HAVE WE, as race fans, been conditioned to expect too much from Bathurst, and the Bathurst 1000 in particular?

It’s a question I found myself pondering while traversing the usual tedium of the Great Western highway back to Sydney following another instalment of the Great Race.

Sunday’s race was far from an all-time classic – you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to work that out – but the trashing it’s had on social media and in particular by some I would expect to be more informed and understanding of what was playing out before us, has been verging on the hysteric.

Boring races can and do happen, just ask Formula One.

I think we’ve all been conditioned to expect that every Bathurst is going to be a 2014-style classic that leaves us either in tears, pools of sweat, delirious with laughter or a combination of all three when the flag drops.

It’s almost as if it’s a penance the race must pay for being our version of the Grand Final – the biggest stage of all.

There’s an anticipation for it that is unmatched by any other race and should it fail to meet those enormous expectations of excellence, people become disappointed. And in this social media age it’s easier than ever for people to opine, one way or another.

Still, I find it fascinating that so many have been so vocal, especially when you compare and contrast with other major sporting events that hold the same level of importance with their respective fanbases.

Take the AFL Grand Final, for example. Four of the last six games have been absolute blow-outs, decided by sixty points or more. Does the footy differ because it’s only two of the 18 tribes going to war and the remainder of the Audience don’t care who wins as long as there’s some sport?

Moreso, is that a sign that people don’t care as much any more who wins Bathurst, as long as they get a good race?

People herald Brock’s six-lap victory in 1979 and justifiably so; it remains one of the all-time great performances.

But if you really dig down into that race and arm-twist the people that were there to take off the rose-colored glasses, they will generally agree that the race was basically over before the King handed over to Jimmy Richards at the first pit stop.

It was going to take the Cold War turning Hot to end Brock’s campaign that day whereas at least this year the result was still up for grabs through to the final lap.

The reaction to this year’s race wasn’t great but can you imagine how nuclear social media would go if the Chicko car won by six laps? There would be rioting in the McPhillamy campgrounds.

Instead, the 30-lap sprint to the flag was filled with tension; two great drivers ragging their cars at fastest-lap pace and with the result unpredictable to the last lap when the lapped traffic added some late peril to Brodie’s final six-point-two kilometre final tour. It was about as pure a motorsport show as you can get, even if they weren’t banging doors.

I hold an opinion that there are (relatively broadly speaking, anyway) three types of motorsport fans: The sporting connoisseur – who just wants racing where the fastest car and driver combo wins. Then there’s the showman – who loves things like NASCAR overtime, Lucky Dogs and competition yellows.

Finally, there’s the people that will watch it all, regardless. I consider myself to be in the latter group, but I also get that there are people that pick and choose to their respective tastes.

The irony, then, is that Sunday’s race was something of a role reversal for these respective groups.

The connoisseur, who probably wasn’t watching because they hate all that Supercars mumbo-jumbo, may have enjoyed Sunday for the fact it was a flat-out race from start to finish, with no contrivances to try and dictate a thrilling, grandstand finish.

The showman, who was definitely tuned in because they’re here for the drama, was disappointed that they didn’t get any of that and jumped on socials to say so – which goes back to that conditioning thing I wrote of earlier, too.

And then there’s the broad fans who probably fell asleep for a while – but in the end will appreciate that motorsport can have boring races and then later whilst at the pub will discuss the storylines that come from it, like as the race record time, the stories of Brodie and Todd and Erebus and how intense those final 30 laps really were.

Even if the rest was a bit of a doze.

It won’t be remembered as a great race but the storylines will be talked about for a while. And I’d add it’s not the only one in Bathurst’s lexicon to fall in that territory.

I just hope for the winners, for Broc Feeney who drove his heart out, for Golding and Russell with their fine P6 or Matt Stone Racing’s top 10 or all the other good stories that came from Sunday, that the negativity doesn’t diminish the weight of their achievements on Sunday afternoon.

I suppose the biggest takeout is that you can’t please everyone.

And my glass-half-full cup also knows that the Mountain – being the devious, creative and sometimes cruel mistress that she can be – will have in the back of her mind another 2014-spec epic, the script drafted and ready to be sent to the world in another Bathurst 1000 to come down the line.

For Bathurst is still Bathurst, and it remains the best place in the world and one we are all-too fortunate to have and to enjoy – good race or bad.

This year’s race may have been a snooze – but I was more awake for that than I’d be if there wasn’t one at all.