She’d rarely got in a funk, but when asked to cover the Northern Territory’s Cannonball Run, she was unsure whether to book flights to Canada or Australia. Motor Sports were her journalistic gig, covering some of the biggest races on the international circuits, so WTF was she doing in Darwin, this hot, steamy, godforsaken backwater. The quiet odium she’d noticed among her colleagues suggested she had drawn the ‘short-straw’!
She found the stories inside the stories, race-strategies before they were strategies, gossip or innuendo on the drivers and team members, factual, or not, it didn’t matter, so long as the legal-eagles’ were sweet.
She collected languages, she had six as her tools-of-trade, milking loose lips, insider scoops. She also had a passion for men, and gear stick knobs, in no particular order, although, in a moment of perfunctory contemplation, realised her peccadilloes were all interconnected, each fed off the other, so to speak!
Her Parisienne school gave her French, German, and Italian. Hungarian came from her mother, English, picked up on the circuit and Spanish/Brazilian came from the bedroom of an engineer, working with Senna’s Formula One team. She left the Northern Territory with a seventh – Walpiri.
She arrived into a steamy Darwin, humidity at about 95%, clear skies, save a translucent, smokey wash. An air-conditioned motel was something, but the next day started with one of the worst coffees she’d ever had. “Do ya want fluffy milk with that, love” queried the waiter.
She taxied down to the ‘pits. The Japs had Ferraris, the Italians’, Maserati (noting she needed that knob), a German team were tinkering with a Porsche, and there, an Alice Springs team – surely not, an old Morris Minor. On closer inspection, the body was the only original component. A pregnant pastie had more room inside, space just for a driver, and part of a huge motor, occupying the rest.
She knew a story when it blocked her view. There was a pair of dirty overalls, covering a colossus demolishing a plate of toast. She met Jagamara Jack; “I’m the Engineer. Can I help ya?” as a slice disappeared into his maw. “Could I share some of that toast?” “Sure love, there’s jam in the pot.”
One thing led to another and they had dinner together that night – a tough steak, a limp salad, mixed fruits and custard! Jack became quite effusive, as things progressed, an invitation out to his country, west of Alice, after the race. Jack shared the story of the ‘Morrie’, “… came from the Coniston Station tip, rusted as buggery, engine kaput, but, well, I love Morries.”
The Morris lacked a gear stick, let alone a knob, but she managed to flog the Maserati’s after its’ crashed. She stayed with Jagamara for several weeks after the race, exploring the tips at Yuendumu, Haasts Bluff and Coniston. She was in quiet ecstasy, finding knobs from a Monaro, and a Moke.
Three knobs, a bloke and a language. Her collections continued to grow!