Читать книгу Dream. Believe. Achieve. My Autobiography - Jonathan Rea - Страница 7

I’ve been knocked out more times than I can remember … I have a separated acromioclavicular joint in my shoulder … I’ve had a broken left collarbone, two broken ribs, two scapholunate wrist reconstructions (left and right) … a broken right radius, two bad breaks of my left femur (one compound, one very complicated) … a complete reconstruction of the medial collateral ligament and anterior cruciate ligaments in my left knee and an ACL reconstruction in the right … a broken right tibia and fibula, a broken left ankle and a few broken metatarsals. Worst by far are my knees: they’re in really bad shape, especially the right one.

I’ve had the end of my finger worn down to the bone. And I’ve been told I’d never ride a motorbike again, let alone race one.

I didn’t listen, though.

This list is nothing unusual and I’m not complaining, it’s just the price I pay to do the sport I love. From head to toe, my body has paid its dues.

‘You must be mad.’ … ‘Racers are crazy.’ … ‘You must take your brains out before you put your helmet on.’

Listen. I am not crazy.

Focused? Yes.

Selfish? Of course.

Driven? For sure.

But a crazy thrill-seeker? You don’t understand me or my sport.

I’ve been riding since I was two, racing since I was six. At the time of writing, I’ve been crowned World Superbike Champion three times, scored the most points ever in a single SBK season and won the Suzuka 8 Hours endurance race. I’ve ridden in one British Supersport season, three British Superbike, one World Supersport and ten SBK championships so far. And I’m pretty far from being done.

This is an elite sport. You have to be very, very clever and very, very fit. You win by working margins in the thousandths of a second. You throw a 165kg motorcycle from side to side, guide it as fast as possible around tight turns, brake hard and late while fighting G-forces and intense winds. It can and does go wrong, with devastating physical and emotional consequences. But I don’t see anything reckless or crazy in risking that. Do you?

I see it as a true sport and sometimes even an art form in trying to get it right, to keep aiming for perfection.

They say racing is like a drug, but I’ve lived quite a clean life, so I can’t really say. I know racing is a bug that bit me young and has not let go.

And I know that winning is what drives me.

That means, yes, I am selfish. Every elite sport demands levels of sacrifice and commitment that are hard to imagine from the outside. Endless training and preparation and thinking and rethinking. Countless days and weeks in hospitals and months in rehab.

Any rider who has reached the top has travelled a long and bumpy road, marred by serious injury and, in some cases, worse. Having a family now, it has become harder. I’m responsible for my wife Tatia and our boys Jake and Tyler. And while this is my lifelong dream and my overriding passion, I do understand it’s not theirs.

I get nervous on the grid, but not about getting hurt. I focus on the perfect start, nothing else. I never think ‘What if I crash?’, ‘What if my brakes don’t work?’ or ‘What if I get hit by another rider?’ You never think it’s going to be you.

Yes, I’m very selfish and self-driven. No, I never think about the dark side or the dangers. That’s my racer’s brain. I park an emotion and I move on.

Shall we move on?