Warning, warning ...

One of my clearest childhood memories is the way my mum would lead my sister, our dog and me across the main street in the part of East London where our family lived. The process went something like this. Grasp your children’s wrists so tightly that their little hands turn pale due to lack of circulation, and shorten dog lead so much that dog is on hind legs. Adopt an expression of sheer panic, passing a feeling of abject terror to children and dog, which now thinks some sort of attack is imminent. Frantically turn your head from right to left so quickly that you feel dizzy. Wait until all reasonable gaps in the traffic have passed and then, when a suitably large vehicle is approaching, run into the road dragging the entire next generation of your family with you – along with its dog. When your eight-year-old son utters an expletive, threaten to tell his father.

Even in this distant, somewhat exaggerated view, it is obvious she had made an assessment of the situation that was flawed. But that’s what we often do, especially when under pressure, we come up with the wrong solution - it’s part of being human. The possibility of misjudgement by pedestrians is why so much is done in our towns and cities to try and control their movement. However, the density of vehicles and people in many areas is so high that as soon as the traffic stops the two almost blend. People cross the road between stationary vehicles: to get to the bank, the office, the other shops, the bus stop, the station – It’s like the incoming tide pouring between pebbles on a beach. Motorcycles filtering past vehicles and high cabs on lorries simply add to the danger and general confusion of the busy street. Pedestrian fences are erected to separate people from vehicles; but they only work up to a point. Crossings are installed; but in numbers, if traffic flow is to be maintained, that are barely adequate. Factor in the number and variety of vehicles that use the road and the whole thing becomes too demanding for any system to work completely.

Part of the solution is for pedestrians to treat the road as a killing ground. It helps to think about the efforts made to separate them from the railway, despite the fact that it is easy to predict the path of a train, and compare these measures with the situation on the road. When human flesh meets the front of a train it is often as a result recklessness or suicide. On the road, flesh and metal often share the same area and a vehicle can change direction at any time. Just think of the railway as a bacon slicer that meat is fed into; and the road as a chopping board. It’s probably no surprise, then, that every year in European capital cities 43% of road death involves pedestrians. But realistic help is at hand – help like none that has gone before - because this time the human factor is being removed from the equation. Now, vehicle manufacturers have the means to take significant steps towards solving the pedestrian problem.

Although vehicle front shape has gradually changed to meet a demand to make them more pedestrian friendly, other priorities have  always dominated OEM design strategy.  Up until now pedestrian safety, like emissions, seems to have been placed in the ‘if we must’ box while cost, occupant safety, performance and style (not necessarily in that order) sells cars and, understandably, go in the ‘customer/priority/we love you’, box. But technology in electronics (CAN/multiplexing etc) and the associated proliferation of sensing and sensor design are changing all that. While manufactures become less passive towards pedestrian safety, so do the options that they are able to offer.

Traditionally, passive systems have been similar to those protecting the vehicle’s occupants. Air bags that deploy on impact due to a detected change in speed over a certain magnitude are reacting in a way similar to ‘pop-up’ bonnets that rise on impact with a pedestrian. Although each is important, in fact vitally important, they only come into play after impact and when sensor information is evaluated. However,  vehicles are now becoming more active in their sensing with RADAR (radio detection and ranging) and LIDAR (light detection and ranging) attempting to identify and track pedestrian movement prior to a collision. The possibilities promise the greatest breakthrough in pedestrian protection since the wheel clamp: collision avoidance through reliable driver warning and, hopefully, remote braking.  Some pedestrian collisions, though, do not involve an impact that necessarily causes death or injury - but they do involve one that almost always results in death.

