time.
What I am definitely not thinking is this: I’m not thinking I could be breaking a record today. Sixty doesn’t enter my mind.
I run back to my race truck office where my personal assistant Kevin Havenhand has picked up some grilled chicken and broccoli. I’ve not eaten since breakfast and I need to get this down now so I’m not bloated for the race. I scoff it while getting changed and watching the qualifying sessions for one of the support classes, Supersport 300, but I don’t eat much – just enough so I don’t feel hungry later. I stay in the truck while the physio checks my ankle, which has been hurting the last couple of days. My riding coach, Fabien Foret, is running through final details about the race and my plan of attack. He leaves and switches off the lights and I roll out a mat on the floor and rest my head on a team jacket. I’m out like a light.
The alarm goes off a quarter of an hour later, around ten past twelve, which gives me another 15 minutes to get ready. Kev has got a fresh, clean inner suit ready and all my riding gear is lined up in neat rows, just how I like it. I hop on the scales – a normal 71.3kg. Albert’s back in to log my weight and apply some Kinesio therapeutic tape to my arms. I had some arm-pump problems at the previous round – ‘carpal tunnel syndrome’ caused by heavy braking and the constant pressure and vibration. It can cause numbness and tingling, and it’s bloody painful; but that was mostly down to the nature of the Donington Park circuit and I’ve had no problems here at Brno, so this is just a precaution. As soon as that’s done, I finish climbing into my leathers and me, Kev and Fab are marching out of the office like the Three Musketeers.
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 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
