Super Bad
“What’s so civil about war, anyway?” Civil War – Guns ‘n’ Roses
As rhetorical rock ‘n’ roll posers go, it’s a beaut.
Admittedly, the kind of question you can probably only come up with in the midst of a savage three-year crack binge. A beaut nonetheless.
But sitting comfortably on my sofa and flicking madly between channels for something to help pass a few hours on Saturday afternoon, I just happened to happen upon a similar conundrum of my own.
What’s so super about V8 Supercars?
Well, on the surface at least, nothing.
Just don’t dare tell it to any of the hundreds of thousands of dedicated motor racing fans nationwide.
(Note: Motor racing should never be labelled motor sport. To do so would be to denigrate the standing of real sports like rugby league and cricket and pro bull riding.)
As is their want this time of year, many of the aforementioned fans have flocked to central west New South Wales this weekend to celebrate the festival of burnt rubber centred around the fabled Mount Panorama.
Words like ‘Conrod’ and ‘The Cutting’ and even ‘The Esses’ will be bandied about this weekend like they will be on no other.
Because, from my perspective at least, people don’t care for those words at any other time of the year.
Bathurst is one of those beasts. Kind of like State of Origin to folks outside the traditional rugby league states.
People only care whenever it rolls around.
And then they want to care to a degree you may generally expect only of a Lifeline counsellor. And I find it nauseating.
A number of times this week I’ve been asked variations of the following: “Whaddaya reckon… Ford or Holden at Bathurst this year?”
“Hmmmm, let me think…. I really couldn’t give a fuck, but as I drive a Volkswagen can I go for them? Maybe not. BMW? I always loved Tony Longhurst when I was a kid,” I snarl, lying through gritted teeth.
“Nah, mate. Only Holden or Ford. You know, the V8 Supercars…”
(At this stage my eyes roll back in my head, my mind whirs as I try to summon the energy to respond. Eventually I muster enough pity for the poor soul to phrase a response that isn’t aimed solely at making them feel dumb for having asked the question in the first place.)
“Dunno, mate. It’s not really my thing.”
Understatement. Of. The. Year.
But there’s little use denying it – I can barely understand the inner workings of the internal combustion engine, let alone comprehend how or why people are so interested in a two-horse car race they’d invest so much of themselves in it.
One thing Bathurst has going for it is that it happens to slide into that gap in the sports calendar between seasons and occupies air time that creatures of habit have spent the previous six months filling with football.
But unlike loose change that may happen to fall between the cushions on my couch, I derive almost no joy in discovering it again.
At least this year the ‘Great Race’ falls on the day our clocks go forward and what is normally a hellishly long afternoon of avoiding the tele feels slightly shorter.
I mean, I can remember when Matthew White was that cool, up-and-coming kid on Channel 10’s Sports Tonight. The guy who always made sure he rhymed his name and the program’s title during his introduction.
But now he’s a slave to Seven, the beaming face of the Supercar Championship and for his sins has to humour Mark Skaife and his inane babble.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
As well as the various asides I've already mentioned, a wise old friend even called to talk motor racing this weekend. Despite being a Toyota type, this chap is a lifelong fan of the Bathurst enduro.
He's also an A-grade antagonist and assured me the whole V8 Supercar thing is “bigger than you think”.
Well, that should go without saying because, in my mind, the whole V8 Supercars universe is populated by bogans – and bored people exploring their repressed inner bogan – and could fit neaty on the small of Tania Zaetta's back.
Evidence? A study of the demographic represented by those sitting over Skyline this Sunday should do the trick.
But, I digress.
This piece is less about belittling folks who choose to obsess about V8 motor racing, who deck themselves out in HSV caps while holding aloft hastily-scrawled placards reading ‘Brock is God’ (not ‘a god’ but ‘God’) than it is about admitting my own lack of appreciation for what may be heralded in some circles as an icon of Australian sport.
It’s all just so bewildering.
Guess I should thank God – not Brock – that this weekend also signals the opening of the WNBL season.
Go Caps!
Image:
