Dream. Believe. Achieve. My Autobiography

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First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018

FIRST EDITION

© Jonathan Rea 2018

Cover layout design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Cover photography © Graeme Brown/GeeBee Images

All other photos courtesy of the author unless otherwise indicated.

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Source ISBN: 9780008305086

Ebook Edition © October 2018 ISBN: 9780008305116

Version: 2018-09-13

Dedication

For Tatia, Jake and Tyler

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Foreword by Carl Fogarty

Prologue: I’m Not Crazy

Chapter 1: Sixty

Chapter 2: In the Blood

Chapter 3: Motocross

Chapter 4: Red Bull Rookie

Chapter 5: The Big Break

Chapter 6: Second Chance

Chapter 7: Living the Dream

Chapter 8: My Racer’s Brain

Chapter 9: The Learning Curve

Chapter 10: Honda Grind

Chapter 11: Little Feet, Itchy Feet

Chapter 12: End of the Line

Chapter 13: The Grass is Greener

Chapter 14: Back to Back

Chapter 15: Making a Point

Chapter 16: Homecoming

Picture Section

Acknowledgements

Career Statistics

List of Searchable Terms

About the Publisher

Foreword

By Carl Fogarty

My first connection with the Rea family was more than four decades ago in 1977 when my dad, George, finished second behind Joey Dunlop in his first TT victory on the Rea Racing Yamaha sponsored by Jonathan’s grandad, John.

John Rea was a jovial Irishman who loved his racing, and I was a bit in awe of him when I first met him for my debut at the 1987 North West 200 and he gave me some words of encouragement. The family connections continued when I raced on the roads against Jonathan’s dad, Johnny. I was fourth on the bike I borrowed for the Junior race in 1989, when Johnny claimed his only TT win.

Many years later, Jonathan was one of a number of up-and-coming British lads, along with the likes of Leon Camier, Cal Crutchlow and Tom Sykes, who my Foggy Petronas Racing team considered for our final year in World Superbikes in 2006, before we finally opted for the late Craig Jones.

I don’t remember speaking to Jonathan until I answered a call from an unknown number when staggering out of a beach club in Marbella, after a couple too many shandies. He was racing for HM Plant in the British Superbike Championship in 2007 and had just received an offer from Ducati to compete in the World Superbike Championship the following year. You had to respect the lad’s confidence for calling me up out of the blue. I told him that the Ducati team manager, Davide Tardozzi, would look after him and that he should take the offer. He obviously didn’t listen to a word I said, because he signed for Ten Kate Honda!

Within a couple of years, I was convinced that he was the fastest, most talented guy in the World Superbike Championship. But, relatively new to the class, he was a bit inconsistent, which was to be expected. His career mirrored mine in a lot of ways – I had to prove myself in a team and on a bike that were not the best out there. A few people started to doubt what I was saying about him, but I told them to be patient. The best rider nearly always ends up with the best package, and that happened to Jonathan, too, when he signed for Kawasaki.

The rest is history – including my record number of 59 wins! I’m often asked how that feels and the honest answer is that, if I had to lose the record to anyone, I couldn’t be happier that it was Jonathan who beat it. Family connections aside, there is nobody more talented, more determined or more deserving, and there isn’t a box that he doesn’t tick for me. He’s also a genuinely good guy, a proud family man who doesn’t have an arrogant bone in his body. And, not content with beating my records, he even had the cheek to try to sell more books than me by asking me to write this Foreword.

Dream on, mate! :) #1

PROLOGUE

I’m Not Crazy

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?

CHAPTER 1

Sixty

Saturday, 9 June 2018, Automotodrom Brno, Czech Republic

The stress levels are at maximum now.

At the very last moment, just as I roll to a stop, I find neutral. I give Uri a gentle nod, because he’s always as stressed as I am about me finding it. I turn back to the start lights and do a couple of nervous twitches with my head, something that’s developed over the last few years. All the other riders are in position. The start marshal walks off, pointing his red flag towards the lights. We wait. Those lights will come on for anything between two and five seconds. As soon as they go out, it’s a start. I engage first gear and activate launch control.

The lights come on, I twist the throttle. The decibel level soars as the other riders do the same. One … two … three … four …

It’s race day.

This morning I qualified second fastest in the Superpole session – the middle of the front row of the grid. The whole post-Superpole parc fermé thing, photographs and interviews, is dragging on. It’s less than two hours from the lights going out for the 1pm race. I’m thinking I need some food and quiet 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 engaging the gear you want – so my team has deliberately made it difficult to find.

