Bathurst!

It gets in your blood.

Don't ask me why. Some people reckon that watching a bunch of petrol heads driving around and around a motor racing circuit all day long is akin to watching the grass grow or the paint dry; they think it's a complete waste of money and effort.

Maybe so, but the sound of those big V8s roaring, the smell of burning rubber and the exhaust fumes, the atmosphere ...

There's nothing quite like Bathurst in that first half of October.

My first experience of ''The Great Race'' was as an 11-year-old kid in the early 70s.

We'd moved to Bathurst at the beginning of the year. Old Steelo fled the place at Easter, taking the family with him, to get away from the ''marauding bikies''.

But not so in October. After school each afternoon during the week before the big day I'd ride my trusty old push bike up to the mountain and marvel at the men and their machines preparing for the race.

And as a kid I was lucky because I could wander into and around each crew's camp and get the lowdown on what they thought there chances were, the mechanical problems they had to overcome, how fast they could go down Conrod Straight, the cost of their equipment etc.

They were the days of “The Big Three” - Holden, Ford and Valiant (Chrysler). 

Allan Moffatt's Ford GTHO.

Peter Brock before he adopted the 05 number.

It was just before the latter disappeared into obscurity; when the Holden Monaros and later the Toranas ruled the roost and Ford was eying a glorious future because of its mighty HO with Alan Moffat behind the wheel.

It's been a rare year that I've missed either being there or watched the race on the box from start to finish.

I can remember when Bill Brown rolled his Ford at the top of the mountain and destroyed it, but he walked away unharmed.

And the time Jack Brabham was given all the fanfare he deserved, but failed to even get off the starting grid.

Yep, there's a heap of old memories of Bathurst history.

Next week, the set will be warmed, the stubbies will be cooled, and I've selfishly booked the loungeroom chair from 8am until 6pm. And I can guarantee the only time I'll be moving will be to answer the call of nature.

Yes, it's very chauvinistic, lazy, and whatever else you'd like to say in criticism.

But it's in the blood and I'm all revved up for it.

Carn the Fords!

And here's from one weekend in 2002 when two cousins and I camped atop the mountain for "The Great Race":