In slow moving traffic one of the most effective pieces of equipment in the ‘kitchen’ called the road has been the lorry – and in particular the high cab. A modern lorry cab is very tall, as is the drivers seating position. Many lorry drivers have to live in vehicles on extended trips, so a tall cab with a flat floor gives greater comfort, letting the driver stand up and move around more freely during rest periods. One way of achieving this is to raise the driver’s compartment above the height of the engine. The result is very high cabs. One answer would be to have American style trucks with bonnets, the engine positioned in front of the cab. However, in this country, as in much of Europe, the roads would not allow the extra length, so to be able to use a trailer of reasonable size tractor units have to be short. Tall cabs it is then - but what about pedestrians? The Elderly in particular with their failing senses are the most common victims of high cabs.  In stop-start, queuing traffic, people can 'disappear' below the front of a high cab.  Here, pedestrians are knocked over by the impact and then run over - the result is almost always death. 

New legislation has seen the mandatory fitment of cab blind-spot mirrors that look down the front of the vehicle. Like all mirrors they rely on the driver actually using them – a check that is not always remembered. Mirrors are also only monitored periodically – no matter how short that period is. Once again, some form of sensing is the way forward (literally) when it comes to pedestrian detection, but this time, electronics might not be the only answer. It may be that Fresnel wide angle lenses, fixed to the lower part of the windscreen within the peripheral view of the driver, could be used to detect movement in front of the cab. Drivers would be alerted by movement in the lens, which would, in effect, warn them to look in the safety mirror.

Whatever system is chosen, the need to take some of the responsibility away from the human participants in any collision should be paramount. By constantly monitoring and then reacting (faster than is humanly possible) active and passive systems should have great effect on reducing the number of pedestrian casualties on our roads. Machines controlled mechanically and not manually; systems with predictable results. It takes me back to the the kitchen of my childhood home.  Next to the chopping board, we had a toaster - a  machine programmed to put an end to charcoal and jam for breakfast.

The Lost Samurai

It was a cold, misty night that saw me heading south-west on the old A303 – a winding road with hardly any stretches of dual-carriageway.  I owned an ERF tractor unit back then, which had a gearbox that kept me busy and, thankfully, wide awake.  As I rounded a sharp and tightly wooded bend, peering into the gloom for the road ahead, I saw a figure standing directly in my path.  It seemed a strange shape at first, with bulging shoulders and knees, and wearing some kind of helmet.  The shape waved and without hesitation, I stopped. 

I saw a motorcycle lying on the grass verge and climbed down from the cab.  The shape approached and when it was no more than a few feet from me, suddenly stopped and bowed, its head dropping sharply, chin on chest.  Somewhat startled, I stepped back, but no sooner had I done so, the shape straightened and held out its right hand.

“I am Tsuyoshi,” It said, removing the crash helmet.  “People call me Yoshi.”

“Hello Yoshi,” I said, shaking the hand.  “TW.  What happened?”

Yoshi was a young man of about twenty years.  He was short, well, compared to me anyway, but powerfully built – that was obvious despite all his padded motorcycle gear.

“I am at the university in Exeter, I got lost in the fog and fell from my motorcycle”, Yoshi explained.  “Now my motorcycle is broken”.

He was right, the machine was too badly damaged to ride, so I told Yoshi that I was headed for Exeter and that he could travel with me, if he so wished.  He accepted my offer gratefully.

We hid the motorcycle amongst the trees, in order to protect it from local cannibals, I told Yoshi, and were soon on our way.  Yoshi looked around the inside of my cab, nodding with apparent approval. 

“You have very good truck”, He said.

“It’s a bit old and unsophisticated but it’ll do ‘till I can afford a better one”, I told him.

“Sophisticated is not always good”, Yoshi said earnestly, turning in his seat to face me, “Although it is important to learn and understand all the secrets of your chosen path, the best way will always be simplicity over superficial effect.”

I smiled. “Thank God”, I said. “ERF and Foden will be around forever”.

Yoshi turned back toward the windscreen and stared into the mist.

