Something in my tiny little mind tells me there’s going to be some proper do-or-die racing in MotoGP this year. The reason for this rare fit of optimism? The Global Economic Meltdown. The professional motorcycle racer has a short career, during which he tries to amass his fortune before hanging up his Arai and Alpinestars. Racers invest their winnings in all kinds of business ventures to make their hard-won cash work for them. Right now, sitting in his deluxe apartment in Monaco or in his stucco villa in Notting Hill, there’s a MotoGP star staring at his laptop in horror as his investments turn to dust before his very eyes. If memory serves, King Kenny Roberts had to shelve retirement plans and continue laying his life on the line for another year or two after a property investment went awry. I have no doubt that this summer there’ll be plenty of racers’ pension plans that need topping up, which will add a certain desperation to last-lap shenanigans.

Money is a major motivator for bike racers, but it’s not the only one. Revenge is another. And that’s what is motivating Colin Edwards as he prepares for what might be his final MotoGP season (though we’ve been saying that for a while now). Edwards has had a well-publicised falling out with team-mate Toseland, who stole the Texan Tornado’s crew chief at the end of last year. Edwards is angry, very angry, in fact he’s so angry he’s taken Toseland off his Christmas card list. Using anger as a motivator in sport is nothing new, of course, anger can equal power can equal speed. Casey Stoner is a fine exponent of harnessing his inner rage to destroy his rivals, as was Mick Doohan. Edwards must be hoping that his burning sense of righteous indignation will propel him to the front of the MotoGP pack. You never know, stranger things have happened.

There is a lot of self-delusion required to get anywhere in any sport. You have to convince yourself that results matters much more than they really do, otherwise you might wake up on Sunday morning and decide you can’t be bothered. Many moons ago, when I was racing LCs round Brands Hatch, I used to fool myself into believing that the chasing pack would slay me like a pack of wolves if they caught me. It was some kind of weird, subconscious self-hypnosis thing and it was strangely effective. I don’t think most racers risk life and limb because they’re scared of wolves. They risk life and limb for money and ego, that’s what it all comes down to, though many psychoanalysts would argue that a fat wallet and a swollen ego are merely the alpha-male racer’s means to the ultimate end: girls. Men join rock ’n’ roll bands for the exact same reason.

1967 125 world champion Bill Ivy used to trawl for ‘dollies’ in his bright-red Maserati, his favourite ‘crumpet wagon’. Ivy’s rival and legendary Lothario Phil Read loved it all: the Rolls-Royce, the home-counties mansion, the groupies; his standard post-race plan: ‘getting pissed, going to nightclubs and redlining the birds.’ Even less salubrious, former 250 GP winner Alan Carter revealed that his dad offered him ‘four free whores’ to win the Dutch GP in 1984. Like some riders who can’t effectively harness their anger, Carter’s lust got too much for him and he crashed out of the race in spectacular style.

What about a nice bloke and family man like Troy Bayliss, what might motivate him? Bayliss likes money, of course, but some years ago he realised he already had too much of the stuff. When he raced for Marlboro Ducati he would complain about the loathsome PR duties he had to perform for the wicked tobacco barons, so I asked him if he would take a 50 per cent salary cut if Marlboro halved his flesh-pressing duties. ‘No doubt about it, mate,’ he snarled. Bayliss was less greedy than most racers and his ego is less needy than your average Hare Krishna. So what kept him winning? Like the greatest racers, Bayliss won on raw killer instinct. He wasn’t scared of wolves, he was the wolf, killing for the joy of killing.

I once witnessed him take part in a bloody, bare-knuckled paddock contest which offered no prize money, no points, nothing but the sweet joy of the kill. He challenged a friend to who could smash a scooter indicator lens into the most pieces with his bare hands. The contest was an ugly sight, the thud, thud, squelch, squelch of flesh and bone on plastic, claret all over the shop. Obviously it was Bayliss who finally raised his bloodied fist in triumph, while us onlookers looked nervously at one other.