Neil Bramwell in Italy with Blackburn's world champion, Carl Fogarty

THIS, remember, was a track Foggy dislikes.

So pity the rest of the World Superbike procession when the championship reaches a circuit he actually likes.

His complete destruction of the opposition at Misano, to record a third double win of the season after Kyalami and Monza was, in the end, embarrassingly comfortable.

That makes it easy to lose grip of the true scale of achievement as Carl Fogarty makes the business of winning seem almost ritualistic.

But his competition are the best riders of the fastest machines built by the biggest companies in the world.

And when you see Fogarty's intensity before a race, and the unchecked elation after a win, the real effort involved can be appreciated.

Moments before mounting for the first race, Gus Binelli, a giant of a basketball star for Virtus Bologna, walked into the garage. The jaws of the Italian Ducati mechanics dropped collectively onto the spotless floor.

For all Fogarty cared, it could have been the Jolly Green Giant.

He sits alone, facing a fan to keep cool in his leathers, munching a couple of bananas for energy and taking on board as much isotonic as possible.

The physical effort involved in throwing such a heavy piece of machinery around for 25 laps in the searing heat is also often underestimated.

Wife Michaela, ever-attentive, helps put the finishing touches to the preparation before he emerges into the sunlight and compulsory applause for his every move. Then, when the dollies with the brollies leave his side on the grid, and after a final few words of encouragement from his chief mechanic and Michaela, he is on his own.

In thirty nine minutes and 57.687 seconds later he is no longer alone. Forty five thousand bike nuts are inside his helmet, sharing his rapture.

The Italians adore him and he was recently voted the fifth most popular sportsman in Italy, the first non-footballer in the list.

There were plenty St George flags at the Santamonica track, but these are often carried by native Italian Fogarty fans.

One pair of Manchester United fans, travelling from their Tuscany holiday base, missed the first race while stuck in traffic. Another British family made the trip with their 18 months old daughter, Francesca Keeley, named after Fogarty's rival Frankie Chili.

You need no TV monitor to gauge his position during the race for the spectators, not to mention an announcer who makes a Brazilian soccer commentator sound like a Trappist Monk with laryngitis, reflect his fortunes in their mood.

On arrival in the pit lane, he remains public property.

After the obligatory hugs and kisses with nearest and dearest, Carl launches straight into an assessment of the bike's performance with his team while gulping essential fluid. Next he is pushed before the TV cameras, although daughters Danielle and Claudia needed no such persuasion on this occasion. (Claudia was equally obliging when told to cover her belly on the podium after race two by mum).

Then he is whisked upstairs to the podium to find a new variation on an old routine - the champagne shower.

Finally a car is waiting to transport the first three riders all of 20 yards through hundreds of eager gawpers to the press conference.

This is another stage on which he stars.

There is a private grimace as team-mate Troy Corser complains of a shoulder problem.

"Make no bones about it, I don't like this circuit.

"If I can win on circuits I don't like, it can only mean good things on the circuits I do like.

"The bike kept jumping out of second gear and I had the suspension too soft and I destroyed the tyres.

"I didn't know it was Troy behind me until late on, when I looked back," was his frank assessment of the first race.

After a moment to freshen up and a lengthy team briefing, he climbs up to a private area of the packed Ducati hospitality compound, to lunch with family and friends.

He was recently approached about participating in a bike magazine competition, with the suggested prize a lunch with Foggy between races at Brands Hatch. The reply was a polite no, for this is a moment of crucial and rare relaxation before he repeats the routine . . . and the result.

Forget the courtesy limousines. Foggy rides a personalised scooter back to the hotel before a quiet bottle of champers, a few beers and a meal with friends.

There would have been time for a few hours on the beach, had it not been thundering, before a tea-time flight home today.

Foggy's head might have been pounding a touch, but the pulse of the world's biking fraternity was most definitely still racing.

Converted for the new archive on 14 July 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.