Yoshi appeared a very serious person; his facial expression was unsmiling and fixed with a look of continual enquiry.  I was about to ask what he was studying at Exeter: was he a trainee magistrate perhaps, or even a trainee Judge?  Maybe he was going to work behind the counter at a HGV test station.  But Yoshi volunteered the information, unprompted: he was to be an engineer.  Did he come from a family line of engineers?  Apparently he did but more significantly, or so it was to Yoshi, his forefathers were bushi.

“What’s bushi? I said.

“Bushi means warrior”, Yoshi straightened in his seat as he spoke, as if the family bushis might be watching.

“Like Samurai”? I asked.

“Yes, like Samurai” He replied.

“And why is this important to you, Yoshi”? I enquired, anticipating an unthinking fascination with butchery, death and all the forms of human suffering normally found on late night TV and at serious road accidents.

“Honour”, he said, “Loyalty and morality”.

I pondered this for a short while.  Honour, maybe; loyalty, almost certainly; but morality?  Yoshi had obviously seen my puzzled look. 

“The way of the Samurai is a philosophy for all life, not just for fighting, TW.  Morality in good deed; done not for appreciation but for the goodness of the deed itself, like you have done for me, tonight.

I must have still looked a little confused because Yoshi went on.

“They were law abiding and accepted those who had what they did not, and were compassionate to those who did not have what they had.”

“Not every one’s like that, I said.  Have a look at the size of the padlock I’ve got on my diesel cap”.

“But are you like that”? Yoshi asked.

“Yes, of course, I like to do things the right way.  Mind you”, I grinned, “I never was much good with padlocks”.

“And you have honour, TW?”  This was a question.

“I don’t know if I know, if you know what I mean”, I said.

“What are you carrying in your trailer”? Yoshi had once again turned towards me.

“Bog rolls.”  Now it was his turn to look confused.  “Toilet tissue”, I explained, “About twenty thousand of the bloody things”.

“And they are to go to Exeter?”

“Yes, by six tomorrow morning”, I replied.

“And if they do not arrive?”

“Then, well I don’t know.  I don’t get paid, or maybe I get paid less, I’m not sure.”

“No, TW, you do not know, because your sense of duty tells you that they will be there, and on time.  That is honour; you do not even contemplate them actually not getting there.”

I sat to attention, mocking his words. “Yoshi”, I said, “If I fail, Budleigh Salterton will not be able to wipe its arse for a week”.

Yoshi turned back to face the windscreen, and once again stared into the mist ahead.

We continued in silence for a while, Yoshi occasionally glancing sideways at me, watching as I worked the gearbox up and down through the ranges.  Even with such a light load the Rolls Royce engine struggled on the steeper inclines.   When we started into Blackdown Hills and the long climb out of Somerset, we were reduced to jogging pace. I saw that Yoshi was tensed and leaning forward in his seat, as if willing on a mighty horse.   I glanced down and realised my posture was the same.

“She works hard”, Yoshi said.  I didn’t get the chance to reply, for no sooner had he said it, she stopped working hard.

The engine lost power and began to falter and vibrate; we lost speed quickly.  I brought us to a halt, as close to the verge as I could. 

“Bollocks”, I said, and scrambled down from the cab.

 “What must we do”? Yoshi asked, as he climbed down to join me.

“Do?  There’s nothing we can do.  We’ll have to wait it out ‘till morning when I’ll hitch a lift to a phone box and call someone out.”

“But what of your ‘bog roll’, what will be said if you don’t arrive with them in the morning?"  Yoshi looked genuinely concerned.

“Oh, they’ll probably tear me of a strip”, I joked, although I couldn’t raise a smile.

“But you must get there, TW, you cannot be defeated by this engine.”

“What do you suggest, that we get our armour on, our swords out and charge it”?  I was annoyed and knew my sarcasm must have sounded rude.

“Yes, TW.  I do.”  Yoshi was staring me straight in the face. “You have your armour, your swords; the things you need to win this battle”.

