I CONFESS to being a regular at the Bong Bong races in those wild and woolly days leading up to the 1985 when the event claimed to be the largest picnic race meeting in the world.
At a time when race crowds were declining around the place, Bong Bong was packing them in with nearly 35,000 punters descending on Jackson’s old dairy paddocks in 1985 for a beer and a punt.
However things were getting a bit out of hand, forcing the races to be scuttled for a few years until a more genteel membership model reignited things at the Wyeera track.
You could tell a million stories about a day at the Bong Bong races back then, but perhaps we shouldn’t. Well maybe we could share just a couple of tales.
I LOVED it up on that hill. Sort of like a gigantic party where people wore some weird attire. Some even wore nearly nothing.
And a few of the punters seemed to get quite passionate up on that hill. In fact I am pretty sure some locals now in their late 20s could even have been conceived at Bong Bong back in those days.
ANOTHER famous landmark at Wyeera was the portable green dunny.
They dominated the landscape on race day – a public inconvenience shared by men and women, millionaires and battlers. Every one of those loos could tell some great stories.
One year I was patiently waiting my turn behind about six blokes in a rapidly growing queue. Conversation turned to a bit of discussion with the adjoining line of women about how much time the ladies took in the toilet.
Naturally the ladies disagreed and six of them promptly agreed to have a race with six of the blokes. A bookmaker even set a board and bets were placed.
As two vacant green doors flew open, the first young lady flew in, confident of victory.
But the blokes had other ideas. All six shot straight into one dunny, did what had to be done and were out watching the races well before the five other young ladies had reached the starting blocks. Another resounding win for the blokes and a bitter blow for female liberation.
THE weather was always a bit of a lottery on race day. It was often quite sunny in the morning to suck in the crowds, then gale force winds would develop, followed by buckets of rain just before the last race.
You really haven’t lived until you’ve pushed a bogged car out of Bong Bong primed with a few cool libations, cold, wet, sunburned and broke – one of those memories that kind of sticks in your head for life.
And didn’t the local young farmers with their tractors make a killing.
They never charged much for a clapped out Volkswagen, but the lads moved in for the kill when they spotted a BMW, Volvo or Roller stuck in the mud.
Those young cockies would have made as much money after a wet Bong Bong with their tractor than three months fattening vealers down on the farm.
I AM told Dudley has a horse in at Bong Bong today. Don’t know his name, but he tells me he took it out to Dubbo races a few weeks back to give it a hit out before Bong Bong. This old stallion insists on being supplied with a local filly the night before he races. It’s a habit Dudley doesn’t like. “Every time you have a filly the night before a race, you are a worn out wreck the next morning.”
“Please yourself,” said the horse, “but if you don’t get me a filly for the night, I’ll run dead tomorrow.”
So Dudley weakened and searched Dubbo for a filly.
Unfortunately he failed. The best he could do was a toey young zebra from the Western Plains Zoo. He put it in the stable with his horse and insisted that he only do it once, otherwise he’d be too tired to race.
The horse agreed and Dudley went off to the pub. Next morning Dudley checked his horse. It could hardly stand up.
“What did I tell you,” said a very annoyed Dudley to his weary, weak looking horse.
“You promised you’d only do it once.”
“I didn’t even do it once,” pleaded the horse. “I spent the whole bloody night trying to get her pyjamas off.”
*Geoff Goodfellow has lived his life in the Southern Highlands, works for Wingecarribee Council and is well known in local sporting and social circles.
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