Chapter 1

"Ritter's world renown apple cider, anti-freeze and octane boost," my dad said as he bottled another batch of his fiery liquid. He was intensely proud of his apple cider, no visitor to our house was allowed to leave without a couple of bottles of it.

My dad was a proud man, proud of his wife, three sons and one daughter. As the only girl, and the youngest, I was spoilt rotten by my father. I could get my own way in pretty much anything.

He died of a heart attack in his early fifties, just before I came to Europe to compete in the GP tour. I remember him smiling in intensive care when I told him I'd been offered a ride in the Rotol- Yamaha team. His face was parchment pale, he had tubes out his nose and drips hanging above him, yet he smiled in pleasure and squeezed my hand.

Mum followed him a bare 8 months later. Totally devoted to my father, she just couldn't cope without him. When my brother Wolfie rang me at Suzuka in Japan, I knew instantly that mum had passed away. He said it was 'melancholy' and it was what she wanted, to be with dad in death as in life.

My partner Giancarlo Patricio tried to talk me out of competing in the 24 hour, but I went on and we came third. On the winners rostrum I dedicated the win to my mum and, afterwards at the press conference, the reporters went wild. I guess it was another chapter in the legend of Helene Ritter, at 22 the first female world champion in ANY motorsport.

It was always tough competing in, essentially, a male sport. Like any woman in this environment you not only have to prove yourself, but prove you're better than the men. The only way for anyone to take you seriously is to whip the arse off them.

We were a family that lived for motorbikes. My dad still owned the BMW R65 he lovingly brought out from Germany. It was his day to day transport every day until he had to give up working. He owned 'Motorrad, ' the national dealers in all european motorcycles save Ducati, who had their own franchises.

My dad brought home for me my first bike when I was about 6. It was a Cagiva Minimoto and it was about 2 feet high. It had a little 35cc motor and one gear with an automatic clutch. In one day I was riding it around the backyard as if born on it.

My oldest brother Wolfie was competing in motocross at the local competitions at the time. The whole family would go down to the track to watch and cheer him on. My dad and my two other brothers, Karlie and Ernie acted as pit crew and I'd hang around, smelling the fumes and putting my fingers in my ears as they warmed the motors up.

My dad never learnt to speak English properly. When he got excited his words would come out all jumbled up in German word order.

"You must the smaller sprocket use," I heard him shouting at Wolfie over the noise one day, "more speed you needst, on flat, you beat son of a beach."

They all used to grin at him, but they always did what he told them to do. He'd raced at the senior TT at the Isle of Man for BMW and knew what he was talking about.

He had the photos from that day on the shelf above the fireplace. It showed him in his leathers, 'pudding-basin' helmet on his head and these big goggles. There was a shot of him on his bike, bent over all serious as if he was racing. His BMW had a fairing over the back wheel with his racing number, 3, painted on it. It had these narrow tyres and dropped handlebars with a flyscreen in front. I used to stare at that old photo for ages, dreaming.

At age 10 I told my dad that one day I'll race in the Senior and he just smiled and said,

"Maybe you will, and it'll be the greatest day of your life."

My mum would chide him and tell him not to encourage me. She said that lots of riders had been killed in that race and she wasn't going to see her children off before her. Apart from the odd broken bone and skin grazes, we always appeared for dinner.

Spa in Belgium is a tight circuit and it's known as being particularly hard on bikes and riders. It's also where I gained my first rostrum finish. Giancarlo had a rear wheel lock-up on the fifth lap when his brake disintegrated. A 20 cent rivet failed and the pad stripped from the caliper. It was a tough break for him but a lucky one for me and I was pushed up to third.

The crowd was ecstatic, I was cheered and kissed more times than I can count. The pit crew hoisted me high on their shoulders and paraded me around like I was Joan of Ark. Like a cat lapping cream I enjoyed every last drop of accolade.

A popular assumption among many is that we riders party into the morning after a win like that. In truth there is little time for that. The crew are busy wrapping everything and loading up the transporters, the riders, Giancarlo and me, pile into bed early, body aching and utterly tired.

I'm always asked the question whether Giancarlo and me are lovers. I'm afraid not, I can barely understand him. My Italian is non- existant and his English is basic and heavily accented. We do share a rivalry that has intensified since Spa, but that hasn't led to any sparks between us.

Not that he isn't good looking. He's a year older, 23, passionate and intense, a genius with the bike but otherwise his ego makes him utterly unlikeable in my book. Behind the smiles of concratulations he's an utter chauvinist and resented bitterly my inclusion in the team. There's some talk he's negotiating with some other teams for next season and I can't say I'll miss him.

No, I've no lovers in my life. The only person I could ever call a 'boyfriend' lies buried back home in the same cemetary as my parents.

