There are a lot of sports which can only be truly appreciated by actually being there.

It’s an experience thing.

Sort of like the difference between watching someone eat an ice-cream and eating it yourself.

Except the ice-cream is really, really loud and fast and actually a car.

I speak, in an extremely roundabout way, of Bathurst.

Now I am not a fan of car racing. If it wasn’t for the champagne, pretty dresses and wearing some sort of fabulous feather concoction in my hair, I would be very against horse racing as well.

But watching a bunch of cars go round and round and round and round and round and round and round and round and round and round a mountain is not my idea of fun.

Unless you are actually there. And then it is a smorgasbord for the senses.

The Bathurst 1000 was not on my list of must-see sporting events. But the Melbourne Cup at Flemington is. And because Alex would rather stab himself with a blunted spoon than go with me to the races, a compromise was in order.

I would go to the glorious mountain and in return Alex would don his glad rags and head to Flemington with me.

So a few years ago, while I was working in Tamworth, we decided it would be the perfect opportunity to drive down for the mighty race and cross off one “thing to do before I die” from his list.

I had pretty low expectations.

For those who don’t know me, I am not what you would call a car enthusiast.

I am more likely to point to a car and comment on its colour and cuteness than what actually makes it go.

Anyway, we headed to the middle of nowhere, along with almost every bogan in Australia, and staked our place on the hill.

The Hill.

Which is really just a battle ground for Ford and Holden supporters to get drunk and thrown beer cans at each other, before they get really drunk and start hurling Beam bottles at one another, which usually happens right before they form tactical response teams to take down the opposition’s campsites.

Good times.

Out of sheer coincidence, I was wearing a red top in Ford territory, so in the interests of safety, I decided I would be better off elsewhere.

Like in air-conditioning.

So leaving Alex to play with his new friends, I hopped on the shuttle and wandered around, before I found the media centre.

And air-conditioning.

I somehow managed to convince the organisers I was a serious motor sports reporter and they handed me a pass and sent me on my merry way.

While picking at the buffet table, I ended up included with a group of people who were headed outside and without knowing exactly how, I ended up in the pits.

Which is an experience in itself.

I had a front row seat while they did what it is they do, before getting bored and finding the VIP box where I discovered champagne.

And with a glass of champagne in your hand, the dust, heat and bogans never seem to matter as much.

I eventually tottered out, waving to my new friends in the pits, to find Alex where I exclaimed that Bathurst was quite possibly the best sporting experience I had ever had.

When he found out where I had been while he was stuck on the hill, he wasn’t quite as happy.

Not surprisingly, I’m still waiting on Flemington.