Читать книгу Niall Mackenzie: The Autobiography - Stuart Barker - Страница 10

As a racer, it’s always a nice feeling to know what you’re going to be doing the following season as there’s always a chance in this business that you’ll be left without a ride.

Silverstone Armstrong offered me a job for 1986 as far back as August in 1985. They wanted me to ride in the 250 Grands Prix and the 250 British Championship again and they promised me a new bike that would be much faster than the ‘85 model. I had no other options on the table at that point but it was still very early to be signing contracts and part of me, just out of interest, wanted to look at other possibilities. At the same time I really liked all the guys in the Armstrong team and I knew I could do a lot worse than re-sign so that’s what I eventually decided to do.

I think they realised I might receive other options so they tried to sign me up early and sure enough, soon after I had signed, Garry Taylor from the Suzuki 500 Grand Prix team called me and asked if I would be interested in riding for him. His rider from 1985, Rob McElnea, had joined Marlboro Yamaha and Garry wanted a British rider to replace him. I think Alan Carter was in the frame at one point but apparently he made Suzuki a bit nervous because of his slightly off-the-wall reputation.

I had no idea that anyone would be interested in signing me for a 500 ride but Suzuki offered me exactly the same set-up as Rob had the year before which was a pretty good one, certainly for me at that point in my career. Factory engines, two bikes, the whole deal. I couldn’t believe it. Here was my ticket into 500 Grand Prix racing where I’d dreamed of being for so many years and I had to pass it up because I’d signed a contract with Armstrong. I was gutted. Usually, chances like that only come along once in a lifetime and it looked like I was going to miss the boat.

I asked Armstrong if they would be prepared to let me out of my contract and they said ‘Not really’ but looking back, I probably didn’t push them hard enough. I suppose if I had said ‘I hate you all, I’m going to ride like an old granny all year and not speak to anyone in the team’, then it might have been different but riding for Armstrong wasn’t the end of the world. It was a good team and they had done a lot for me, so I just accepted the situation.

Garry Taylor was understanding and told me to keep in touch anyway so there was still a chance I could get a ride with Suzuki at some point which was encouraging. Armstrong also said they might let me ride the 500 Suzuki as a one-off at the British Grand Prix if the chance came up.

As it happened, I got to ride the Suzuki in November of 1985 at Oran Park in Australia. I was there riding the Armstrong and was chatting to Suzuki’s Mike Sinclair about 500s and he asked me if I’d like a ride on Rob McElnea’s bike which I jumped at. I only did a few laps in practice and never really got up to speed because I was under strict instructions not to crash it, but that was the first time I ever rode a 500cc Grand Prix bike – the ultimate racing motorcycle. Well at least it was before the 990cc, four-stroke GP bikes came along in 2002.

With the start of the 1986 season in the UK, I went to Cadwell Park and ended up suffering the worst injury of my career which, I suppose, compared to some other riders’ injuries, wasn’t all that bad. I’ve been very lucky that way in that I survived twenty years of riding bikes at high speeds without any lasting damage to myself. At Cadwell, I was slammed across the track unconscious and broke the tibia and fibula in my left leg (the two bones in the lower leg) and was out of action for the best part of two months. It was a major setback because I effectively missed the whole of the first half of the season.

I also heard some terrible news while I was laid up in bed in Louth hospital. My friend Alan Carter’s brother Kenny, who was a brilliant speedway rider, had shot his wife in a rage and then turned the gun on himself leaving two small kids with no mum or dad. It was tragic and I felt so bad for Alan who was abroad at the German GP at the time. I was sure he’d fly straight home but he showed incredible focus by continuing with practice and racing as well. I suppose it was just his way of dealing with the tragedy – it gave him something else to concentrate on.

My first Grand Prix of the year wasn’t until June when I went to Assen in Holland and only finished twelfth because I was still a bit rusty from the accident. But by the time the Belgian race came round in July I was feeling almost fully fit again and was as high as sixth place in qualifying at one point and then finished eighth in the race. I liked Spa and I know I could have been in the top five if the bike hadn’t been misfiring so badly in the wet conditions.

I had a terrible French Grand Prix at Paul Ricard only managing to finish twenty-first but I still had a laugh in practice. Alan Carter had managed to get some small crabs from a local restaurant and we put them in the crotch of Donnie McLeod’s leathers between the leather and the mesh lining. Donnie had a terrible practice session and only qualified twenty-second, saying that he just couldn’t get comfortable on the bike for some reason! Alan and I thought the crabs would have fallen out but they didn’t and poor Donnie struggled through the whole session with crabs in his crotch. Still, at least they weren’t the kind that required medical attention – or liberal dosings of Old Spice.

