Valentino Rossi once told me he would be gone by the age of 27. It took until he was 42. He called a press conference yesterday to say that he was retiring at the end of this MotoGP season. If you don’t know who he is then you have missed a hard-racing, punch-throwing, rabbit-wearing, head-spinning, car-wrecking, blood-pumping hoot of a kaleidoscopic career.
I have never quite understood why motorcycle racing gets so little mainstream coverage. It is exhilarating, involves lots of overtaking, has races that last only about 45 minutes and owes more to human ability than Formula One. It also has a huge following. More than anything, though, it has had Rossi for 20 years.
The nine world titles, including seven in the elite MotoGP class, where he has had 89 wins, 199 podium finishes and 5,388 points tell you a bit. He won titles for different manufacturers to refute the argument that it is mainly about the bike, but with Rossi it was never just what he did; it was how he did. It is hard to think of a more playful maverick, with wit, wickedness and a wildness that is out of kilter with media-trained mores and bores.
A few examples. Through some friends who worked for the in-house media team in MotoGP, I was recruited to play for their football team against the Valentino Rossi Fan Club, which was actually some of his old drinking buddies from Tavullia. Rossi was due to play in this game in Tuscany. We waited and waited and then, at around midnight, a car turned up in a cloud of dusty smoke. Rossi, an Inter Milan fan, got out in full kit and a 90-minute match ensued. He scored twice. The next day was the first practice for the Italian Grand Prix.
Another: When the first Chinese Grand Prix was held, hundreds of Yamaha dealers gathered for a conference the night before. This was a huge deal for Yamaha and Rossi had promised to attend. The dealers arrived and then word came that Rossi would not be coming. He needed to focus. Disappointed but understanding, the dealers sighed and dispersed. Much later that night Rossi and his pals, known as the Tribe of the Chihuahua, burst into a nightclub. Alas, it was the same nightclub where Yamaha’s highest management were picking over the slight. Caught red-handed, Rossi smiled and the suits laughed at the sheer audacity. I am reliably told Rossi was out until the wee small hours and, of course, the next day he won the grand prix.
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His feud-cum-rivalry with another Italian named Max Biaggi was legend. They actually had a punch-up behind the podium in Barcelona one year, turning up to the press conference bleeding. Rossi blamed the cuts on a mosquito bite.
The rivalries on the track were epic ones too, full of skill and skulduggery. He shoved a few riders off the track and friends became enemies when they became good. He was by no means flawless, but he married deathly seriousness (and I use the adjective deliberately given the tragedies he witnessed) and crass comedy like no one else. He was Elvis Presley with knee-sliders.
The antics were dreamt up in bars with his friends. He turned up on the podium at Donington Park dressed as Robin Hood merely because it was vaguely close to Sherwood Forest. When Biaggi was dating Naomi Campbell, he celebrated one victory by giving a pillion ride to a blow-up doll with “Claudia Schiffer” written on the back. When he got wind of the fact there was a Hawaiian branch of his fan club he was sufficiently tickled to fly them to a grand prix where he installed a trackside swimming pool, complete with inflatable palm trees, before honouring them by racing in a floral livery.
That rabbit mentioned up top? During a bad run he turned up to race with a furry No 46. Why? He explained he had run over his lucky rabbit. If it made little sense it was no less joyous. Here was a man ravaging his sport for all he could get. God it was fun.
In Italy he became a star beyond any footballer. In his home town Tavullia they painted buildings yellow in honour of his first Honda colours. They rang the church bells when he won. Each summer the entire town made a pilgrimage and walked the five hours to Rimini for the San Marino Grand Prix.
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In interviews he was happier talking about Johnny Cash than tyre choice. He loved Mike Hailwood, the old British bike and car racer, and shared some traits. Take traces of Hailwood, Presley, George Best and you are getting there, but he was unique.
There are so many stories and I hope one day he writes a proper biography. The time some riders stole Biaggi’s car, stuffed it full of rubbish and then span it round on its roof was a bit mean, but it highlighted a different life and times.
Imagine how much better football would be if a player involved in a contract dispute turned up for a match dressed in a prison outfit attached to an oversized ball and chain. Then there was the spat when his team had been accused of illegally clearing his grid position in Qatar, and he celebrated his next win by dismounting, getting a brush and sweeping away on the track. Once he all but kidnapped the local vicar from Tavullia and brought him to a race with the church altar for a celebration. He didn’t win that one so the meaning remains unclear.
All of this would be frippery if it were not for the breathtaking talent that made it fabulous. The duel with Casey Stoner at Laguna Seca in 2008 and the last corner brawl with Jorge Lorenzo at Barcelona in 2009 are only two, but get on YouTube. Seeing is believing. Always a good interviewee, the quirks of his good Italian English were endearing. He said “feck” a lot and “anyway I arrive first”.
Last year Rossi was almost killed when flying bikes missed him by inches in Austria. Too close. Back in 2011 Rossi had spied an heir in Marco Simoncelli, another Italian, another hirsute maverick, a friend. Simoncelli fell during the Malaysian Grand Prix that year. Rossi and another rider, Colin Edwards, could not avoid hitting him. Simoncelli died. It was a numbing tragedy and impossible to imagine the feelings Rossi endured in the aftermath.
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He is no longer as good. He no longer has the best bike. He is the old man on the grid and that does not suit him. He last won a race four years ago. I would happily watch him for another ten years, but he thinks it is time to go. What a rider and what a ride.
