THE sun is piercing hot. As clouds cover the area the men who once hibernated to conserve energy, quickly reawaken with enthusiasm as the next round of heroes is due to roar past.
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The Chase isn't just the quickest corner in Australia's touring car championships, it's the fastest corner internationally, British Touring Car Championships (BTCC) and Deutsche Tourenwagen Masters (DTM) included. You would expect everyone to be in technical awe, but this is Australia. Don't think that fast cars don't impress us - they do. But we like more simpler things, a folding camper chair Esky hybrid. That's us.
Down at the chase there's people drinking beer, relaxing. It's hot, it's dry, the sun is unmerciful, and there are kids happily sliding down a small hill on cardboard boxes. It's very much like a family Christmas barbecue. Sure there's a few people who are taking the 'responsible alcohol consumption' rule lightly, but it's all in good fun.
The decision to temporarily suspend the race is still fresh.
"They should just let them race - they ain't kids. They know what they're doing," says one in a group of aged racing connoisseurs.
"It's a bunch of nanny farting. Stupid safety rules. If they don't want to crash from some rocks on the road, they should drive slower. Get it over with!" says another member.
They collectively agree as the hardened Bathurst enthusiasts simultaneously stand firm and shout "outrageous", before enjoying their GMO free, organic frozen berry yogurt.
The race finally restarts. Everybody shuts up. The parental concern for children is muted. The kids that were sliding down the hill are now performing for themselves. The mountain bellows with a man-made sound. Like the seagulls from Finding Nemo, everybody stops doing whatever they're doing. They stop, they stare. Eyes fixed on the track.
I could do whatever I wanted and nobody would notice.
The cars roar through the chase. 300kph. Three times the national speed limit, almost. The cars scream past and my crispy, burnt ears reverberate. It is godlike. The snapping, crackling, and burbling exhausts mimic the sound of Tom Jones being attacked by bees.
It's been 15 minutes, and I've already been burnt by the sun. With skin quickly turning into a taco shell I have to seek shelter.
Like all sports the V8 Supercars is about teamwork, and in response I think some credit should go to the audience. The people around me have travelled hundreds of kilometres to see such an event and on arrival they are pampered only by our brutal sun.
They sit and stand for their idols for hours on end, being fuelled only by fermented hops and yeast. They stand in lines and wait for tickets, toilets and food. All of this to support Australia's greatest race; the Great Race.
