Jim is dissapointed he didn't get to go to Donington, but after a fresh bale of hay forgot what a Donington was.
I write these opening words with a real degree of pride. I am, without doubt, the least eligible person in the galaxy, except for Jim our pet sheep, to be admitted to a
MotoGP race during this season. Here’s a true outsider’s view of the July 2009 Donington Grand Prix.
The Prelude:
08:30. It’s wet. It’s cold. It’s dark. It’s miserable. It’s Britain in high summer! Carol - my best friend, wife, business partner and mechanic - and I have decided to ride the 90 miles from our house to Donington in order that we can get in, and out, of the track in less than three days.
MotoGP made its last visit to Donington Park and the fans were on hand to see the GP paddock one last time.
We are riding a Suzuki V-Strom and are equipped with Alpinestars’ finest Gore-Tex jackets and trousers and are therefore dry and warm.
The queue to get into the track begins four miles away from the entry gates. We thread our way through the line of sportbikes riders feet up at 2 mph. This is good for two reasons. First, and most important, it shows that big trailie riders are superior beings because the sportbike nuts have constantly put their feet down. Second, we are miles quicker progress. Looking down at $20,000 tricked out, and very static,
R1s really is very pleasant.
En route, Carol and I make an interesting observation. Thus: pillion passengers on bikes like our V-Strom, XJ 1300s, Honda ST1300s and so forth are all equipped with really good riding gear which is warm, dry and safe. By contrast, the petite ladies perched on the back of supersport bikes are not.
MotoGP races bring out some tricked out sportbikes from all over the UK.
We observe a tiny, doll-like creature stuck on the chocolate box-sized pillion of an
R6. She is equipped with a $15 riding jacket exposing most of her back and is wearing cheap, paper thin, fashion leather jeans and a pair of high heeled ankle boots. By contrast, the R6 pilot has all the latest race replica gear.
We observe the same pattern over and over again. Clearly MotoGP race fans who ride hyper sportbikes can offer their lady passengers something which us big trailie pilots can’t. I wonder what it is?
We Can Hardly Wait:
I love big races. British fans are super enthusiastic and there’s lots of good natured banter in the parking lot. Even the rain has stopped and now it’s merely very damp and cold. We swap predictions with two lovely couples. Being an expert I know exactly what will happen.
Rossi will win;
Casey Stoner will chase him hard;
Colin Edwards will battle for the lead (he loves Donington) and Lorenzo will whang the bike up the track. It’s easy. I could do this for a job. I could also be a motorcycling journalist or maybe a Las Vegas pimp. Is there a difference?
Walk This Way:
A very pleasant security chap scans our tickets before entry. This is to stop naughty people passing out their tickets to be re-used by their friends. I am against doing this in principle because getting into a circuit for free is wrong. It’s stealing and morally wrong - and that’s an end to the matter.
The problem I face is that journalists are the biggest freeloaders in the galaxy. I’m a guest of a trade sponsor and I wonder how keen I would be to pay the $100 ticket entry fee if I worked at the check out in a supermarket or drove a school bus for the County. MotoGP is all about money.
Is the extra $75 worth the stands at Donington in the rain? Yes, they are; unless muddy, rain-soaked grass is your thing.
In fact, MotoGP is more about status. There are numerous grades of spectators and goodness me are they tightly defined. The peasants pay $100 and get to stand in the mud and hope and pray that they don’t need the bathroom for eight hours. It’s an extra $75 for a grandstand seat: cold, windy but at least partially under cover - but still no restrooms. Then come the hospitality packages and really serious money. Just over $1000 gets you a place in one of the VIP boxes. They are not very VIP but they are most definitely a concrete box. Move up the scale to $1750 and you do get something approaching VIP treatment but rubbish viewing. I wonder how many of those sipping cheap wine and chewing on styro foam sandwiches have paid for their own tickets – as in actually gave their credit card number and parted with their own money.
Above of us all are the uber deities. Prince Harry is here along with ex-Formula One car champ Nigel Mansell. The Galácticos live, so I understand, in a world of utter unbridled luxury - plus access to restrooms in less than five hours. Interestingly, said Galácticos’ wonderful day out is paid for by the poor peasants standing ankle deep in the Donington mud. Liberté, equalité, fraternité? It doesn’t look much like it from where I’m stood. I almost start humming “La Marseillaise”.
Home From Home:
By contrast, our box is absolutely full of bike enthusiasts who are nuts about racing. I chat to a lovely young lady who runs the clothing section in a big bike shop. She gives me a lecture on the pros and cons of Casey Stoner’s
Ducati which makes me feel like a newcomer to the sport.
Young British GP rider Danny Webb tries Chris Chrimes BSA Bantam racer for size.
That’s the joy of the bike trade. Most of the people in it just love motorcycles.
It’s 10:05. The party is in full swing. Lager and cheap red wine with breakfast? Why not? This is MotoGP and the drink is free.
MotoGP Warm-Up:
Anyone with the slightest interest in motorcycle riding should see MotoGP at least once in their life. The track is damp and cold, the weather overcast, but you would never know it watching these riding deities in action. They hammer these 230 hp monsters through the damp, Donington gloom with utter contempt for the conditions: truly, Gods on two wheels.
Baby Screamers and Screaming Babies:
There is a lot of interest in the 125 class at Donington but other than wanting Brits Bradley Smith or Scott Redding to win for patriotic reasons I have to admit that the racing is achingly boring. I still race myself so I know intellectually how good these baby racers are but goodness me nothing happens. The bikes, and riders, look the same and sound the same. The soundtrack for these bikes could be a cure for insomnia. How much does this class add to the glamour of the sport? Not nearly as
GP rider Danny Webb was a hit with the girls all day.
much as would a race for unsilenced, naked bikes over 1000cc.
