The long way to Bathurst, part one: the drive

GAZOO RACING CLUB correspondent Sam and his photographer mate Bernie borrowed a glacier-white GR Yaris, pointed it towards the storm and drove the long way to Bathurst.

Akio Toyoda’s mentor, the Master Driver Hiromu Naruse once said ‘roads make cars’. He meant, if you want to understand what makes a great car, you can’t just test it. You have to challenge it. So, my old friend Bernie and I thought: what better way to get properly acquainted with a GR Yaris than take the longest, twistiest route we could find from Sydney to the Bathurst 1000 and back?

By the final day – as floodwaters swallowed the smaller bridge out of town – we’d clocked about two Bathurst 1000’s worth of kilometres, given the GR Yaris a new mud-pie paint job and experienced three soggy days of high-octane drama on the mountain.

I like to think Naruse-san would’ve approved.

Day one

Not far out of the lot, as we wound down Boundary Road towards the harbour for lunch, we got a fast education in why drivers love the GR Yaris’s sharp handling and reactive dynamics. Then, after a quick toastie, we were on the A1 heading to Bermagui – one of Bernie’s favourite fishing towns. At our first fuel stop, just outside Heathcote, we were warned by a man in a worn leather jacket about the oncoming storm. Undeterred, we swung back onto the highway and set a course for the south coast’s most mysterious bay: Mystery Bay.

Mystery Bay earned its name on a calm morning 142 years ago (almost to the day), when five men sailed just north of the Bermagui township in search of new gold fields. They were a crew of experienced seafarers, led by a respected surveyor named Lamont Young. By nightfall their small ship was found empty. It had drifted onto the rocks with its sail tied down. A patch of vomit had dried on deck, a single bullet was found lodged in the hull, and damage to planks seemed to have come from inside the vessel. But no trace of the men has ever been found.

As I read about the mystery the clouds started to look a bit evil and, backing up towards the beachfront, the rains finally broke. It was getting too dark to look for bones of the Bermagui Five anyway. We did, however, discover a commemorative plaque and the smell of fresh spring rain on sand. So, we called it a success and headed to the pub for a parma.

Day two

Mister Hope is a little café near the Bermagui docks run by some dog-loving legends. It serves great coffee, baked treats and a little piece of road food perfection: a poached egg pide with a stretchy, slightly sour base topped with melted cheese and little flecks of spring onion.

After breakfast we took the chance to stretch our legs around town. Down by the water we met a particularly chuffed looking fisherman named Reid who was tagging up an export-quality catch after four days on the water. Then we checked out the town’s famous ocean pool where a swimmer was happily braving the cold seas. Just before we left, a whale lifted its fin in the distance and waved us on our way.

We climbed to the highlands up the B72. The plan was to use Nimmitabel as a base for the night so we could see how the GR Yaris handled on mountain roads, before continuing on to Canberra. Nimmitabel is an old sawmilling town with exactly one pub, one elephant statue, one bakery and one bed and breakfast. It also has a big bell – which was forged in 1920 and imported all the way from Michigan, mainly because they thought a town with a name like Nimmitabel needs a bell. Which is fair enough.

After a couple of deliciously flaky and chunky pies it was time for some more serious driving. First, we veered off the highway to test the GR Yaris on some muddy back roads. Then we slashed through the driving rain, up the Snowy River Way to Dead Horse Gap.

The wind was icy and little flame robins were hopping among the snowgums when I got out to take a breather. Then, a dreadlocked man named Tom emerged from the Cascade Trail wearing a massive pack and a smile too bright for the conditions. He told us he’d been hiking for four days to the mouth of the Murray. The weather had turned on his way back up the mountain. He accepted our invitation to the pub, before rushing back to camp before hot showers tapped off for the day.

Day three

You won’t find a television at the Royal Arms B&B in Nimmitabel. But you will find Grant and Di. They’ve got eight grown kids (“some people just don't know when to stop – they’re having too much fun,” says Di) and they lived off the land for ten years with no power before buying the old pub and dusting off the welcome mat.

They’re the kind of family that’ll build a chicken coop out of an old trampoline and open their doors to anyone stuck in a snowstorm. We met them by the fireplace for a homely breakfast and some yarns then we were on road again for a spirited little detour down Old Bombala Road (thanks to Kim from the Kosciuszko Automotive Monaro Stages Rally for that tip). From there, it was nonstop to Canberra.

Day four

You have a couple of options when driving from the nation’s capital to Bathurst. If you’re in a rally-bred homologation special, it’s not a bad idea to head up via M23 through Goulburn. It was around then that Bernie discovered the Intelligent Transmission button. The setting automatically blips the throttle on downshifts, which rev-matches the changes and keeps the drivetrain from jerking around.

By then the rain had cleared and the sky had gone a greyish-violet. Potholes notwithstanding, the winding stretch through the Abercrombie River National Park and onto Dog Rock’s Road was nothing but clean air and great bends.

But by the home stretch it had become apparent we were actually chasing the rain clouds, Bill-Paxton style. But we had Tina Turner and Cold Chisel to push us through the final leg into Bathurst. Engines roared in the distance and choppers filled the skies. Then those same skies opened up once again, harder than before. Not to worry, if the story of Mystery Bay teaches us anything, it’s that storms can happen even on a clear day. You may as well push on and enjoy it.