Gardner – the racer’s racer
He’s tougher than an old boot baked in the Aussie sun. He’s a racer’s racer. He got the nickname ‘Iron Man’ in Japan after an epic almost-solo Suzuka 8-Hour ride. He’s a bloody sound fella. Just don’t ask him about Eddie Lawson...
Racers want to win, right? Well, Wayne Gardner was the Australian who in an era of huge personalities, ‘unrideable’ bikes and an explosion of media interest, was a true superstar... And helped bring us Phillip Island too!
The way Wayne Gardner tore his Honda’s windshield during the 1992 Suzuka GP was really something. At the same time theatrical, so desperate, almost solemn: the energy, the movement, the quickness. The stage was the circuit’s gravel. Rain coming down, some smoke appearing where the water came in contact with the hottest parts of his bike, especially the exhausts. He had just crashed, the crowd under hundreds of multicoloured umbrellas, staring at his figure, most of them in some sort of amazement.
And the show had just begun.
The fans were there for the first round of the season. The Rothmans-branded fairing was badly damaged, as was the Australian
rider’s ankle after a crash he had during practice. Few people heard the sound of the windshield cracking, no one remembers it. Memory does not play any part in this kind of situation. It was pure instinct that pushed Gardner to restart and ride again, harder than before. The marshals helped him by pushing his bike, the factory two-stroke four-cylinder Honda coming alive again. At this point the 1987 world champion was dead last.
Lap by lap, he recovered until he reached the top six. Randy Mamola was not too far ahead and there weren't too many laps left before the chequered flag. The Australian believed he had a chance to catch him. He pushed. The front washed away, he crashed again, his right leg getting injured.
CR : You showed great determination in that race. Where did it come from?
WG: Pure stupidity. CR : What do you mean?
WG: That was my style. To try hard. All or nothing, that was my mentality. It doesn’t apply to all the moments of my career, but to that race, for sure.
CR : The 1992 Japanese GP was won by your compatriot Mick Doohan, who later achieved five consecutive titles in the top class, starting in 1994. He was six years younger than you, you being born in 1965. Two seasons before his first place in Suzuka, he almost won the Australian GP. You made sure that was not going to happen. Correct?
WG: That story started about three weeks before my home GP, actually. We were racing in Brno, in what is now the Czech Republic. During practice I broke my scaphoid and on the Sunday I raced injured, finishing second behind Wayne Rainey. After the race the doctor wanted to put my arm in a cast. I said I wanted to race in Phillip Island, he said I could try, so no cast. During my home GP I was in big pain, lots of injections before the start. In the first stages I had a big moment and hit the fairing with my knee, breaking some supports. It moved a lot during the rest of the race. It pushed the bike laterally, towards the centre of the track, so I had to slightly change my riding style. CR : Why didn’t you just quit the race?
WG: I had a big heart and wanted to win. I saw Doohan was leading and thought I could catch him. It was really painful, I had no feeling in my fingers. I caught him, passed him and won. On Monday I had surgery, they had to put a screw in my wrist, because I was risking losing the use of it. Racing had not been good for it, after the Brno GP the ideal thing to do would be resting. Without the effort of the Phillip Island GP, the operation would not have been necessary.
Gardner wheelies his Moriwaki Kawasaki superbike off the line at Donington Park 1981, flanked by GP stars on two-strokes.they include Barry Sheene, Kork Ballington, Kenny Roberts, Randy Mamola and Britain’s Mick Grant.
CR : The bikes you rode were something. Many still remember them as the ‘unrideables’. The power delivery was often unpredictable. Lots of risks, many question marks when time came to open the throttle out of corners. Did it make you somehow nervous?
WG: I was listening to the bike getting warmed up and thought: f*ck, do I have to ride that thing again? It was scary. But what options did I have? To go home? I could ride the bike and get paid well, or go home and lose my contract. What was I going to do? I faced the devil and took the challenge. I guess it was the same for all the riders. We knew the bikes were hard to ride. We just had to be brave. A lot. In those days there were many riders killed. Tracks were also dangerous. I’m lucky to be sitting here to tell you the stories.
: What helped you in overcoming the fear?
WG: The will to win. I always wanted to win, I always tried. The risks didn’t influence me simply because I wanted to win. You would be a fool if you were not scared. You know, I was taught nothing during my career, there was no experienced rider beside me to give me tips and show me things. So I did things my way. Big balls to try hard, that was my main skill I guess. Trying, trying harder. I came from a poor background. I started late riding bikes, I was good at it. I had no money, I tried hard and became world champion from zero. I learned by making mistakes. I did things my way. The bikes were hard to ride, that’s right, but that’s what they gave us. It could not be questioned. That’s the bike, that’s the championship, you just had to do your best. Nowadays in the top class they ride fourstroke bikes, which is a whole different story. Way more easy than two-strokes. : Can you make a comparison?
: How important was it to have a competitive bike?
WG: Four-stroke are 70% easier compared with two-strokes. Compared to today’s Motogp, you should consider that tyres are better, suspension is better, chassis are better. And riders are well trained.
WG: To be the best you have to have the best. That includes equipment, team, team personnel, budget. Everything. When I went to England in the early 1980s I rode a Moriwaki bike which was not competitive. I was always looking at what Graeme Crosby was doing, he was my hero. He was doing wheelies and people loved him. So I said to myself: ‘I’m going to do the same’. Also great drifting out of the corners. People went: ‘Oh my god’. Wheelieing and sliding and burning the tyres. It brought attention to me, even though I was not winning. I had to market myself, you know.
: Speaking about bike performances, in 1988, when you defended the title, you didn’t look happy with your factory Honda – especially at the start of the season. What was going on?
WG: The chassis was a disaster. Bad handling. They made a big mistake with it. We found out the reason mid-season. Some car designer decided to lower the bike by 22mm down and make the motorcycle smaller. It had no grip. Honda’s engineers didn’t tell us until mid-year. When we worked that out we changed the bike and lifted it up. I was immediately fast and won three races in a row. Then came the French GP, I was leading with some margin and the engine seized, in the final stages. I lost the championship there. That could have been an easy win. I was really mad, I smashed the tank.
CR : In 1989 you had the chance to go with the factory Yamaha team but didn’t. How did things develop behind the scenes?
WG: I was hearing rumours about Eddie Lawson leaving Yamaha and joining the factory Honda team. Meanwhile I got an offer from Yamaha. Big money, many millions, and a three or five year contract. So I went to Honda and said: ‘I hear Eddie is joining, it’s okay, I’m going to Yamaha’. Their reply was: ‘Eddie is not coming, we swear’. So I signed with Honda, went to Australia and read a media release saying that Lawson was going to race for Honda in 1989. They lied and I was f****** p***** off.