The problem with a lot of so-called sports stars is their lack of true personality. Luckily, there are some exceptions, and Marco Simoncelli was a big one.
Marco Simoncelli was an elite motorbike grand prix racer. First appearing as a kid Italian, he was a clear standout talent, and rightfully promoted to the premier class.
But something other than his riding was notable. Maturing to adulthood, there was a clear flamboyant personality evolving.
He stopped getting hair cuts and growing in front of our eyes each fortnight was this wild Italian afro; a huge crazy mop of light brown hair, going up and out.
A confrontational ‘fro, not usually associated with sports types, and I noticed some observers commenting like, “get a hair cut” or “what’s that, a girl?”
To me it marks class. This is original expression, authentic, not conformed rebellion like a modern day tattoo sleeve down the arm for instance.
No, this is him; an individual. This is where true cool lies, in the ability to create and be original, not following a herd.
The camera was drawn to him. Accompanying his often unshaven crazy physical expression was a character of obvious quirk; a genuine lively personality, often missing in motorbike riders – and I loved it… I really loved it.
Native Italian speaking of course, he didn’t hesitate with his moderate English, boldly giving it a go, translation unable to mask the humour and spirit; a happy guy – the type that lifts me up.
This year his riding was up a notch; aggressive and obsessed, taking pole positions and mixing it up. This excites him, for he knows he’s good, and he’s pushing it, creating some controversy by a few bold overtaking moves.
As a fan you love it, and love him. Bike racing is appealing for its exciting overtaking, once common but becoming less so, and so Simoncelli’s aggression gave fans hope.
Despite the controversy, he had secured a factory bike next year; his talent obvious and rewarded.
And as the afro grew to truly crazy status, so did his enigma. He was becoming a hero for many, especially kids.
At Philip Island last week, Wayne Gardner’s young bike riding kids want a photo of him; he’s their new hero. And that’s what sport is about; child like adoration of its stars.
But Marco shows his humility and humour by reversing the action and himself taking a photo of Wayne Gardner, showing his inherent respect – another trait of a good person.
The next Sunday they’re in Malaysia and he’s on a pre-recorded TV promo showing us the ins and outs of his bike, all in his quirky, lively, funny style; beautifully performed in his broken English. “He is such a cool guy,” I chuckle to myself.
Minutes later it’s the race and having quickly overtaken Bautista for fourth, he is riding extremely aggressively, hard like a true racer – beautiful, as the camera watches.
But, by the second lap, Marco Simoncelli is dead.
He came off and his body careered into the paths of two other riders – one, so sadly, his great friend Valentino Rossi. There was nothing they could do… nothing.
It was truly shocking to witness. From the helicopter camera we saw the horror, the sheer horror of his body lying motionless, spread on the track. It didn’t look good. In the painful replay I saw his helmet had come off.
We still don’t know of his status, but the commentators left out the usual hype talk of crashes; from Rossi’s on-bike camera we could see him obviously distraught; Colin Edwards, the other rider, crashed, sat clearly terrified. They knew more than us that it was bad.
The race was unusually canceled, and, I don’t know, maybe for some 40 excruciating minutes we waited for news that he was okay.
Then on our screens, in slow motion vision, a clip of the simple beauty of Marco’s riding style.
He leans with grace through two bends, one hard left, then hard right, and tucks and accelerates on, something as a rider myself I know the feeling of and identify with clearly, that feeling of being totally alive, pure life that the insanity of a bike gives you.
It was beautiful yet cruel, that vision of life, with the screen fading to black, contrasting his death, officially announced, and my nerves arrested me.
I felt sick to the stomach, truly ill, destroyed. As a grown man, supposedly all grown, tough and rational, a big bad bike rider, it swept through me and I cried, child like. I tried but couldn’t control it.
I don’t know, I’m no dramatist, but I’m not sure bike racing, the sport I love and do, can ever be the same for me. I’ve seen racers die before, but this one is different, he seemed such a rarity, such a lovely guy.
I’m actually opposed to the habit of claiming all those who die as great people, but this one was.
And he was only 24 years old. A beautiful young man, so very much alive, and literally a second later, so tragically dead. Simply tragic. Hard to comprehend.
The world needs more Marco Simoncelli in it, not less. True characters should be an example to us all, and I thank God he existed.
Motorcycle riding is believe it or not an art, an insane art, and he personified it. He lived a crazy, great life I’m sure, and not many can truly claim that.
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