THE DAY I WAS DESPERATELY SEEKING DARIO
A racing car driver, me, an oversized Bulletin shirt and a moment in Indy history that will never be repeated ...
KYLY Clarke, Jennifer Hawkins … and me.
We were all, once upon a time, grid girls of the GC.
Although the former were actual Miss Indy entrants who went on to have the world – or the (Miss) Universe – at their feet, I was simply a working girl. For the newspaper, you understand.
While they were clad in Lycra, I was wearing cropped cargo pants and a Bulletinbranded golf tee that fell to my knees – so pretty much same/ same.
Now, I’ll be honest. I hate car racing. It’s noisy and, in my opinion, pointless. I would sooner sit on the kerb of the Gold Coast Highway and watch the traffic go past – or, more likely, watch the traffic sit at a standstill.
But I was being paid to attend as a journalist, so for years I did my duty at what I will always call the Indy. And it was awesome.
It’s so not about the race (I still don’t understand the attraction), but the party atmosphere … well, that needed no explanation.
As a young journalist, it was my job to report on the colour. And it was a literal rainbow — red suits, orange tans, yellow hair, green beer and blue language.
And, of course, plenty of flesh colour.
The 2004 Indy was the most infamous in Gold Coast motorsport history with the crew aboard an Iroquois army helicopter disciplined after holding a sign from the chopper encouraging women to show their … assets.
The irony being that many of the women watching – or being watched – from balconies needed little encouragement.
But it was at the Indy of 1998 that I encountered my own balcony drama.
There was a hot new driver on track (and I’m not talking about his racing ability), a Scotsman by the name of Dario Franchitti.
During some part of the weekend (it was all the same to me – cars were driving), Franchitti crashed and I was dispatched with a photographer to find him.
Starting at the Surfers Paradise Marriott where he was staying, we lucked out when we spotted him gazing out at the pool from his balcony. The photographer rapidly worked out not only which level Franchitti was on, but even the room number.
Waltzing through the lobby like we owned it, myself clad in those cargo capris and giant men’s shirt, we made it to the lifts and up to his floor.
The photographer decided it was best if I did the actual dirty work, seeing as his 3ftlong camera lenses were a little intrusive. Whereas I was just a small girl in a big shirt. And so I knocked. Now, understand, I had zero idea of what I would ask him. “So … how does it feel to crash, loser?”
There was little time to worry, however, as the door suddenly swung open.
And there stood Dario, in nothing but his tighty whities. I must have said something, or maybe just drooled, because next thing the door was slammed in my face. The photographer never got the photo, I never got the story … but I’ll always have the memory. Also the memory of
running away from the hotel manager after Franchitti ratted on us. I thought we shared a moment?
When Franchitti returned (and won) the following year, I wondered if we would pick up where we left off. And indeed, the door did remain closed since he brought his soon-tobe wife, Hollywood starlet Ashley Judd, with him.
Sadly, I haven’t been back to the Surfers street circuit since 2005. It’s literally a different race. And, like Kyly and Jennifer, I’m a different woman. Married with children, my idea of partying is staying up until 9pm.
Despite the trials and tribulations of traffic and chaos the event creates, I hope it lives on. It’s not just good for our local economy, but our colour. Just please, don’t make me watch the actual race.