His secretary had told him to go home to his wife; his boss had told him not to be too late on Tuesday and, to top it off, the afternoon papers were putting "Brocky" and the Torana into favouritism for the Hardie Ferodo 1000. "Ah, well," he thought as the five o'clock pips sent him scurrying towards the lift, "come Sunday, those motoring writers will not be so cocky."
Settling into the driving seat of the wife's Mini, he prepared to do battle with the peak-hour traffic.
Some character sliced across the Mini's nose into four feet of available space, causing George to fume "If I had the Falcon you wouldn't try that!
"Yeah! If it wasn't for a petrol strike I would have shown him a thing or two about driving."
The petrol strike had been in progress for a couple of weeks, so George had been smart and had left the wife to take the bus to work while he used her car.
"Can't expect me to use the Falcon to go to work can you?" he grumbled to the wife. "I mean I've filled it up and we've got to save it so we can qo to Bathurst."
"At least today is Friday," he mumbled, waking from this reverie as the traffic started to inch forward again. At another place, at about the same time, John told his mates he was not going for the Friday-arvo drinks as it was a long weekend and he had things to do for Sunday. Leaving his friends, he ambled into the bottle shop and ordered a few dozen tinnies as well as a couple of mixers for his mate's wife. "I'll pick em up tomorrow." Next, it was a quick stop to check out the catering arrangements: "Two boxes of chips, a heap of beer nuts and I better get something to munch on while you're having a drink."
Well, that was the arrangements taken care of and he headed for home.
Don had the panel van loaded and picked up his bird from work before heading straight for the West and a long drive to Bathurst. "Everything we could possibly need," he mumbled to Vanessa, easing the car throuqh a set of lights. Throughout the nation preparations like these were taking place as one of the great gladiatorial spectacles of modern times geared up. George made it home in an hour and a half - a near record for the slowness of the journey.
His wife Mavis had what she considered a gourmet meal of pies and sauce waiting for him.
She washed the two kids and finished the packing while George wolfed the dinner down, nearly choking when he heard that Brock had taken pole position in the special qualifying runs that afternoon..
