Worth the
entry
It was 1989, early on a Thursday evening, and I was chasing then AMCN staffer
Dr Rob down the highway towards Phillip Island. He was CBR1000 mounted, and
I was punting my warmed-up GSX eleven.
While dodging the cars and trucks I was wondering how the hell this was going
to turn out – Australia's first world championship GP that is. No-one really
knew at that stage.
Organiser Bob Barnard seemed to have stitched the thing together with as much
bravado as anything else, while at least one major daily newspaper was predicting
the whole thing would turn into an infamous mess to rival the worst years of
the Bathurst bike races.
The doomsayers were proved wrong, and the event developed a reputation among
the punters rivalling that of the Assen TT week.
This year, scooting down on Shaun the ST, I was reminiscing on that first time.
Funny thing is that the novelty hadn't really worn off. There was a palpable
sense of excitement that built as you got closer to the island, bordering on
some quasi religious experience.
The road was littered with banners and signs with "go Mick" and similar
legends emblazoned in whatever spare paint was lying about the owner's house
at the time. And kids watching the passing parade with helpful suggestions like
"pop a wheelie" scrawled on bits of cardboard. Some of the aforementioned
urchins offered advice on the required technique with exaggerated throttle arm
movements.
At the event itself there were usual gaggle of cops and security folk wandering
around, looking more relaxed than last year – having had time to get into
the swing of things since the GP's return from Eastern Creek last year. Most
of them seemed to be smiling, though by far the most serene dials belonged to
those who were just there to spectate.
I spoke to a hell of a lot of them at the AMCN stand and their experiences were
similar to my own. "Mate!" they'd exclaim, "I've just come across
so many people down here. Some of 'em I haven't seen for ages. Like Reg over
there – me mate from West Oz. I had no idea he was coming across, the bastard
wouldn't bother to ring and tell me. No, he just fronts up in the campground
and starts giving me a hard time!"
Of course you'd get the others, who would come up and say, "You might remember
me, I had a chat to you a few years ago up at Tintaldra during the Norton Owners
Rally." Aargh! I should be used to this by now, but the embarrassment always
hits like a wallop in the back of the head with a dead mullet.
Frankly I'm flat out remembering my own name some mornings, and to grasp one
from an event a few years ago is a big ask. What the hell, we'd already met
once before and continued on with whatever conversation it was we were having
at Tintaldra.
Hanging around at the stand also proved there's a certain perversity in people
when it comes to motorcycles. For example we had some pretty exotic stuff sitting
around, ranging from the Hunwick Hallam super twin, through a Bimota, down to
a humble 1974 MkIII Kawasaki triple road bike. Guess what got the most attention...yep,
the old Kawasaki.
Rex Wolfenden, who owns the bike, could have sold it ten times over that weekend,
particularly to the hundreds of middle-aged gents who pulled up and went all
misty-eyed over the monster.
At some stage photographer Muttley and I did a lap of the spectator area for
a feature in sister mag Rider. To say there was a weird and wonderful mix of
folk hanging about for the action is an understatement. We came across Ma and
Pa, about 70 in the shade, complete with the cloth caps and tweed coats, rubbing
shoulders with a pack of dudes less than a third of that age, wrap-around sunnies
to the fore. Or a few metres a way, a group that defied description, having
indulged in fancy dress for the occasion that revealed a weird mix of influences
ranging from Alice in Wonderland to Goth.
It raises the question of what is someone's primary motivation for going to
the GP. Socialising or the racing? To me it seems like a close call. Though
it's hard to argue with the awe-inspiring sight of the crowd surging across
the fences and up to the podium after Mick had won the day and the championship.
To me, that alone was worth the price of entry...
Guy "Guido" Allen
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