What is it with us females? On the 28th February, I got up at the usual 4 a.m. to be at Wakefield Racetrack at 8:30 a.m. Note to self, have this masochism looked at and treated by my GP. Here I am quoting from Good Morning Vietnam, what does the 0 stand for in 0400? OMG IT’S EARLY? Plus the three hours’ drive to get there, only to be confronted by Boz’s blaring radio and a fan going. I am sorry, I need to acclimatise myself to other humans gradually and this was just too much of an assault on all my senses.
Thankfully, Boz was nowhere to be found. Apparently he had driven off to grab some breakfast. I very quickly located the power point where there was a stereo emanating the unmistakable sound of some talking head on an annoying morning show and switched it off. Silence at last. Well, about as quiet as you will ever get on a race track.
I made my way to the shop for a long-deserved cappuccino. A few mouthfuls of coffee later, I was on my way back to my car. Parked next to me was a female of roughly the same age as me. Boy, I thought I was grumpy, but I had nothing on her. Considering that I am no threat to anybody at Wakefield, either looks-wise (let’s face it, show me a female who looks her best after removing a helmet half-a-dozen times in between sessions) or driving-wise, I would have thought that my Good Morning could have been acknowledged with at least a nod. As a general rule, everybody at Wakefield is really nice and they even talk to me. I try to answer without making too much of an idiot of myself. However, this female had the same look that my mother finessed over half a century, you know the one, peels paint off sandstone.
As the coffee started to infiltrate my still dozy brain, it dawned on me that I was an unexpected and unwelcome guest at her One and Only Female on the Day scenario. Sweetheart, I felt like saying, let me assure you, my entry to the Bathurst 1000 was never part of the plan. I just want to have a relaxing day and not think about Milestones, Budgets, Status Reports and everything else associated with my job. Plus, it is also fun being on the track without the 100 and 1 devices that are on my car and perhaps even learning how to drive again without my car just needing me to put my foot on the brake and push the silver button. Jesus, when I broke my arm, my car practically drove itself. Still don’t have the guts to tell my surgeon that I drove on the day I discharged myself from the hospital. So love, take a chill pill.
I may have my own helmet, and shoes. The shoes are more to do with stopping the bitter cold turning my feet into icicles at Wakefield in the winter months, but that is where the entire race outfit scenario ends. No, you will not be seeing me as an entry at the V8 Supercars. You can go back to being the one and only once again.
