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SATURDAY. It never fails.
This story was originally published in our February 2004 issue
The edginess sets in at Lithgow and nags like an unscratched itch until, on the outskirts of Bathurst, the words come into view, etched in the distant hill. ‘MOUNT PANORAMA’, they say, this year supplemented with ‘AUSTRALIA’ for the benefit of travellers prone to overshooting.
And those words focus the feeling, as they always do, into an irrational excitement. I just love this place.
Hope Street, Brilliant Street. The roads of Bathurst, first European settlement beyond the Dividing Range, exult in our conquest of this vast land. And, beyond the city, they form a circuit, part altar, part anvil, on which we thrash the Living Lights out of our companion in the enterprise, the automobile, to celebrate.
Okay, it is to moderation what Tyson is to romance, and the limit’s still one liver per customer, but you can behave on the other 364 days.
Accordingly, my entire provisioning consists of good wines, great cheeses and an overflow of olives. The only hope ref scurvy is that the advance party in MOTOR’s mountaintop Winnebago, Editor Taylor, his father Roger and editorial assistant Marcus (Herman) Hofmann might have thought to bring something fresher and greener than newly minted beer with them.
Taylor proudly displays the wreckage of maybe two whole animals and an apple in the fridge. No worries, then.
Lamborghini is in, following Meaningful Discussions with the Procar lads, which went, reportedly, Q: “What freedoms do you need to run?” A: “Get your pen out.” And the Mosler’s owner/driver, Martin Short, fell asleep on the plane with his contact lenses in and has been blind until yesterday, when he finally got to see the circuit clearly. And wished he hadn’t.
Unchanged, however, is the Monaro’s pre-race dominance and Holden PR ‘Plastic’ Pemberton’s thoughtfulness in ensuring that each visiting team receives a three-page Kangaroo Risk Assessment document, complete with diagrams, photographs, stats (Skippy = 100kg etc) and a map of roo-risk areas, which, surprisingly, occur everywhere one might wish to pass and/or go fast.
Thus enlightened, I return to the mountain, a venue many times more populated than at last year’s inaugural event but still retaining its unique ambience.
Sure, there’s a ‘BOOZE, BOOBS OR BURNOUT’ tollgate on the access road, but that disperses when Mister Plod queries its niceness and all is at peace until 2pm, when the field fires off like songbirds released and swamps the hillside with racket.
The early hours are fun as everyone who suspects they might not make the full program takes a crack at Looking Twinkly for their 15 minutes’ worth. Accordingly, the Morgan blats around boldly for about that long before settling down to a quiet smoke and the Lambo alternates between hairy-chested lunges and long limps as its tyres explode like party balloons.
Father Taylor and Herman have somehow scored tables and televisions for outdoor viewing of the Rugby World Cup final, and I’ve got the bries ripening, wines uncorked and anchovy olives doused with oil, herbs and balsamic vinegar, when Taylor (M) makes us all look like pikers by scoring a ticket and an Audi RS6 and, promising a midnight return, departs to Sydney to watch the match live.
Numbers at our Hertz-supplied Chapel o’ Chow swell as the game begins; readers and friends join us, among them founder and owner of the whole 24 Hour shebang, Ross Palmer, happy to leave his creation for a wee while and take refreshment at Ground Level. Just like Bernie does.
The delicacies soon match the drinks in range and bravery and include an avocado-based experiment, which Father Taylor proclaims would put a horn on a jellyfish. I have no idea what that means, but such is the pleasure of the company and entertainment that we are only momentarily disturbed by an impressive THUMP from the circuit, followed shortly by the sparkle-arkle of safety car and emergency services.
Perched on top of a starlit hill straked by rocketing lights and demon shrieks is where… and within a sip or three of the rugby’s conclusion I return to their study, wandering down to the impressive crowd at Skyline to continue MOTOR’s cutting-edge coverage. An authoritative “Does anyone here have a clue what’s happening?” should, I believe, assure the most fastidious among them that nothing will escape our notice.
I had retired when the rains returned last night, and the sound most remembered before sleep was the deep, dieselly rumble of the Holdens’ unstoppable progress.
Okay, they’ve stretched the coupes’ small-block Gen IIIs and scratch-built a lot of the underpinnings, but we’re still talking pushrod-engined, homebuilt heavyweights with the frontal area of a barn and a centre of gravity a yard high that have outrun credible efforts from the raceworks of BMW, Porsche, Lamborghini and Ferrari to lead by 10 laps before breakfast. Impressive.
Ditto breakfast, which involves the sainted partnership of barbecue and bacon drenched in maple syrup. Similar civilisation is crackling on campfires all across the top as the crowd rises and, trust me, I have seen very much worse at dawn on The Mount. So have both police and ambulance on site, who report a virtual absence of overnight custom. Whatever next? Family restaurants and rides on the 24 Hour Skyline? Probably.
Out in pitlane, the living dead slump like upholstery and stare glass-eyed at monitors amid the pitiful detritus, bent and spent, of once perfect motorcars that now rage, battered, into another day. And if the chase is all but futile, a new tension now takes the crowd. Surely a Monaro will win… but which one?
Last year’s winning Pretty/Tander/McConville/Richards squad? Or will the race be awarded to the crowd-favourite 05 car, with Murphy, Bright and Kelly, headed by Peter Brock?
By the middle of the day, Brock is matching the #427 sister car driven by the son of his once-partner, Jim Richards, and the bullet-quick young Steven has been known to go head to head with his own father at some cost to the coachwork, so you can be sure Brock’s getting no favours.
At the last change, Murphy takes the 05 car and Tander the 427, which, despite minor diff surgery, is back in the chase. Running nose to tail, 12 laps ahead of the third-placed Porsche, they have nothing left to prove. Which is why Garry Rogers’ decision, with three laps to go, is astonishing. Trusting his drivers implicitly, he unleashes them to race to the finish, to risk everything, to determine a genuine winner. And that wonderful, crazy, sporting call both honours the race and provides it with an extraordinary climax.
In one of the great finishes, all breath is suspended until the cars flash past the line, 0.3 of a second apart, and the crowd erupts in a roar of relief and release for the four men who’ve driven 05 to victory… and for Peter Brock, cheered once again as a champion.
And, on the tape, high and heady with irrational excitement, is my own voice, joining them.
