How's that?

Brock was born during the 1994 event against the express instructions of his father, who didn't want to miss a minute of the action and has been to every big race since.

That helps explains his name, too.

No prizes for guessing it came from Peter Brock, King of the Mountain.

The nine-time Bathurst winner heard about the baby boy who had been named after him, and came down from the mountain to visit the newborn in hospital the next day.

''He held young Brock in his arms,'' father Steve Mottershead said, a knockabout auto engineer from Campbelltown in western Sydney who typifies the die-hards who live for this race every year.

''He brought gifts, too, T-shirts, hats, stubby holders, that sort of thing.'' And Steve ''Mottie'' Mottershead never forgot.

He and wife Jenny flew to Melbourne in 2006 for Brock's funeral, queuing up to get into St Paul's Cathedral after the driving legend died in a racing car crash in WA.

''We idolised Brockie for so long,'' he said yesterday as the V8 Supercars roared past his camp site.

''We had to be there to say our last goodbyes. He is still my hero, and will be forever.''

The Mottersheads are part of a group of several dozen V8 fanatics who every year for decades have set up tents at the same site at Bathurst.

Surrounding them are 33,000 acquaintances, many draped in the red of Holden or the blue of Ford, beer in one hand and barbecue tongs in the other. Their senior statesman is Greg Castle, from Liverpool in Sydney.

''I first came here as a 15-year-old in 1971,'' he said. ''I liked it so much I haven't missed a single year.''

Patrons this year were limited by police to one slab of beer per adult per day, which in these parts is known as a clampdown. But there is little trouble, which some attribute to a big police presence last year.

Brock Mottershead reckons a lot of the patrons might look a bit intimidating, what with all the tattoos and beers and so on, but they're actually good blokes.

''They're a bunch of pussies,'' the 14-year-old laughs. ''I've just tackled a couple of drunks in a game of bull rush. They're easy.''

Bathurst is all about Holden versus Ford, one of the great tribal rivalries in Australian sport.

Which explains why Blair Welsh is spooked by the three digits on the rego plate of the caravan he has hauled from Yeppoon.

''Take a look at this and me a Holden man,'' he said, pointing to the 888, the number of Ford hero Craig Lowndes' car.

Many of the arguments for and against Holden and Ford can be heard ad infinitum at a beer tent bearing the distinctly inappropriate sign ''The No Shit Hotel''.

Old-timers can remember when the mountain was like a zoo, a scene of car torchings, sofas thrown on bonfires and blazing, kero-soaked toilet rolls kicked like footballs.

''It was like Star Wars,'' Tony Magrin of Smithfield Sydney said, while attending his 30th race.

Richard Davison, whose dad Lex won the Australian formula one grand prix here in 1958, says it's much more civilised now than the first time he came to Mt Panorama.

''It rained for five days, everyone was knee deep in mud and it was quite scary walking around,'' he said.

''But this event's long-term future rests on having broad market appeal, not just for petrol heads.''

Back up at Mottie's camp, the boys are standing under a gum tree bearing a brass plaque dedicated to ''Babe'', one of their mates who has gone to the big V8 raceway in the sky.

They are drinking a toast to his memory and I ask them what was Babe's actual name?

''I dunno,'' one bloke replies.

''It's funny, that. You can know a bloke for years, and only know him by his nickname. That's the Australian way, isn't it?'' AAP