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 again. But Dad would always tell me, ‘Don’t worry about how the bike looks, it’s how it goes that matters.’ He was right: maybe the competition back in Ireland had been tougher than I thought because I won those first races. And on day two, most of my rivals rocked up with standard exhausts back on their bikes.
I could fill a separate book with every race of my motocross career and every feeling I had in the build-up, on the start line and at the end – I can remember every single one.
There were few better than the end of the 1997 British championship. At a week-long festival before the final weekend at Desertmartin, I had a couple of huge crashes landing on a double jump that followed a big tabletop. Twice I picked my rut too late and ended up cross rutting – when your front wheel goes into one rut and your rear is in another – and twice I crashed. I became really anxious and scared to do the double jump again over the weekend.
Dad could see my confidence was completely gone and gave a senior rider called Adam Lyons a few quid to do a track walk with me. He helped me cope by talking me through exactly how to deal with the jumps with those deep ruts. When the first race came I had a great start, leading through the first few corners to the big tabletop. The 60cc bikes couldn’t quite clear the flat part like bigger, more powerful bikes, so I landed on it and bounced down the other side towards the jump where I’d had those huge crashes a couple of days before. When you’re ahead with a clear track in front of you, it’s the best opportunity to make time on your rivals, so I picked the rut I was aiming for as soon I found the down slope of the tabletop and nailed it first time. From that point my confidence was back, I built a massive lead and ended up winning all four races that weekend to become British champion.
There were so many special moments that year. In the build-up, I was interviewed by Stephen Watson, the BBC’s sports presenter and a big motorcycling fan. He had asked me then about my future plans and I told him to watch out for the Rea name.
I also won the Irish and Ulster Motocross Championships back home. British Prime Minister Tony Blair even wrote to congratulate me!
Dad did a great job of keeping my feet on the ground though. I wanted the world and couldn’t wait for it to come to me. I remember later being desperate for some white Tech 7 Alpinestar boots and eventually Mum went against Dad’s wishes and bought me a pair, but he wasn’t happy. He believed you had to strive and wait for the good things in life. Mum was the same, but I could manipulate her a bit better.
Mum is a very loving, nurturing character. She can get a bit stressed sometimes and have very strong opinions but will often back them up if she’s challenged on them. She was the glue that held the whole family together both at home and while we were on the schoolboy motocross adventure.
While Dad was sympathetic as I sat in that puddle at Desertmartin, he never showed much emotion. He is a quiet, humble man who likes to just watch from a distance, often puffing away on a cigarette.
In the final race of my second year in the modified 50cc class, I got pipped to the championship by my good friend Martin Barr and bawled my head off. He was very calm and said, ‘Look, you’re going to get beaten sometimes and you’ll just have to accept it.’
At the time that just pissed me off even more! But now I feel I’m a really well-rounded rider and I have my dad to thank for that. I’m always trying to make my sons see that a pair of white Tech 7 Alpinestars is something you have to long for. But Alpinestars are one of my biggest and most loyal sponsors, so my four-year-old son Jake’s already got a pair. I had to wait until I was 14.
I was always aware I had a responsibility to do my bit and, because I was a terrible mechanic, I was happy to wash the bikes down and polish everything until it shone. Dad often said to me, ‘While things might not look perfect and you might not be wearing the latest gear, your bikes will always be good.’ As usual he was right – thanks to him my bikes never missed a beat and never broke down.
He must have spent thousands of hours fettling the bikes and driving thousands of miles for me to go racing. He would never put me down, but I knew if we were travelling