Even so, my heart goes out to Danny Webb who is knocked off his bike yet again. Danny rode at our Thundersprint event two years ago and is a charming, hard working young man who has sacrificed everything to race bikes. I hope Danny does make it.
Everyone looks to Casey Stoner as the example of schoolboy racer who becomes World Champion and thinks that the passage is automatic. There are thousands of “nearly World Champions” scattered throughout the world and I wish everyone could be re-paid for the sacrifices they, and their parents, make.
The Pathway to Heaven:
Our $1000 tickets do not, surprisingly, allow us paddock access. But we have ways and means - and cunning! We do know someone who does have paddock passes and we borrow these, confident that we can have a walk round and gawp at the mighty MotoGP bikes. How wrong we are!
First, we are scanned in. Not quite: “Assume the position” and a full body search - but not far off. However, the sneaky thing is that the “Access All Areas” paddock passes do not mean what they say on the tin. On the contrary. These shining, gleaming, hologrammed, bar coded items of desire only permit access to the 125 and 250 paddock. There you can walk past the hermetically sealed tents and imagine what you could see if any of them were open, and any of their riders were visible - which they aren’t.
The MotoGP security was a bit more lax in the days of champion rider Jim Redman.
The MotoGP paddock moves security to a whole new level of absurdity. We have a legitimate, scheduled meeting with a trade supplier and so want, and need, to be at their hospitality centre. But we don’t have the right passes and so the super-efficient security politely, but absolutely, unequivocally refuse us entry. Then the God of Classic Racers intervenes and in walks an old friend who vouches that we are not terrorists, or fans, or even vaguely interested in motorcycles. No, we are truly MotoGP aristocracy and can therefore enter.
It’s a strange experience. Security is now so tight, so unforgiving, so ruthless that you would stand more chance of seeing President Obama using the White House bathroom than you would get into the MotoGP paddock without a 50 times validated platinum pass. The result is an atmosphere reminiscent of the ancient Roman catacombs I visited as a student. I expect to see a sarcophagus parked next to a bike. There is no buzz, no giggly excitement, none of the frenzy of the old GPs I used to attend - and not even a fraction of the atmosphere at a British Super Bike round. Only the sound of $10,000 Rolex watches rubbing up against immaculately suntanned arms disturbs the silence.
We have our meeting and leave. In truth, there is nothing to see and no atmosphere to enjoy. The teams are too professional, too tightly focussed, too PR minded to be fun. Perhaps that’s understandable in corporate 2009 but I still do lust for the old days when amateur racers like me were awfully near to Grand Prix stars. We had almost the same vans; identical leathers; ate the same food; worked on bikes in the paddock and used the same restrooms. The only thing which separated us from World Champions was a vast gulf in riding ability and better bikes.
Factory EMC team prepare their 125s. The modern Grand Prix pits aren't quite so spartan!
Now the riders, bikes, transporters and even food are alien to ordinary racers and a different world to the motorcyclist who rocks up at his local dealer and signs a three-year finance deal. This alienation of super stars from the fans - the people who, in the final analysis, pay their wages - worries me. Maybe it’s an age problem with me and perhaps modern race fans want to be on a different planet to their heroes.
The Action:
The best thing about MotoGP is that it looks, and sounds, as impressive as it is. I cannot find words to articulate just how sublimely good are these riders. In conditions which would have me struggling on our V-Strom they ride at breathtaking speeds on slick tires, simply dismissing the damp, cold track as an irrelevance. The start is a tsunami of sound and power which, momentarily, blasts away the murk and grey of the English summer. This is motorcycle racing at its most intense.
A huge cheer goes up in our box. Is it for Lorenzo who had just forced his way into the lead? No, it’s for the young lady next to us who has won the latest round in the lager speed drinking competition. If I drank a bottle of beer that fast I would be unconscious!
Lorenzo, before hitting the white lines at Donington. If only he had asked Frank beforehand!
I would have given Jorge some advice had he asked. The white lines at Donington are slippery. I once had an underwear soiling experience at Craner Curves having just barely touched the white line in the wet. Jorge discovered what I already knew: the white lines at Donington are as slippery as an eel’s bottom. He is no doubt realizing this as he slides towards the gravel trap.
Rossi is fantastic. Whatever you think about him he is one of the world’s two greatest motorcycle racers. Only Mike Hailwood was in the same class and it’s arguable that even Mike wasn’t this good.
But
Andrea Dovizioso is riding his heart and soul out in second place and we cheer him on. The impossible happens. Rossi crashes. Edwards battles through with an incredible ride which has the crowd screaming but Dovizioso is going to win. High motorcycle racing drama at its best.
Rossi remounts. Another miracle in the making. He carves through the field from eleventh place in an unbridled display of skill, tenacity and pure, unadulterated courage.
We Get Close Up and Personal With Valentino Rossi - and I Hope That MCUSA Readers are Impressed!
Behold, the sky opens before the great Rossi.
The clouds roll in, the rain comes down heavily and we’re now even more grateful for good riding gear but wait: our day is not yet over! We actually get to meet the immortal Vale personally. Oh joy! We are now complete persons.
Actually, that’s a slight exaggeration. As we are walking back to our bike, we see a tearful spectator thread one of the holy yellow Rossi t-shirts through the seven feet high security fence to one of Vale’s under assistants. She passes the precious icon to one of the great man’s upper assistants and then what we are utterly certain is a hand attached to the magisterial body itself reaches out of the mighty motorhome and touches the T with a marker pen.
Yes, we have met Rossi and now can ride home in a bubble of beatific happiness. That’s the magic of MotoGP!
