Mark Chicka can’t remember exactly when the quantity of beer cans became unmanageable, just that the pile of empties was growing too fast for the available receptacles in his group’s Mount Panorama campsite.
So they did what any shrewd architect in a densely populated area would do: build a high rise.
“We didn’t know where to put the cans, and it was something to do in the downtimes,” Chicka says as he admires the illustrious aluminum tower before him. “We actually stuck them on the pole the first year, then we couldn’t get them off.”
The first year was almost 30 years ago, when his mate Adam Clark took up the spot alongside their “Shell Corner” neighbours and, through the event’s first right-of-refusal policy, held on to it ever since.
And every year, the 40-strong posse of men who hail from as far as northern Queensland and southern Victoria who stay at “Canpole Corner” Sticky Tape their empty cans around the pole next to their marquee, carefully coding each row by brand. Hahn Superdry sits on top of XXXX Gold, which rests on a row of Great Northern, and then Tooheys New, and so on.
“About 15 cans go around the pole, so a carton is two rows,” Chicka says.
Bathurst 1000 long-timers hang out at their Canpole Corner campsite.Credit: Wolter Peeters
As of Friday afternoon, there were 530 cans around the pole. Another camp member, who jokes he is in witness protection and gives his cover names as Mary and Doug Mulray (real name: Craig Murdoch), says they will start on the next pole this evening using the fresh collection of cans that may or may not be fresh from today.
This is where the real action is at for hardcore Bathurst 1000 fans. Anybody given a taste of the vast expanse of camping grounds a shuttle bus ride up the hill from the pit knows The Great Race is just one great part of the best-known Supercars event of the year.
The “downtime” is all part of what has kept the masses coming back for decades, armed with ever more elaborate set-ups featuring portaloos and trailers of firewood to go with their fully decked-out kitchens and tarp-protected cinema-esque spaces, where inhabitants can watch live TV coverage of reigning Supercars champion Brodie Kostecki finishing fastest in the last pre-qualifying practice from camping chairs as they eat their lunch.
Spectators gather on Mount Panorama on Friday.Credit: Wolter Peeters
The Canpole Corner crew enjoyed scotch fillet and vegies last night. Tonight’s menu is fish and chips, and tomorrow the prawns and oysters (ordered a month in advance) will be prepared. Outside, the scream of engines around the 6.213km track vibrates your innards. Until the meandering crowd of revheads turns to take in the fella with the boom box strapped to his back, sauntering along to his own beat, bare belly swaying over the front of his pants.
Down below, the racetrack proper is packed to the brim with spectators witnessing Matt Payne setting the fastest qualifying lap to take provisional pole, finishing ahead of Cam Waters and Broc Feeney by six thousandths of a second.
Many were also on hand to see the unveiling of Toyota’s Gen3 Supra model (in full-size clay form), which will be driven by Chaz Mostert and Ryan Wood when the Japanese automotive giant joins the Supercars championship in 2026.
The imminent inclusion of Toyota – the first manufacturer other than Ford and General Motors to race since 2019, when Nissan pulled out of the category – promises to add extra spice to a competition already shaken up by this week’s announcement of a NASCAR-style elimination finals series from 2025.
The drastic format revamp will go some way to keeping the sport relevant in a saturated Australian market, and has support from the likes of Jamie Whincup because “a sport that doesn’t keep changing and evolving eventually becomes uncompetitive”.
The news is predictably polarising, particularly for purists who believe it will cheapen past championships won by greats, including Whincup, Mark Skaife and Dick Johnson. For many of the Bathurst 1000 faithful, though, it has about as much effect on the overall experience as the eastern brown snake that delayed Thursday’s second practice session.
They are here to watch Sunday’s notoriously unpredictable 161-lap showpiece, and have some fun while doing it. A little less fun, albeit, than the fast-and-loose days of the 1980s and ’90s, when rowdier campers spent the nights doing burnouts, trashing their cars and then setting them on fire.
“It has changed a little bit,” says Pete Bloom, whose family friendly party has expanded to three generations since he started attending in 2009. Outside the site’s entrance – a saloon door knocked together a few years back by family friend Russell Smith and spray-painted with ‘HOLDEN’ – several kids ride miniature bikes with training wheels.
“Look at it now,” Bloom says. “When we first came up here, there were ride-on Esky races up and down the street. You certainly wouldn’t bring your wife or girlfriend up here.”
Peter Bloom (back row, third from left) with Russell Smith (holding his baby girl) and three generations of Holden fans.Credit: Wolter Peeters
This is confirmed by other long-timers, who recall an intensity of cat-calling that would not go down well in the 21st century. Even today there is the occasional lone wolf. Like the shirtless guy drinking in the blow-up paddling pool, wearing sunnies and his best danger face as he shouts “bikini contest, 4 o’clock”.
Mostly, though, it is babies in earmuffs and quirky signs saying such things as: “Vegetarian: another word for the village idiot who can’t hunt or fish”. Bloom’s son is dressed head to toe in VB merch, reminding the group about the upcoming dress-up day. The theme is superheroes and participation is compulsory.
The penalty for non-compliance is wearing the Cinderella outfit left over from one of the guy’s bucks parties and brought especially for this purpose. The only other rule is that somebody must wake up at an ungodly hour on Sunday morning to claim their trackside spot under the usual tree by 2am. “If you don’t set up at that time,” warns Bloom, “you won’t get in.”
