The year is 1978 and I’m driving my lorry, an Atkinson Borderer tractor and 40’ flat-bed trailer, east on the A13 and out of London. We’re carrying timber loaded at West India Dock; timber I’d roped and sheeted in the early morning drizzle. Now, with grubby hands and dampened by sweat and the dirty water sprayed from ropes that had been stretched across the load, I accelerate from traffic light to traffic light. The Gardner engine and constant-mesh gearbox struggle to get the lorry up to speed before I’m forced to brake.
I stop at a set of signals and hear the tones of Rod Stewart coming from the radio, which is only audible with the engine at tick over. I pull away again, happy to raise my foot from the clutch – the few seconds it takes to put the vehicle in gear and pull away is enough to set off a leg tremor. The seat, a right-angled article wrapped in what seems like wafer thin foam and plastic, vibrates in harmony with the cab. It’s like driving a jack-hammer.
Far away in a distant land, Kris Kristofferson is driving a Mack truck across a landscape bathed in sunshine. When nightfall comes, he will climb into the holiday home bolted onto the rear of his cab. I stop at a phone box and book my accommodation for the night. I have my overnight bag, containing the overalls I’ll need to sleep in.
Roll on 25 years and I’m driving a Mercedes Actros tractor and curtain side trailer. Up hill or down dale, it matters not; the speed is the same. My clean hands occasionally send the truck an e-mail via the buttons and controls positioned round the steering column in front of me, instructing it on how I like to be driven. Tonight I’ll sleep in my own bed in the warm cab behind me.
At about the time I was struggling along Commercial Road in my old lorry, Volvo were introducing their F10 model to some of the luckier drivers in this country. With it, we finally moved from lorry to truck – thank God.
I stop at a set of signals and hear the tones of Rod Stewart coming from the radio, which is only audible with the engine at tick over. I pull away again, happy to raise my foot from the clutch – the few seconds it takes to put the vehicle in gear and pull away is enough to set off a leg tremor. The seat, a right-angled article wrapped in what seems like wafer thin foam and plastic, vibrates in harmony with the cab. It’s like driving a jack-hammer.
Far away in a distant land, Kris Kristofferson is driving a Mack truck across a landscape bathed in sunshine. When nightfall comes, he will climb into the holiday home bolted onto the rear of his cab. I stop at a phone box and book my accommodation for the night. I have my overnight bag, containing the overalls I’ll need to sleep in.
Roll on 25 years and I’m driving a Mercedes Actros tractor and curtain side trailer. Up hill or down dale, it matters not; the speed is the same. My clean hands occasionally send the truck an e-mail via the buttons and controls positioned round the steering column in front of me, instructing it on how I like to be driven. Tonight I’ll sleep in my own bed in the warm cab behind me.
At about the time I was struggling along Commercial Road in my old lorry, Volvo were introducing their F10 model to some of the luckier drivers in this country. With it, we finally moved from lorry to truck – thank God.
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