My poor French GP was quickly forgotten about at the next round which was my home GP at Silverstone. Garry Taylor had been as good as his word and offered me a ride on Suzuki’s 500 despite my poor result in France. My only problem was that my employers had had a rethink and weren’t keen on me riding for another team as they thought it might detract from my performance on their 250 so they refused me permission. But I was pretty determined and felt I was in a position to force things a bit more than I had done beforehand. I had about a month’s notice to try and persuade them and eventually they gave me their blessing to ride for Suzuki. After all, the firms weren’t exactly rivals.

The bike I rode was built out of spare parts kept as replacements for Paul Lewis’s two bikes –

he was the little Australian who had replaced Rob McElnea as Suzuki’s full time GP rider. I only qualified in fourteenth place but couldn’t believe the power of the 500 especially round such a fast circuit as Silverstone. Going down the straights at a proper speed was brilliant instead of counting the minutes as I seemed to be doing on the 250. The XR70 500 handled really well too; just like a fast 250. It was spinning up a lot in the rain but it still felt like a big, comfy armchair to me after years spent tucked up on a cramped little 250.

I think I took to the 500 fairly quickly because I didn’t have any preconceptions about it being a ferocious monster that wanted to spit me off. Some riders are completely overawed at the prospect of riding a 500 and it affects the way they ride them. I just looked at it as a big 250 and didn’t get hung up about it and didn’t try to change my riding style or anything.

I was hoping for a top ten place in the dry but race day was wet so I didn’t know what to expect. I just went into the race with an open mind and tried my best to keep the bike upright and get a decent result. As it turned out, I got seventh place which was the result I wanted but I did ride quite conservatively to make sure I brought the bike home so I feel if I’d pushed it I could probably have done even better.

I got a few pats on the back for my efforts and I was pretty pleased with myself too as it was a good start to my 500 career. Incidentally, I finished tenth in the 250 race so it was quite a productive day for me all in all.

After Silverstone, my confidence was up and I qualified in fourth place on the 250 in the Swedish Grand Prix after being fastest in the second session. It was my best qualifying performance to date by far but I had other things to think about too as I had been given another chance on the 500 Suzuki. Full time rider Paul Lewis had crashed on the first corner at the British GP forcing the race to be re-started. He’d broken some bones in his foot and had to sit out the Swedish race so I now had two full bikes at my disposal. I was actually as high as third place in one qualifying session and finished seventh in the race, one place ahead of my hero, Randy Mamola, which felt pretty awesome.

The last round of the world championships (there was actually one more round for the 80cc, 125cc and Sidecar classes) was held at Misano in Italy and again I was riding both the 250 Armstrong and the 500 Skoal Bandit Suzuki. I went pretty well in practice on the Suzuki and in the first session, I was considerably quicker than Suzuki’s other new rider and future world champion, Kevin Schwantz. In fact my time was good enough to set provisional pole position but I eventually ended up third on the grid behind Eddie Lawson, who had just been crowned 1986 world champion, and his arch rival Wayne Gardner.

I was disappointed at just finishing eighth in the race but my tyres shredded pretty early on, which meant I couldn’t do the times I had done in practice. The 250 race was even worse as I only lasted one lap before the bike seized and I had to retire.

My tyre problems in the 500 race were indicative of a difference in riding style between people like Mamola and Gardner and myself. I never really learned how to ride a 500 like the Americans, backing it into turns and sliding it out sideways on the exit of the corner and in an era of vicious power delivery and relatively poor tyres that’s what it took to win races. There’s no question in my mind that the reason I failed to win a GP was because of my European, high corner speed, 250cc riding style. The American and Australian riders just had an edge over me with their dirt track style. That’s all changed in recent years with the advent of a smoother power delivery and breakthroughs in tyre technology and that’s why Europeans have started winning GPs again.

Back in the ‘80s, I’d be finishing on the rostrum one weekend and then I’d be sixth or seventh the following week and I couldn’t understand why. I felt I was riding just as hard but some weeks I was just getting left behind. I realise now that it was because the Americans and Aussies could adjust their style as the tyres went off. For me, less grip meant I had to slow down but for those guys it just meant they had to spin the tyres up harder and slide the bikes round the corners. That’s what won them races – their adaptability.

All I knew was how to ride the front really hard like Max Biaggi does today. That’s why he has so many front-end crashes and that’s why I had so many too. It’s no coincidence that he’s another ex-250 rider (a four times 250 world champ in fact) and he seemed to have the same problems I had in that he didn’t seem to be able to change his style to suit the 500. Valentino Rossi, on the other hand, also raced 250s but he worked hard and realised he needed to adapt to the 500 and he raced it like it needed to be ridden.

