Possum all class on and off road

By ALASTAIR SLOANE motoring editor

It was about 25 years ago. I was following Arnold Palmer at a golf tournament when a news agency photographer, a good mate, handed me a camera and a long lens.

"I've got another job," he said. "Be back in a few hours. Could you shoot Palmer for our files?" He tossed me a couple of rolls of film.

I tracked the sporting great throughout his round.

At one stage, Palmer was walking behind me along a shingle pathway thronged with admirers.

I was backing away from him, shooting pictures of him and his fans, when I found myself teetering on the edge of a bunker.

If he came any closer the long lens would be useless and I would be in the sand.

That's when he stopped and looked straight at the camera. He put his hand on the shoulder of a bystander, who also turned towards the camera.

A second or two, that's all. I took the picture. As he walked past I said, "Thank you." He said, "You're welcome." I thought, "You classy bugger."

Near the end of the round our paths crossed again. "Get some good pictures?" he asked. "Best one was when you stopped me from falling into the bunker," I said.

He chuckled and went on his way.

A couple of years ago, at the launch of the new Subaru Impreza in Queensland, I asked Possum Bourne if I could get a picture of him with the car.

We were at a driving centre north of the Gold Coast. It had a short, sealed race circuit and Bourne and his Subaru rallying team-mate Cody Crocker had been whizzing motoring scribes around it, showing off the car's grip and handling.

We drove out on the track, just the two of us. Bourne sat on the ground with his back against the front bumper. I shot some pictures at ground level, in the amateur hope of having his driving boots dominate the foreground.

He looked at me and the camera, inches from his feet. "Bet you're glad I've got my boots on," he joked.

Soon after I put my camera bag in the back seat and opened the passenger's door.

We were only a few hundred metres from the centre's parking lot. "Why don't you drive," Bourne said from the other side of the car.

He held open the driver's door as I jumped in and clipped on the seatbelt. Then he did something I never expected: he checked the belt for tension.

He then closed the door and walked around to the passenger's side.

That's when I whispered to myself, "You classy bugger".