KEY POINTS:
Sometimes you get to peek behind the curtain and witness the moment acontest is about to begin.
If the cameras wander backstage at a weightlifting competition, the moment arrives when a wobbly giant suddenly snorts like a pig then starts slapping his chops around.
At the V8 Supercars in Hamilton, there is also such a moment, although not so spectacular.
The nerves start to jangle at the V8s when you see the pit crews put the tyres on the car.
This is an early warning sign that racing is at hand.
And you can witness this and so much more from just metres away.
It cost $35 for general admission into the practice sessions yesterday.
For $15 more, you purchased a pit pass, the great-value passport to the inner sanctum.
You don't often get this close to the nub of sport.
The teams' tents are opened at the back to the public, revealing the quietly precise preparations of the crews while the drivers sometimes mingle with fans.
These drivers are blokes who appear, almost to a man, to have instantaneous movie star smiles for the cameras, faultless patience, and a wonderful rapport with thosesupporters.
Sport feels so alive when you attend something new and witness stuff like that.
Fresh as it may be, you also feel your age when the grid girls look like schoolgirls. The biggest shock, though, is when you find that many of the drivers appear so young they could be the boy next door.
Motor racing is all about excruciatingly loud noise and the fans hear it as a badge of honour. A radio station prankster walked aroundHamilton with a billboard proclaiming "Go Crusaders" and "Murph's a Knob", but even he wouldn't dare wander around the track claiming to drive a 1.2 litre hybrid.
Hamilton was thick with the extraordinary roar of motor racing engines yesterday as if Monaco or Melbourne had come to town. Yes, it tried to get all dressed up to match motor racing's finest by hiring a load of girls who were all dressed down.
But if you looked around, Hamilton's V8 venture also had a homestyle charm.
Hamilton Girls High School altered the term dates by a few days so its self-funding hostel could accommodate more than a hundred paying guests over the weekend.
Around the corner you could get roadside soup from a character called Smudge, who was also hosting beer-swilling mates who looked like the Wild Bunch.
Apart from having a way with bacon hocks, Smudge's otherspeciality _ according to his fence sign _ was supplying the finest in strippers for parties.
Another bloke had set up a liquorice stall, a first in my sports-attending experience, and a further indication that the V8s are attracting all sorts.
Once inside, you could buy earplugs in fluorescent orange from the Sea Scouts. But before the ears were even threatened, the eyes took a battering, as is always the case in motor racing.
Motorsport is the king of sponsorship signs and the only item bigger than a bread plate not covered by them were the mussel fritters.
But petrolheads love the noise and I'm not sure that earplugs are the best way to fit in _ any wearer reeked of being an outsider.
Subtle skin tones might be more the go.
The Sea Scouts weren't doing a roaring trade and maybe they could work on that one.
Motor racing does have a sensual side though.
While standing outside the tent of one of the less popular drivers, the lonely vigil was broken by two blokes stopping by.
"You can smell the oils mate," said one with such passion that you could almost see a clear and perfectly formed drop of 10W 40 sliding down a bottle.
"Lovely," replied the other.
