By John Mikkelsen
When millions of Australians like me are constantly despairing over the seemingly endless stream of economy busting mis-steps by our inept Labor Government, another magic weekend sporting event has again provided welcome relief.
I’d put the last few minutes of the classic Bathurst 1000 at Mount Panorama in the same category as the last three minutes of the AFL Grand Final, which I wrote about recently- the Brisbane Lions came from 17 points down to defeat the Fremantle Dockers after the Dockers’ victory anthem was already blaring out over the huge crowd at the MCG.
But the last few minutes of The Great Race were even more dramatic, with the outcome even more miraculous for dyed-in-the-wool Ford Mustang fans and possibly more devastating for the hordes of former Holden fans who now pin their hopes on the US-based Chev Camaro.
The event which drew another huge crowd was also the 20th anniversary of the demise of Holden legend Peter Brock and all was looking good for a Camaro to clinch the Peter Brock Trophy and fill the first two spots on the podium, but with five laps remaining, the Mountain Gods intervened.
The Dick Johnson Racing car #17 pairing of Brodie Kostecki and Todd Hazelwood had been leading for much of the race and looked good for their second Bathurst win. But a slow pit stop with a botched brake disc change on lap 125 put Kostecki back in fifth place with a seemingly insurmountable gap between him and the front runners – The Chevs of Anton De Pasquale/ Lee Holdsworth, Zac Bates/ Aaron Seaton and the Ford Mustang of Will Brown/ Scott Pye.
But with five laps remaining a hard-charging Kostecki on a younger set of tyres managed to get past an elbows-out Brown to secure a possible third spot on the podium.
Ford fans had been hoping for a safety car to bunch the field but the race had already run a remarkable 156 laps with no sign of a serious crash. Then out of the blue, all Hell broke loose.
With only five laps remaining, Chaz Mostert slightly locked the rear tyres of his Walkinshaw TWG Racing Toyota Supra, causing him to go too narrow on the corner exit at Forrest Elbow and crash heavily into the wall.
That finally brought out the safety car and then with just three laps remaining, the green flag waved. De Pasquale held his nerve at the front but a determined Kostecki overtook young rookie driver Bates and set off after the lead Camaro.
De Pasquale (above) was still holding a clear lead into the final lap but his team had obviously badly miscalculated his fuel load at his last pit stop (just a few seconds more, guys) and his Camaro spluttered and died suddenly a few km short of the chequered flag. Very sad for him, co-driver Holdsworth, and the legion of ex-Holden fans, but great for the Blue Oval brigade.
Kostecki charged past and seized victory from the jaws of defeat, leaving his team boss, the legendary Dick Johnson, in a state of emotional teary-eyed disbelief.
I was stunned too (in a good way) and just like the mighty Brisbane Lions victory a few weeks earlier, that vision of Dick with his head in his hands and tears running down his cheeks, re-ignited my mind’s own version of Dr Who’s Tardis.
Suddenly I’m back in the mid-’80s as editor of The Observer newspaper in the busy Central Queensland port city of Gladstone and we are hosting our big Sports Star of the Year event at a packed venue. The annual event always includes a major sporting personality as guest speaker, such as Rugby League great Wally Lewis, but this year is special for me – the celebrity is the one and only Ford racing hero Dick Johnson and I’m a big fan!
My job is to introduce all the monthly sports star nominees (no sexism here, there’s a pretty even spread of women among the candidates and there’s also a junior division with a mix of girls and boys) then introduce the guest speaker and finally hand him an envelope to open and announce the winners. The only drawback – I hate public speaking, which back then I rate about on par with dreaded death knocks, where a journo is assigned to interview the grieving widow, husband or parents of some poor soul who has just died tragically.
Anyway, no avoiding it, so man up and keep the beer jugs flowing! All is going swimmingly and towards the end of the proceedings I even crack a joke that has some guests laughing and a few including The Observer’s general manager glaring at me (but it was the truth and it involved an award winning TV series about black slavery in America, called Roots).
“Earlier tonight I told the boss that if I didn’t get home before 11 pm, I’d miss out on Roots… Well he just looked at me, shook his head and said ‘John, that’s the story of my life’…”
Oops. Anyway, that set the tone for the remainder of the evening. No TV recorder back then so no Roots, but a few of us were invited back to the home of a member of the local Promotion Bureau, an event sponsor, set on an acreage a few kilometres out of the city.
Dick, as guest of honour, was also invited.
No problem, time to relax now the formal proceedings were done and dusted. That was until the host brings out a bottle of Bundaberg’s finest rum. Maybe it was OP and the Polar Bear mascot would have approved and winked, but I should have know better. Dick has the good sense to abstain or maybe risk a sip or two, but he’s ready to regale me with some good yarns about his racing career, including the rock incident that defined his early beginnings at Mt Panorama but wrecked his chances when he was leading the field. It’s history that he returned the following year as the winner, with a new car thanks to generous donations from Ford fans and the Ford Motor Company which matched them dollar for dollar.
Good one Dick! I tell him I’m also a fan of Allan Moffat and he looks more serious as he tells me Allan is a bit on the obsessive compulsive side, taking his racing very seriously.
“He locks himself in his car pre-race to avoid the press …” A wry grin, so maybe he’s joking. Anyway, whatever it takes to win races, and Allan has done that many times over.
So the night rolls on, Russell the host appears too many times at my elbow, and before my poor wife manages to drag me out into the fresh air to drive me home in my trusty Allan Moffat Special Ford Falcon, I’m rambling on about how good those Falcons are at Bathurst. I bid Dick farewell and he’s probably still wondering if accepting that invitation to Gladstone really was worth the effort. Sorry, Dick.
But Fords Rule, right? Just ask Brodie.
John Mikkelsen is a former editor of three Queensland regional newspapers, columnist, freelance writer and author of the Amazon Books Memoir, Don’t Call Me Nev. (https://www.amazon.com.au/Dont-Call-Nev-John-Mikkelsen/dp/B09S244GP1/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?
