a blur, so much so that I don’t even remember being in too much trouble! I might have had to stand outside the headmaster’s office a couple of times, but Mr Painter was a really nice man, who died shortly after I left, and not the type to go over the top with punishments. I had a big crush on a girl called Donna Pickup, but was scared to death of saying anything to her. My only contact with the girls at junior school was hitting them with rubber dinosaur toys tied on elastic under the desk. The monsters were confiscated, but that was as far as the teachers went.

  I vaguely remember thinking I was fourth ‘cock of the school’, the honorary title given to the best schoolyard fighters. The undisputed cock was Paul Dinham, who I got on okay with most of the time. For some reason, I once roughed up one of his mates, who went running to Paul for protection. Paul stuck up for him and tried to sort me out but, instead of giving me a pasting, struggled to land his punches as I was too quick for him. And, while he was off balance, I sneaked in a few kicks, which wound him up even more. I was saved by the playtime bell and ran back into the safety of lessons while the going was good and, luckily, he didn’t come looking for revenge.

  The school was so easy going that the football team’s fixtures were limited to two friendly matches a year against the two neighbouring schools, St Paul’s and St Francis’s. We beat St Paul’s about 7–1 – I scored four or five – but Mr Painter did not think that was fair and, when we played them again, he took out all the best players, me included. We only won that game 2–1, which was how he liked it. I was gutted in my second game against St Francis’s when, after leading 1–0 at half-time, we lost 2–1. Even at the age of eight, I did not like to lose one little bit.

  Those reasonably happy memories were in total contrast to the start of secondary school at Darwen Vale High School. The place was huge, the older pupils were huge and I was absolutely crapping myself on the first day, despite the fact that a few of my classmates from junior school were starting at the same time. I was devastated when we did not receive a carton of milk at 10.30 on that first morning and I hated the place from that first day until the day I left. The teachers were stricter and I found it very difficult to keep up with the work. To be honest, I did not fit in at all. I had always been shy with new people, even though I was quite loud around any bunch of lads that I knew well. Maybe a few of the other kids in that class mistook the shyness for being spoilt. Mind you, I didn’t help my own cause when we moved to a bigger house called Verecroft, on Parsonage Road, in the fairly affluent area of Wilpshire, when dad’s business started to really take off. Thinking it would be cool and clever, I bragged that our new house had a swimming pool. But instead of impressing the other kids, it backfired and they thought I was a cocky git. When anyone came to visit, I bullshitted that we had to have the pool filled in, so that we could extend the lawn.

  That typified the way that I tried too hard to be in with the in crowd. There were times when the other lads would tolerate me, but I was only ever on the fringes of the main group and, all of a sudden, they would give me a slapping to put me back in my place. If I’d had a fraction of the confidence that I have now, I would have turned round and hit one of them so hard. That would have earned their respect. And I’m sure I could have beaten any of them. Instead, I sort of curled up into a ball and took whatever abuse was coming my way. I wasn’t picked on, but the boys that I wanted to mate around with would pick and choose when to include me, and when to drop me like a stone. It didn’t help that the rest of the lads lived in the Darwen area, whereas I was now at the other side of town and pretty isolated. I could have moved to a school nearer to home but I was far too shy and insecure to try and meet a totally new set of friends. I would have cried my eyes out if it had been suggested.

  In a nutshell, I just hated school and counted down the minutes of every day to when I could get home and ride my bike around the fields. Ever since the age of 11, I had been inseparable from the couple of Honda XR75 field bikes that I rode on a stretch of Tarmac near the poultry cabins at the back of our house. When I was around 13, dad bought me my first proper motocross bike, a two-year-old second-hand RM100 Suzuki, and we started to visit some local motocross tracks on the outskirts of Blackburn.

  Until then, my only taste of racing had been to follow dad around the country watching him race. He was a good rider even though he didn’t really have a decent bike until towards the end of his career. Still, he beat some big names and the thrill of the racing circuit made a big impression on me. Even at that early age, I somehow knew that was what I wanted to do.

  I also found that I could hold my own against the older lads down at those tracks near Blackburn, which whetted my appetite for racing. Later that year, I dropped down to a smaller bike, a very fast Honda CR80, which I could ride really hard. Dad rented one of the fields behind the house and invited four or five other lads down one night, to ride their 125cc bikes against me. I absolutely blitzed them. It was my first taste of racing against other riders, and I loved it.

  There was nothing at school that I loved. In fact, there was only one subject which interested me – and no prizes for guessing that it was PE. But I even lost interest in that. For the first couple of years I played football for the school on Saturday mornings as a tricky left winger, but only for the ‘B’ team which pissed me off. When I was eventually picked for the first team, the game was on a weekday after school. But I could no
t stand the thought of hanging round school one minute longer than necessary, so I told the teacher that I had an appointment to get my hair cut. When I turned up the next morning with my hair still all over the place, it didn’t take him too long to realise that my commitment was less than 100 per cent. I was never picked for any side again after that.

  I absolutely loathed maths and couldn’t understand why I had to sit through English lessons when I could already speak the language. The attitude of my parents wasn’t helpful, either. Neither of them ever checked whether I had done my homework; they just didn’t seem to care. So I got away with murder. I tried to keep up for the first couple of years but, after that, I can’t remember doing one bit of homework. The more I fell behind, the more pointless it was actually turning up and I started nicking off school altogether. I spent many a day just wandering aimlessly around the nearby canal and Witton Park, or mucking around with my mates who had also played truant. Nobody seemed to bother and the teachers never rang my parents to tell them that I hadn’t been at school. I just caught the bus home at the usual time and was never found out. And the more I got away with it, the more I would do it.

  So, when it came to exams in the fourth and fifth year, I was moved down a class into one of two groups of lost causes, along with one of my best friends, Andrew Shepherd. It didn’t bother me because I was also back with some of my mates from junior school. And I was out of the way of the bigger lads from my previous class, who I had grown to hate. So, while they were doing their O-levels, me and Andy were sent out to a local mental institution, Calderstones Hospital, to gain work experience for some kind of City and Guilds qualification. It was the best week of my school life.