I can barely think of Robert now, without shedding a tear. He was a rider, of course, as if anyone else could possibly understand me. He was racing back home at what is ironically called the 'cemetary circuit.' It's actually called that because part of the road course goes around a cemetary. Anyway, he came off where the course crosses some railway lines and was hit by a following rider. He was helicoptered to hospital but never regained consciousness. I never did get to see him before he died, a pain I just have to live with.

I wasn't there because I was in Australia, at Phillip Island, preparing for the Asia-Pacific champs. Not the last time did I receive such news before a race. I retired early when the bike ran a crank bearing and blew the motor. I shut myself in the caravan afterwards and flew home the next day.

In truth, Robert and I were very close friends. We'd hung out together ever since we were kids. He was my brother Karlie's friend and they used to go trail biking together on his father's farm. They had lots of bikes there, trail bikes, farm bikes and quads. When I was about 9 I used to beg them to take me along and they'd let me fool around on one of the quads, and later a trail bike.

At first the guys would leave me behind when they did the old trails out in the bush. Eventually, though, I started to catch up, even though they gave me the oldest, slowest piece of shit in the shed.

Karlie and Robert had matching KTM 250's, I had a Yamaha 80 trail that seemed as old as my father. But like the tortoise and the hare, they were always burying the bikes in the gorse bushes in their haste to keep me behind. It was so funny watching Robert trying to extract the KTM from down a bank, swearing at the top of his voice, all scratched up from the thorns.

At 13 Robert was my best friend. He had barely turned 16 himself and was so full of himself. I revolved in his orbit with my brother and that included the race track. He'd saved up and bought an old Yamaha RD250 that my father tuned up for him. He first did amatuer events and club days until he was noticed by GoldWing Honda, the big dealer franchise.

The next thing I knew, he was sitting atop a factory fresh Honda NSR in the local production 250 series. That first year he won it with ease and everyone was talking about him going to Europe or the States in a couple of years.

He was 18 when he got his big chance, but he broke a bone in his foot and it took a long time to get right again. I tried to cheer him up but he was in a foul mood when the factory withdrew their offer.

By then he was watching me race but was never happy sitting in the stands.

We went to the back of the farm one day after dinner. It was a summer evening and not a cloud in the darkening sky. We took the KTM's up to the top of the bluff overlooking the sea and just lay there, watching the night sky. He told me of his dream to compete in Europe, that maybe in a couple of years he'd be good enough to reach the top. I told him of my ambition to do the Senior TT and he told me he'd be there cheering me on. He told me that's where he was going to marry me, in some little church in Douglas, Isle of Man.

We'd never really discussed marriage before, I think it was something we'd both been thinking about but never got around to saying. I said we should ride away from the church on my dad's old BMW, which I inherited, and then we argued about who would ride and who would pillion behind.

I asked him if this meant we were engaged and he said we'd better wait until we both got rides in the GP. I think it was supposed to spur me on, a sort of pot of gold. It didn't enter my head to ride in Europe without Robert.

That summer night was the first time we'd ever kissed, believe it or not. He leaned over, telling me how soft my face looked in the moonlight, then we sort of touched lips. I'll always remember his smiling face looming over me, softly stroking my cheek. I don't think I'll ever love someone as intensely as I did Robert.

It's not that we even fooled around much at all, it wasn't that kind of relationship. We did have a grope at this party once, when we were a bit drunk, but then this crowd of guys came spilling out the door. Two of them were my brothers and we were embarrassed. They never really stopped thinking of me as one of the guys, you see. It was hard for them to think their sister had sexual feelings.

It was a compliment, I suppose. It meant I was accepted into the little fraternity of bike riders as if I was a boy. In those circumstances for me to make out with one of the guys was almost homosexual. Women sat on the passengers seat, brought the beer and made the snacks. We're not equal in this world, to be accepted you have to become an honorary male, it's just the way it is and I can't change it.

With the death of my parents, my last ties with home disappeared. My brothers had taken over dad's business and we sort of drifted apart. In a way they blamed me for mother's death, they said I should have come home to look after her. When I asked them why it was up to me when she had 3 of her sons within easy distance, they told me it was not the same as mum was always closest to me.

I think they just wanted me home to find a husband, settle down and stop being a damn fool. They're jealous, of course, but they won't tell me, proud, male chauvinist krauts that they are.

Well I don't want to die a suburban death pumping out kids and dreaming of what might have been. I have the Senior TT in my sight and I'm just waiting for a sponsor with a decent machine.

Greta switches off the DAT recorder and coils up the little mike.

"Very good, thank you," she tells me.

"Is that the sort of thing you're after?" I ask her.

"Ja, ja, definitely! One of the publications I write for is 'Motorsport Monthly.' Every issue features a story about one of the current stars. They'll want this, for sure!"

