THE Bathurst 1000 as a concept goes pretty well. The Bathurst 12 Hours is like a pair of conjoined 1000s, and therefore a winner.

Why not run four 1000’s end for end? It’s the gift that Ross Palmer gave the motorsport world in 2002 and ’03, and it was utterly brilliant.

The Holden Monaro 427 was the defending champ in 2003, with a pair of the lumbering beasts lining up for the twice around the clock journey, with the addition of a red 05 machine.

The raging hot favourites were joined on the grid by the best of Australia’s Nations Cup, a smattering of international GT machinery, as well as a selection of local production cars, joined by select New Zealand based racers.

Driving talent wise, all of the best of what Australia had to offer were joined by international notables, including Tim Harvey, Hermann Tilke, Andrea Montermini, Alex Yoong, Michael Bartels and Tommy Erdos, amongst others.

It was notable as the last event utilising the old asbestos filled pit lane facilities, which were erected in 1987, and the last to utilise the old media centre, located in a damp dungeon at the base of the old James Hardie Centre.

What follows is the diary of an insomniac enjoying one of the best weekends of motorsport ever…

****

Being a non-financial uni student earning side cash writing for Auto Action, the logistics of the journey to The Mountain were somewhat convoluted and low-cost.

Catching a train from Brisbane to the Gold Coast, any thoughts of catching some pre-event shut eye were dashed by a pair of obnoxious American passengers nearby (loudly) discussed their holiday plans, which featured of all things, a day trip from the Gold Coast to Perth and back…

Upon arrival at the GC, it was time to load up the mighty Commodore weapon of transportation. Primary drivers for the occasion were Jase and Rod, who were headed to the event as supply officials, setting up all of the equipment prior to each day, and packing it all up at the other end.

Beaudesert, Goondiwindi, and with the assistance of caffeine and no-doze, Coonabarabran were achieved prior to a couple of hours of road-side kip.

Roll into Bathurst at 8:30am Thursday morning, and after a visit to accreditation, it’s off to pitch tent in the official’s camping area at the back of the pits. We were allocated a gently sloping rocky plot adjacent to the toilets, showers and the King George Tavern, which sadly remained shut for the duration of the event.

With the weather forecast looking somewhat dodgy, there was no skimping on the hammering of tent pegs, or the use of super heavy-duty tarps.

Upon the completion of construction, it was off to the media centre, where I would be a designated helper for the weekend, assisting the legendary Chris Nixon when required.

A definite highlight of the opening day, and probably my life to date, was spending some time with Peter Brock.

Growing up, this little Queenslander was very much a Tricky Dicky Johnson fan. My favourite number was 17, and my favourite colour was whatever colour the number 17 car was that year.

Nothing will ever change that, but this particular weekend, I think I figured out P. Brock, and what made him awesome. More on that later.

Formula Green, a Rosco Palmer led initiative that was ‘sponsoring’ the event, held a ceremonial tree planting to launch festivities at The Chase.

Present were Palmer, Brock, David Brabham, Jim McKnoulty and members of the media, many who have subsequently suffered badly with faded memories regarding the day in question.

The stunt for the assembled media, held on top of the spectator bank at the Chase with the Mount Panorama sign as a backdrop, was going swimmingly, until it was found that the ground was of a hardness akin to concrete, and unbreakable by shovel.

Fortunately, a cover was ripped from a concealed underground tap, and the planting continued for the cameras, with Brabham somewhat uncomfortably patting the plant down into the plastic void.

At the end of the day, Jim went home with a new pot plant, and the stunt went off with the success of a Hollywood moon landing.

Following an official’s briefing, and an RSL roast special, it was torches out in the campsite at around midnight as storms rolled in over Bald Hills.

Friday

For reasons that now escape me, I decided to assist the boys on their supply run around the Mountain. At 5am.

Following the official’s breakfast, the flags, bags of ice, and paddles (used at night replacing flags) were dropped around the 23 corners from the back of a Budget Rent-A-Truck.

The day was spent doing media things; taking photos, taking notes, attending various stunts, talking to people and generally sitting on my arse.

Dinner was quite the treat, with the Palmer owned Eagle Boys Pizza delivering 500 pizzas to the Mountain for the media and officials between 6 and 11pm.

