Racers love to bitch, it's inherent in our souls. Weather, starting times, venues, accomodations, food -- you name it, we've complained about it. And nothing brings out the moaning like the annual sojourn to Surfer's Paradise. Last Sunday night, the drivers, mechanics, engineers, PR types and media mongrels flew to Los Angeles for our 11:20 p.m. departure to Brisbane. Naturally, it was a zoo. It took the better part of two hours to slog through the line to get our tickets and then we were sent to another endless line to watch our bags go through the metal dectectors (the highlight being the large case in Paul Tracy's possession which we all surmised were spare wishbones and front wings for this weekend's combat). You'd think LAX would be one of the more sophisticated airports in the world for the international screening process but, naturally, it was one antiquainted machine being manned by a few skateboarders who weren't really interested in the speed factor or the fact it was approaching 11 o'clock. The PKV boys and myself sprinted to the gate only to find that boarding hadn't even begun so, again, it was the wait mode. We understand the drivers fly business class because, after all, they are the show and that's the pecking order. But some of the other folks in business and first class didn't want to make eye contact with us peasants who were facing Middle Seat Hell for 15 hours. Sitting in a middle seat for 13-15 hours is one of the great character builders on this planet. It requires flexibility, patience and a creative imagination to remain sane and not strangle the snoring, coughing person seated next to you who tries to invade your limited leg space. But, just as you're starting to feel sorry for yourself, you reflect on a couple of stories you heard a few hours earlier. Greg Wrzensinski, the parts guru for Carl Haas, remembers the first trip to Down Under in 1991. "We left Chicago, flew to LA and then went to Honolulu. From there, it was on to Aukland, New Zealand where we had a two-hour layover," he recalled. "That was a drunk fest and then we got back on the plane and flew into Brisbane. "Total time, takeoff in Chicago to touchdown in Brisbane, was 36 hours." Tim Coffeen, longtime mechanic for Newman/Haas, has been to all 16 Champ Car races in Australia during his four decades in Champ Car and gets travel weary like most. But his father's ordeal in World War II keeps things in perspective. "My dad was a Marine and he got on a troop ship in San Diego and sailed to Calidonia, which is just south of Queensland," said Coffeen. "He spent three weeks on that ship, jammed together with thousands of Marines and he said it was pure hell." That made me feel like such a candy ass for moaning about a 13-hour flight and watching free movies on Quantas, the primo carrier in the world which even makes its coach passengers feel kinda special especially with their middle of the night snacks. And when we woke up this morning and looked out our window and saw the sun rising over the ocean, it made us all feel a little guilty. A lot of people never get to come to a place as pretty and friendly as Surfer's Paradise. It's a pretty good gig and I vowed not to bitch anymore. At least until Monday morning when I get the Brisbane airport.