Greta has a quiet voice, as smooth as silk. Her vowels throb to my antipodean ears, much fuller than my own nasally sounds. She's not starstruck either, which I like. My agent said she is a well respected journalist who has a brother in Formula 1 cars. She freelances for various magazines and has had articles published in 'Der Spiegel' and 'Paris Match.'

I like her, not because she's a woman, but because she was utterly professional throughout the interview and didn't try to suck up, like a lot of them do.

I'm staying in this hotel in Liege, Belgium. Rotols, my sponsor, thought it would be out of the way and I could prepare mentally for the British Grand Prix at Donnington Park. I have a CDrom of the circuit with a virtual simulation of the track. I play it all day until I can visualise every line and curb. I'm already sick to death of it, I just want to board the Yamaha and get on with it.

I have a girl, now, who keeps me company, Wendy. She's English and acts as my PA and companion. She fields my phone calls, organises my scheduals and gets me out of bed to catch the flights.

She's the same age as me, 22, and her father is some executive with the company. She tells me she wants to get into 'talent management' and this job is perfect for her CV.

I feel claustrophobic here. Wendy tags along everywhere I go and although she says she's only here to support me, I suspect Rotols has charged her to keep an eye on me.

Of course I'm worth a lot of money to them now, not only as a top racer, but as a bankable star associated with their brand. It's nearing the end of the season also, and my one year contract is due for renewal. I can't help thinking the Mercedes Benz given to me for my birthday from the company was a sweetener.

My agent is one of the few people who can get through on the phone. He tells me he can't get a ride for me in the Senior this year. All the spots are filled unless I want to ride for a privateer at substantially less pay. I decline the suggestion, as he knew I would. It would be unthinkable to ride without factory support on an inferior machine. When I finally ride the Isle of Man, I'll be there to win on the best possible machine with a top team in support.

I have one more race on the calendar before the end of the season. I'm going home for a month and my agent has lined up a couple of local races for me. I'm looking forward to it, Rotol's have allowed me to use my GP bike so it'll be like the local girl made good. Plenty of photo ops I'm sure and babbling radio interviewers falling over their hyperboles.

'So Helene, what does it feel like to be the first woman motorcycle world champion?"

Why they think I'd feel any different because I'm a woman I don't know.

The only problem I had at the the British GP was over the 'brollie dollies.' Since Austria I'd put my foot down over these scantily clad models that hold an umbrella over you at the starting grid. They're supposed to keep the hot sun off as you wait for the start but really they're only there to advertise the major event sponsors. In Austria I complained I should have a couple of guys instead, with tight tank tops and itty bitty shorts, and the next round, what do you know! They hired these male model guys to hold the brollie for me. Everyone loved it until we got to Britain. No, they insisted they needed a couple of big-chested lovelies to sell their motor oil and that was that.

Everyone got really hot under the collar and my agent called them a bunch of stuck-up pricks. I guess that's what you get for hiring an Aussie as an agent.

My agent, Ian, is a good sort. He markets all sorts of people, from the odd pop star to an heiress or two. Mostly though, he handles 'sporting personalities.' He told me when I first met him that marketing was '90% bullshit and 10% crap.' I signed him up straight away.

So I had this 'Bobbie and Bebe' pair in bikini tops holding these stupid beach umbrellas and the heavens opened. The rain sleeted down driven by a westerly gale and these babes sprinted for shelter! It was worth a drenching to watch them sheltering under the tent. I think there truely is a God and she has a sense of humour.

The race was as good as won after that. It was chaos at the start with half the pit crews changing to 'wets' and the other half chancing that the rain would pass. As it turned out, it was a brief shower and those that stayed on dry-weather tyres, like me, had the advantage of not having to pit until the schedualled time.

Greta, my journalist, came to see me in London to continue the interview. She told me on the phone that several magazines have already picked up options on the story in diverse countries such as Malaysia, Japan and India, as well as Europe. Well I can understand the first two, they're both motor-racing countries, but India?

"You're becoming something of a role model for young women," she told me.

'Oh no!' I thought, 'not that, anything but THAT!'

'How did I come to ride in MotoGP?"

That is a huge question. Simply put, I came to the attention of the national Yamaha distributors after I completed the domestic season. At 19 they wanted to know if I cared to have a ride next season in Australia on 250 GP bikes. I think they thought I'd be something of a novelty, I was the only girl seriously competing in that part of the world.

On the other hand, you don't get sponsorship coming last and in my first race, at Oran park, I came third. That was the most important race of my career so far and pretty soon I was being offered contracts from about 5 major teams.

I decided to stick with Yamaha, however, because they had the better bike at the time and I was familiar with it. Moto-Yamaha gave me two years, the first on 250's then on the 500's.