It turns out running day-night race meetings is quite expensive, because for the initial 24 Hour race, Palmer also had to build a supplementary road network throughout the precinct, linking trapped residents to the outside world.

Saturday

The Friday morning 5am wakeup for the supply run wasn’t so bad, so what the hell? Let’s load up and go again!

By Saturday morning it’s pouring down, but don’t fret, I’ve got a raincoat!

Wrong. What was useful for stopping normal rain, is useless against Mountain rain, which at times had a consistency somewhat similar to sleet.

The aim for the day was re-adjusted to “stay dry”, and when the heavens opened shortly after the green flag dropped for the main race, I headed back to base camp for a strategic sleep.

My devious plan was for the early rest to pave the way for an extended run into the evening, however several factors worked against me:

– The surround sound of the public address
– Helicopters, flying below the clouds to relay in-car TV signal
– Race car noise
– More specifically, Peter Floyd’s green Cirtek 996 Porsche GT3-RS race car noise
– Rain
– Thunder
– Much more rain, which temporarily halted the race, and posed a real threat to tent island, and its bludging occupant

The race ploughed on into the evening, with Channel 7 switching their attention to the Rugby World Cup final, which was broadcast on the big screens around the circuit.

Sunday

I sit out the midnight rain storm in the now empty Morgan pits, their wooden car expired early, before its excellent flotation qualities would have put it in a class of its own.

The nearby Mosler pit stall turns into a rather long-winded comedy, with successive stops to change to wet tyres, then again to fix the wipers, once more to fix the wipers, one last crack at the wipers, and a final return, this time to re-attach an errant wheel. Probably should have checked the wipers, too…

I headed back into the media centre, where I joined Chris Underwood for a series of early morning radio crosses to broader country NSW.

The wall hit me for the first time, hard at 3am, before I accepted an offer from veteran journo Ray Bell to take a trip to the top of the hill in his classic Peugeot.

With my faith in motorsport restored by flat chat race cars roaring through McPhillamy Park as mist rolled in over the track, it was time to make the somewhat treacherous trek down to Forrest’s Elbow.

Not long after 3:30am, Klaus Engelhorn properly backed his Ferrari 360 N-GT into the fence at the Elbow, which was somewhat fortuitous for myself, because there weren’t exactly any other punters awake at that hour, let alone photographers. The photo sale to Auto Action nearly covered the cost of beer money for the weekend.

Personally, I was back into the wall at about 7am, prior to breakfast, but with the previous afternoon fresh in my memory, any thought of attempting to sleep was quickly shot down.

The closing stages were magic, with the Brock/Greg Murphy/Jason Bright/Todd Kelly machine just edging out the sister Nathan Pretty/Garth Tander/Steven Richards/Cam McConville car in a grandstand finish, with the Peter Fitzgerald/Paul Morris/John Teulan/Scott Shearman Porsche some 12 laps behind in third.

***

“Alright!” Comes the cry from Brocky, who in the finish scrum outside the Holden pits had somehow perched himself on top of my right shoulder at the finish.

Following the podium celebrations and the media centre festivities, I went to find Peter at the side door of his trailer signing autographs.

Back on Thursday afternoon, I talked to him and Bev about getting some items autographed for the Children’s Hospital Foundation charity auction we still hold every year at the QRDA Christmas Party.

Duly obliging with his distinctive scribble on a DVD, some programs and a cap I produced, he enquired again about the cause being supported.

Without hesitation, he whipped the shirt off his back, signed it, and gave it to me.

What a legend, and a shirtless one at that.

***

Following the officials afterparty at Panther’s Leagues Club, the wall had finally collapsed on me.

After thirty-eight and a half hours of eyes open, even a massive thunderstorm wasn’t going to disturb this sleepy camper.

Waking up to daylight and an empty camp ground, I thought that I’d overslept several days into the next week.

As it transpires, the storm had washed away the other tents in the area, and I was the last man standing.

Apparently, my corpse anchored the tent against the advancing floodwaters.

I don’t have a massive recollection of the drive home, but I think I may slept through it.

WORDS & IMAGERY: Mark Walker