Anyway, 1986 was a busy year for me riding in the 250 and 350cc British championships, the 250GPs and the occasional 500GP as well as in various other domestic races. However I would have raced every day of the week back then as I just loved racing and I certainly never felt like I had taken on too much.

The year ended on a tragic note when my friend Neil Robinson was killed at Oliver’s Mount circuit in Scarborough. It’s a very dangerous, narrow and bumpy track that is lined with trees and isn’t really fit for racing on. Neil was killed in September in a round of the British championship that should never have been held there and it was a great loss to racing. Our careers had run almost in parallel as he used to club race at Knockhill at the same time as me and he also did some Pro-Am races. He then went on to become British 250cc champion in 1983 as I did later on and he even rode for Skoal Bandit Suzuki in the Formula One World Championship while I rode for the same team in 500GPs. ‘Smutty’ was only twenty-four when he died and it was another shocking reminder for me of how dangerous bike racing can be.

Every racing death is a shock but I had this kind of safety valve system that must have developed subconsciously. When I was first told of a death I’d think ‘Shit, no, no, no’ just like everyone else but then after about five minutes I wouldn’t think about it again. It’s not that I didn’t accept that it had happened but I refused to let it bother me, or at least tried to. That sounds very cold and I don’t mean it to be but every racer has to have a way of dealing with the dangers of the sport and their own mortality. If a really close friend or team-mate had been killed I might have stopped racing but it’s hard to say now what I would have done. Who can tell? Ron Haslam lost two brothers racing but he carried on and Robert Dunlop still raced after his brother Joey was killed. It’s strange and sounds heartless, perhaps even selfish to others but it’s just a defence mechanism. After all, you don’t stop driving a car when you hear that someone’s been killed in a car crash, do you?

I didn’t make a habit of going to funerals either and that’s not out of disrespect, it’s just all part of the same defence mechanism that allowed me to shut the dangers of what I did out of my mind as much as possible.

Most of the time you believe you’re in control when you’re racing but then when you have a crash you realise that you’ve just been fooling yourself and that a serious accident could happen to anyone at any time. Many times I sat on the grid after the warm up lap and wondered if I would make it back alive, but as soon as I started the race, all my attention was focused on just going as fast as I could.

I don’t know if bike racers should be considered brave or stupid but there are certainly some riders who are braver than others are, or more stupid than others, but I think the two go hand in hand really. Speaking for myself, I consider that I was as safe as I could have been given the nature of my profession. Many people outside racing think it’s just the guy with the biggest balls that wins but it’s really not like that. The thing is that everyone starts racing when they’re young and daft and it’s just a laugh. You don’t have as much fear then but by the time you do start to have some fear you’ve also got some experience and a feel for when things are likely to go wrong. It may look like you’re still mad but you’re actually in control. Honda’s technical guru Erv Kanemoto, who became my team boss in 1987, once said to me that as a rider gets older he starts to weigh up the percentages and that’s when it’s all over. When you’re twenty, you might do something really risky to win a race that you wouldn’t be prepared to do as a thirty year old – at that age you’d be more likely to back off and accept second place.

You could almost draw a chart with a line for bravery/stupidity and a line for experience and where those two meet a rider should be at his peak. Before that point the rider’s too gung-ho and after it he becomes too cautious. That’s the best way I can explain it and if you understand all that I’ll be impressed! It’s not an easy thing to explain.

My performances on the 500 Suzuki had been good enough to attract a lot of attention and for the 1987 season I had lots of offers on the table. Armstrong offered me a ride again but I wasn’t going to be caught out as I had been the year before by signing a contract before I’d even spoken to other teams so I declined to sign there and then. They had been really good about letting me ride for Suzuki in three GPs so I was very grateful to the team for all they had done for me.

Suzuki offered me a contract worth £50,000 after the Swedish Grand Prix to ride their new V4 and that was a lot of money compared to what I had been on so I signed a letter of intent to ride for them. But I was still open to other offers if anything better came along. I tested the Cagiva just after the final GP in Misano and the firm seemed impressed that I was as quick as Kenny Roberts Senior had been when he tested it.

Anyway, my times were good enough for me to be offered a ride on the Cagiva as well but I still wanted the Suzuki more than the relatively underdeveloped Italian bike, which handled nicely, but the engine just wasn’t strong enough so I didn’t commit. We never really got round to discussing money and I suppose if they had offered me a mental sum of cash I might have been tempted but things never got that far. At that time I had no idea of how much I should be paid – all I knew was what Suzuki had offered and that sounded pretty good to me!