I looked at him bemused.  “Yoshi, this is a broken-down ERF, not a marauding Mongol.”

“TW, you have tools, I rested my feet on their box all the way.  You mend truck.”

“I probably couldn’t, Yoshi, It sounds like it’ll need some new fuel piping.  She’s sucking air, I’ve had it before”, I said.

“But you must try, it is the only way”. Yoshi now had two enemies: a marauding ERF and my lack of spirit.  “The outcome will be what the outcome will be; it is not for us to be concerned.  But we fight to win”.

With a sigh I resigned myself to a night of dirty hands, and clothes that would eventually reek of diesel.  With Yoshi’s help I managed to get the cab tilted and with the engine chugging, I cracked open each injector feed union in turn and bled them.  When we had a reasonably smooth tick over, we lowered the cab, scrambled back up, and with fingers crossed, pulled away.  Our initial assault was a success, but the enemy soon regrouped for a counterattack.

We continued through Blackdown and crossed the Devon border after a steady downhill run.  When we hit the hill on the other side, our problem returned and once again I pulled in to the side to repeat the process of bleeding the injectors.  On and on we went, repeating the procedure every five miles or so, until we reached Exeter in the early hours, both of us grimy and exhausted.  I had decided to go straight to the warehouse I was to deliver to, and from where, Yoshi said, he could walk across the city to the university campus.  Shortly after we arrived, Yoshi climbed down from the cab for the last time and stood back from the open passenger door. I said goodbye and thanked him for his help.  

“No, thank you for stopping, TW, you did not have to”, Yoshi said.  “I suppose you will now have to wait until someone comes to fix truck.”

“No”, I told him, “I’ll have to make a more permanent repair myself; I’ve got to be in Honiton by midday, to reload”.

Yoshi bowed, his head dropped sharply, chin on chest.  “Bushi”, he said.

Little Ships

Ninety Five per cent of the UK's international trade arrives or leaves by sea... the Government provides support to the industry, with the aim of maintaining and increasing the seafaring skills base...

After reading this on the on the DfT website recently, under the heading Our Ships - Your Future, I was heartened to see that a similar Government policy seems to exist in the road transport sector in the form of a young drivers scheme. But encouraging suitable young drivers into the industry is one thing; keeping them and maintaining their skills is another.

It is estimated that 88% of all the freight transported in this country is by road (Eurostat 2007). The same source states that lorries collecting from a central depot can deliver anywhere in the UK and return within 24 hours. Just like the ships that bring freight into this country, these vehicles are responsible for creating the standard of living we have all come to enjoy. And, like the people who drive and operate them, they are essential if we are to keep it.

We seem to have just settled into the idea of digital tachographs and Euro 5 engines, when a new constraint is being placed on the industry. The onset of driver CPC’s is potentially one of the greatest burdens we have seen for many years. In time, the cost of this bureaucratic monster will be felt by both driver and operator alike. When spread over a period of five years the requirement does not seem too great, but who is going to pay up for training until they have to? With the minimum block of training apparently set to seven hours, who’s going to write-off a day, until they have to? And, unless they are absolutely sure of the loyalty of their drivers, what firm is going to invest in this training, until they have to? CPC will be allowed to creep up on us all. Enforcement is one way to ensure compliance but it should not be the only course considered, as the DfT recognises with the shipping industry:

...the Government meets roughly up to half of the training costs through the Support for Maritime Training scheme... The Government also supports the industry through the Seafarer Earnings Deduction tax relief scheme... .

The Government is right to encourage safety on our roads through training, as it does at sea. But it should remember: we need the little ships as much as we do the big ones.

I Can See Clearly Now

I look at my forehead and I still can’t quite make it out, even though I’ve rinsed and rubbed it a few times.  But there’s something there.

“Daddy, are you in there?”

“No.”

“Very funny.  Come on, I need to use the bathroom, I’m going out in half an hour”

“It’s been a long and hard week, just give me a moment and I’ll be with you”.

