Dream. Believe. Achieve. My Autobiography. Jonathan Rea
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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’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
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