CHAPTER 2

       In the Blood

      Motorcycle racing is in my blood: my grandad sponsored a lot of great Northern Irish riders like Joey Dunlop, and my dad Johnny was an Irish Road Racing Champion.

      I very nearly didn’t come along at all though. Dad and my mum Claire hadn’t been going out long when, during a race at Brands Hatch, Dad collided with another rider. It was at Paddock Hill Bend in the days before there was any run-off and he smashed into the barrier. He was on life support at Queen Mary’s Hospital, London, for over a week after puncturing a lung and fracturing six ribs. In an operation to stop internal bleeding he lost a kidney. Mum didn’t know if he was going to make it. Almost as soon as he woke up, he proposed.

      They were married a year later and soon enough I was on the way. Even in the womb I was listening to the roar of engines and the vibes and talk of paddock life. When I first drew breath at 4.20pm on Monday, 2 February 1987 at the Waveney Hospital, Ballymena, the midwife was crazy about bikes and spent most of the labour gabbing away about them to Dad. I was taken home to our rented house in Starbog Road, Kilwaughter – a little village near Larne in County Antrim – and I was christened at the First Lane Presbyterian Church by Rev. Lambert McAdoo, who happened to be another massive bike fan.

      When I got colic the only thing that would keep me quiet was being strapped into a bouncy chair in the back of the car and being driven around for hours on end. This lasted until they fitted a proper car seat, which I hated so much I’d climb out as soon as Mum started driving. One day, I spotted a motorcyclist wearing a familiar-looking white Arai helmet and I was screaming ‘Daddy! Daddy!’ at him. The police wore Arai helmets in those days; that particular copper gave me a gentle talking to about staying in my seat.

      My favourite TV shows were Fireman Sam, Thomas the Tank Engine and the motorcycle racing. I’d sit on the arm of the sofa wearing Dad’s helmet, leaning into the corners with the guys on the screen. Later, I organised my own bicycle races around the house, with Mum recording my lap times. I would commentate, then do my own post-race interviews, asking the questions and answering in an American accent like my early heroes, Kevin Schwantz and Jeremy McGrath. When I started nursery school in Ballyclare, there was a sponsored cycle ride that, of course, wasn’t supposed to be a race. But I made sure I finished first and took my first chequered flag.

      Dad had started racing motocross when he was about 14, but ‘Granda’ John said it was ‘dirty and mucky’ so he switched to short circuit and road racing later and did pretty well. He won Irish and Ulster championships and the famous Ulster Grand Prix, always his favourite event. He never finished higher than second at the North West 200, but he did win the 1989 Lightweight TT on the Isle of Man on a 250cc Yamaha. To even compete in a TT race is something – to win one is something else.

      Now, you may have noticed a little name pattern emerging: although my dad is called Johnny, he was christened John Rea, as was Granda, and there were three generations of John Rea before that. I was the first grandson in the line, so I was destined to become the sixth consecutive John Rea. My parents called me Jonathan, but that doesn’t stop me being called John and Johnny.

      It was Granda who started the whole racing thing in the family. He had the nickname ‘Stormy’ because when he lost his temper you could hear him from miles away. He and his three brothers got into racing because they lived near the old Ulster Grand Prix course at Clady. Granda never raced himself but loved going down to watch and before long the brothers started backing road racers. Then someone told him about this young kid from Ballymoney, Joey Dunlop, who was fast but didn’t have any bikes. Granda sponsored Joey in his early road racing days with that famous understated ‘Rea Racing’ logo on the side of his fairings. Joey went on to become one of Northern Ireland’s greatest racing heroes, winning a record 26 races at the Isle of Man TT and five Formula TT World Championships. A few years ago, he was voted Northern Ireland’s greatest ever sports star by Belfast Telegraph readers.

      I have nothing but happy memories of Granda. Mostly involving apples. I remember going up to his place and chatting about bikes, crunching on apples. He used to say, ‘You know, you’re just like your dad.’ I was still young and wasn’t sure what he meant. But he said it a lot: ‘You’re just like your dad and you’ll be a fine wee racer. You’ll be a world champion, so you will.’

      Mum’s mother, ‘Nanna’, was a nurse and her father a contractor. Nanna is an amazingly strong and traditional Northern Irish lady and lived just off the North West 200 course when I was young. Being very religious, Sundays have always been a day of rest for her. So, my chosen career, which involved going to work on a Sunday, was a huge ‘tut-tut’ back in the day and I felt quite guilty about upsetting her.

      Nanna eventually got used to the idea of me racing and I’ve watched her go full circle and become my number one fan. She’s much more relaxed about watching me go to work on a Sunday now.

      I’ve had some of the most sincere but funniest post-race telephone calls with Nanna, especially during my days riding with Honda. She texts before and after every race and tells me she’s been asking God to keep me safe. I love getting her messages, but it would be impossible to reply to them all, so, once in a while, I’ll call her to make up for the radio silence. One time, I rang after a race in 2012 when I had a bit of time at the airport. It was a period when we were really struggling with the Honda and she’d been listening to the Eurosport race commentary of Jack Burnicle and James Whitham. She’s normally totally calm, but she sounded pretty mad and said they’d been talking about how the Honda was at the end of the line and how I was having to override it. She took it all as gospel and said, ‘Jonathan, it’s terrible they’re making you ride that bike. They’re saying that you’re always close to making a mistake and that it’s difficult for you to realise your potential.’

      I said, ‘Nanna, it is what it is – the team are doing the best they can. It’s not their fault but the base level of the Honda is just not competitive enough.’

      ‘Well, it’s not fair,’ she said, ‘they say you’re always riding on a knife edge.’

      I told her that the bike was mass produced at the factory in Japan and that there wasn’t much we could do about it. She said, ‘So give me the number of the people over there, I want to call them and tell them it’s not fair they’re making you ride that bike.’

      I couldn’t help laughing down the phone with her, but she was deadly serious. I promised that I would have a word with the Japanese engineers and get them to try to make a better bike.

      Mum was very good at sport when she was young and really competitive. She played hockey for Randalstown Ladies, one of Northern Ireland’s top women’s teams, and did athletics to county level, but she hurt her back in a long-jump competition, aged 16, and had to give it all up.

      Living close to the North West 200 course meant she saw her first race there when she was about 13. Unfortunately, she witnessed the crash in which Tom Herron was killed. He was one of Ireland’s highest-profile racers and had just started his Grand Prix career as a team-mate to Barry Sheene. Understandably, she never really enjoyed our time at the North West 200 after