“Where did you go?  We haven’t seen you since last Sunday.”

“Let’s see.  I tipped the first part of the load late on Monday.  Then it was cross-county to a drop just north of the Border, tip and reload, head south, then south-west before finally coming home.”

“It must be great driving around all day in your truck; better than going to school, anyway.  And I’ve had to do my paper round every morning.”

I learnt a bit myself, this week.  Mind you, you’ve probably earned more.”

“Oh yeah, what have you learnt, then?”

It looks different, blotchy maybe, somehow marked, I don’t know.  There’s something not quite right.

“There’s something not quite right, that’s what.  During the week, I was overtaken by two foreign trucks, both from the same firm and obviously running together - too close together for my liking.  They couldn’t care less about speed cameras or the possibility of being pulled over;  they were gone in a flash.”

“Gone to bleedin’ Kantsommonzovakia.”

 “Do you mind?  Where did you hear language like that?”

“You.”

“Oh, well, yes, well don’t let your mother hear it, she doesn’t share our sense of humour.”

“Your sense of humour, you mean.”

“Our sense of humour my little princess, you always laugh at my jokes.”

“Dad, I never laugh at your jokes, because they are NOT funny.”

“Charming.  Where is your mum, anyway?”

“In your bedroom.  She muttered something about having to go on The Game, took one of her pills and went for a lie down”

“Diesel bill?”

“Arrived this morning”

“Thought so.”

They actually look like very faint lines; I can see them standing out against the rest of my forehead.  No mistake, it’s almost like something’s been pressing against it.

“Does diesel cost that much money, then?”

“Enough to make me weep, sometimes.”

“You never cry.  You said the only time you ever cried was in that film Convoy when Kris Kriswhatshisface drove his Mack through the brick wall of a jail and scratched all the chrome and paint”.

“That was a joke”.

“Ah, one of your jokes.”

“Don’t be cheeky.  You don’t see many continentals in the queue for the pumps; I’ve learned that as well.  They get their diesel a lot cheaper, do our European competitors.”

“Do they use that pink stuff mum says we should get?”

“Red stuff, and yes, in a way they do.  They’re allowed to use fuel that costs less than we are forced to pay.”

“That’s not fair.  Do they pay more road tax when they’re over here, because they get their diesel cheaper?”

“They don’t pay any road tax.”

“Cool.  I’ve just decided on my choice of A Levels: French, German and Lorry Driving.”

Mmm, they’re definitely lines.  And slowly, ever so slowly, they’re becoming more distinct.  I think I can see a pattern emerging.

“You know your trouble, dad, you’re too nice.  Mum says you let everyone walk all over you.  She says, you pay all your bills, you keep the truck spotless, you don’t break the law.  Mum says you should stand up to these people who demand money off you.  Make them suffer for a bit.  And DON’T give in so easily”.

“I’ll try.”

“Oh, by the way, can I take twenty pounds out of your wallet for tonight?  We’re going to the swimming club.”

“No.”

“Please, Please.”

“Oh, OK then.”

Some are vertical, covering the entire height of my forehead, some are curved, and a couple look diagonal.  It could be significant.  Even the smallest things can be important.

 “Why do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“You know, run a lorry for a living?”

“The food on your plate; the roof over your head; the money in your pocket.”

“No, you know what I mean.  Why truck driving, of all things?”

“Freedom; personal satisfaction.  And the trucks – ‘boys and toys’, as your mum says. “

“Mum says you think of nothing but trucks and always have.  They dominate your life – and ours, for that matter.  That’s why you can’t see what these people are doing to you.  She says it’s always been the same.”

“Scania, my darling, that’s not true and you know it.

“But with everything seemingly stacked against you, why carry on?”

