Eddie Lawson has always been my favorite rider. Not so much because he was a true "character"- in fact, it was quite the opposite - but because, of all the people I've known, he was the biggest 'biker' in the purest sense of the word: someone who just wanted to race, understand the bike, win. And then disappear. Not surprisingly, when he ended his career, Eddie pretty much dropped out of sight: a few appearances, a few special occasions (I remember him at Laguna Seca, when he organized that superkart race with Wayne Rainey as well), and nothing more. As if the rest - the sidelines, the lights, the catwalks - never really interested him.
I met Lawson in 1983, when he came to the World Championship in Kenny Roberts' team. Those were other times: no press conferences, no rituals. After practice and races we often ended up in Kenny's motorhome, and there we really did some talking. Roberts was already a monument, three world championship titles behind him; Eddie, on the other hand, was more on the sidelines, but almost "part of the furniture." I, stubborn, asked him questions every time. I don't say we became friends in the strict sense of the word, but a mutual liking came about between us: the kind of familiarity you could afford back then, when a rider wasn't an avatar and you weren't just a face in the crowd.
In 1983 there was Imola: the World Championship was won by Spencer in the last race, by two points. Lawson was also accused of failing to "do Roberts the favor," finishing only third. But right at that time, paradoxically, our relationship became more natural. And so the following year - after Eddie's title - with my great friend and photographer Gigi Soldano we organized a trip to the United States to see the places of origin of the great Americans: Roberts, Spencer and the others. And of course we ended up at Lawson's home in Upland.
I still carry that visit with me because it said everything about him. Eddie didn't prepare anything "journalist-like": he welcomed us as friends. At that time he wasn't yet living in the big house he would build later: it was a small apartment, with one detail that explained it perfectly - the garage was practically bigger than the house. We arrived and he, without a second thought, told us that we had to sleep there. I ended up on the couch, Gigi on the waterbed. Eddie called a few friends and a few girlfriends, it got late, we had a good time like normal people do.
And here comes the "Lawson" part. We had said, let's ride together tomorrow. After that evening, I thought the plan would be off. Instead, at five-six in the morning, Eddie woke me up: he had already loaded two motorcycles onto the pickup truck. A 250 two-stroke - real man stuff - and for me a more "human" four-stroke. And off we went, into the Mojave Desert, off-roading. I remember that day as an interminable sequence of crashes: I think I ended up on the ground a hundred times, by evening I was purple. Eddie was like that, though: every time he would slow down, stop, go back, wait for me. I would restart, after two kilometers - down again. I was never exactly a lightning bolt on a motorbike, and off-roading was certainly not my specialty. But it was a great experience because, again, he wasn't "acting" or anything like that: with Eddie you were just riding.
I also found that humanity when he came to Italy for an event: we spent a week together, and in the evening we often ended up eating at his friend Stefano's, at Borgatella, San Lazzaro di Savena area. Those who know Bologna know what I am talking about: if you go in even today, the photos of the riders tell more than a thousand articles. On that occasion Eddie gave me the helmet he had used there: a motocross helmet, not a racing helmet. And that's why, if you've seen me in "Lawson's helmet," you should know that it's not the one from his races on the track - it's the one that represents his all-around way of experiencing motorcycles.
His career, then, was always "different" from others. Four World Championships, three with Yamaha and one with Honda. And that choice - to switch to Honda after a title with Yamaha - was a declaration of independence: Lawson raced for the race, not the label. Even when he returned to Yamaha, after the Suzuka crash in which he was rear-ended and seriously injured, he had a phrase that struck me: coming back to the team was "like coming back to the office and finding the desk occupied." That desk belonged to Wayne Rainey, who was - and still is - his friend.
Eddie was a pure racer. He wasn't interested in interviews, photos, celebrations. He just wanted to race, to win, to work on the bike. For the time, he was one of the few who really trained at home, while others did almost nothing. He was introverted, yes, but also technically very fine: a refined test rider. A scene comes to mind: his crew chief, Fiorenzo Fanali, questioned him about an alternative front tyre. Eddie went out, did half a lap and came back in shaking his head, "It's no good." That was the end of that. Sensitivity, lucidity, no drama.
And then there is the episode that, to me, says it all about his respect for those in front of him - if he recognized true passion. Misano, Saturday practice: Eddie was on the front row and already had the race in his head. Back in the pits, he told Kenny Roberts, "This is the bike I choose for tomorrow. Give the other one to Paolo." I take the bike and, with the grandstands full, do a few laps for a test. That wasn't even the funniest part: when I got back, there was Kel Carruthers (former 250 world champion) who looked at me, noticed that we had more or less the same build, and came out with something like this, "Paolo, get undressed. Give me your overalls, I want to take a ride too." He put on my helmet and overalls and went to the track. I still laugh to this day as I think of those who had seen my "fast touring" laps and then found Carruthers pushing in earnest ... giving me a popularity that was totally unsolicited.
Eddie, however, had a weakness. Just one: pasta. Raised in Yamaha with Agostini in his orbit, and "educated" by evenings at the Borgatella, he had fallen in love with Italian cuisine. When he passed under more "Anglo-Saxon" colors and habits, I - secretly - would occasionally bring him a plate of pasta in the box. Until one day Agostini caught us: he saw me coming out with that dish in my hand and reprimanded us both. Giacomo is famous for being shrewd, and at that moment he had also somehow become an adversary. He scolded us, yes. But in the end we loved each other anyway. Also because, I'll say it without any problem: Ago is one of my idols, too.
Here, Eddie Lawson for me is this: a guy who never needed to "appear" to be huge. An introverted guy, in love with the bike and racing, focused only on that. The rest - the noise around - was always just noise to him.