I need to find it for the start of a race because, when I click into first gear immediately after neutral, the bike’s electronic launch control system is automatically engaged.

I hold the throttle wide-open, and it sets the rpm at the right level in the torque range to maximise acceleration. I feed out the clutch to launch the bike, then I have to adjust the throttle slightly to try to keep the engine in the same rpm range. It’s a fine art, but at the end of virtually every session I do a practice start and it’s something I’ve mastered over the years.

At the same time, there’s another part of the launch control that prevents the front wheel going up in the air as I pull away from the line. But the possibility of not finding neutral before the start always makes me even more anxious.

Then I find it, and I give Uri that nod and the starting lights go on.

One … two … three … four …

The lights take four seconds to go out and we’re away, eyes focused on the turn-in point for the first corner, about 450m down the track.

My start is perfect, and, with a power-to-weight ratio not far off that of an F1 car, the acceleration is amazing.

I see nothing but the track ahead, no other bikes in my peripheral vision, although I know they’re there.

I hit my braking marker and sit up from behind the bubble of the screen as my right index finger squeezes the brake lever.

My head and chest are slammed by the force of the wind that’s trying to blow me off the back of the bike, which is itself pitching forward under the brakes.

I don’t know how much force is going through my arms and wrists – in both directions as I’m hanging on to the handlebars – but it feels like a lot.

I move my right butt cheek off the seat and prepare to tip into the right-hander, leaning the bike over to counter the centrifugal forces that want to send both it and me in the opposite direction.

I lead into the long 180° first corner and extend my right knee outwards until the plastic knee-slider is skimming the kerb, telling me how far the bike is leant over.

This is when the tyres do their thing, the sticky, treadless rubber preventing the bike from sliding out from underneath me through a contact patch on the tarmac about the size of a credit card.

Coming out of the corner, I pick the bike up, shift myself back into a central position and put my head back down behind the screen. I’m accelerating hard towards the little left kink that is turn two and then off to turns three and four, a tight left followed quickly by a slightly more open right, like a big, fast chicane.

The nerves have disappeared and I’m focusing on braking markers, turn-in points, apexes. My head’s down, I take no risks and make no mistakes and, before I know it, I’m out of the last corner and looking for my pit-board – a summary of key information held out for me by my team, which I can glance at as I go back down the start-finish straight. I want to see the gap, in seconds, over the rider immediately behind me.

I catch a glimpse as I scream past. It’s +0.0.

No way. That can’t be! I’ve made a perfect start and done a great first lap. I’ve been so quick all weekend – I must have some kind of small margin at least.

One lap later, the gap is reading +1.5. That’s more like it. I’m away, determined to start building a lead and control the race from the front.

Then I see red flags – the race has been stopped.

A bike has crashed into a strip of air fencing, puncturing the inflatable barrier. I see it as I ride past turn five and I know we’re going to have to wait for a replacement unit, which is going to take a few minutes. I roll back up the pit-lane and into the garage where Pere is saying everything’s great, we’re in control. I asked him why the gap was +0.0 on the first lap and he says it wasn’t, it was +0.9. I must have been looking at my team-mate’s pit-board and not my own. It’s the first time in the whole weekend all the pit-boards have been held out at the same time, so I need to concentrate on finding mine. I ask Kev for another visor with three tear-offs because there are a lot of bugs out there. I hate having bugs on my visor – I’d be useless at the TT.

Now we have to go out and do a quick-start procedure – a sighting lap, one mechanic on the grid to show me my start position, no tyre warmers. Another quick warm-up lap and more stress trying to find neutral, rolling up for the second start. Another routine nod to Uri and we’re waiting for the lights again. I’ve got the bike held in launch control mode, but now there’s another problem – the lights just kind of flicker and then go off again. Yellow flags everywhere. A board is held out of the starter’s position above the track: Start Delayed. It’s the right call from a safety point-of-view, but this race is fucked up.

I switch off the engine straight away because it’s over-heating, and I wait for the mechanics to swarm back out to the grid and put the tyre warmers back on. I take another visor from Kev, because I always use a tear-off on the warm-up lap. Race control puts out a sign saying the race has been reduced to 16 laps. Off we go again – another warm-up lap, another fumble for neutral, but this time I’m worried I might have fried the clutch on the aborted start. Normally, my crew changes the clutch after one practice start. We’re about to do our third in this race.