“I do wonder sometimes.  There aren’t many other jobs that can see you fined for simply making a mistake – the police don’t go into offices and hand out tickets to workers who don’t do their paperwork properly.  Or jobs where you’re away from home most nights.  A job where the responsibility is such that you can be prosecuted for any number of reasons, yet when it comes to pay, well.  A job where ….”

“Daddy, are you alright?”

“Sorry, I was getting a bit carried away.  As I said, it’s been a long, hard week.”

I’ve got it! They’re letters.  There’s an ‘M’ and, what? Yes, it’s a ‘U’ and, look there’s a ‘G’.  I can see it all clearly now. 

The Rest is History

I find it hard to imagine anyone falling asleep at the wheel in London. Is it possible that a lorry driver could nod off while negotiating Hyde Park Corner, or while trying to avoid the dispatch riders, cyclists and pedestrians on the Kilburn High Road? I very much doubt it. So, when I see enforcement officers poring over tachograph charts and printouts beside lorries pulled over on the A1 at Holloway, North London, I often wonder if they are doing it for some other reason than to detect tired drivers.

It’s easy to be sceptical about some traffic enforcement and even speculate about the ‘easy’ money made from persecuting otherwise law abiding people. When so much effort is seen to be put into catching the driver, and so little obvious effort into to catching the real criminal, it’s no wonder people get riled. It’s as if a murderer, robber or rapist is thought to be less of a villain than an errant motorist. The truth is, though, while there is a vast difference between motoring offences and more serious criminal acts, the outcome does not always reflect this perceived level of importance.

I wonder how many police officers have knocked on someone’s door in order to tell them that a loved one has been killed on the road, only for that person to say, “Thank God, I thought you were going to tell me the car had been nicked”. I hope, none. So, some accidents have the most serious consequence of all and although where an offence has been committed it’s a motoring one, the result is sometimes the worst imaginable. Sitting in my lounge, recuperating after a busy week and thinking back to those lorries stopped on the Holloway Road, I ponder about the significance of those road checks.

According to RoSPA, 20% of serious accidents on motorways and monotonous roads are caused by tiredness. Due to the amount of trucks on the road and the demands of the job, I can imagine a number of heavy vehicles being involved in these statistics. In this context, it’s easier to see the importance of the tachograph regulations and their implementation. Looking through a guide produced by the police (Tachograph: A Practical Guide to the Rules and Regulations) I am trying to get a feel for the rules and what they actually mean; how they are enforced and what tachographs actually do to ensure compliance with the regulations.

Although rules intended to control the amount of time a driver can work had been around for some time, tachographs were not introduced in this country until 1977 (and after a number of false starts). The instruments recorded speed, time and distance on a waxed paper chart. Charts are still used in older lorries but those registered after 2006 have a digital instrument and record onto a ‘smart’ card inserted by the driver. Drivers hours legislation was originally introduced at the behest of the trade union movement in order to prevent the exploitation of workers by unscrupulous employers after WWII. Later EU regulations, however, have been more geared towards safety and some of the most important parts are those that relate to rest.

Rest is often defined as a period of inactivity: a time when the body is still and its functions decrease, so that relaxation and recuperation results. Sleep and rest differ in that when we sleep the body shuts down much more. Sleep is seen by some as the natural state of rest. Both are important: sleep deprivation, a tool of the interrogator that borders on torture, and lack of rest, causes the body and mind to be unable to function properly. When we drive, lack of concentration and increased reaction times are not only the first signs but also the first dangers. However, the body needs to repair and create new cells in all its systems, and for it to fully recharge a period of sleep is necessary; it is not sufficient to just rest. So, how do the tachograph regulations deal with the importance of the restful state of sleep?

The answer is that they don’t – but the wider law does. Drivers hours regulations now come under EU Regulation 561/2006, which says that a rest is defined as an uninterrupted period where the driver can freely dispose of his time. Rest cannot be taken in a moving vehicle but where taken in a (stationary) vehicle, suitable sleeping arrangements must be available. If rest is taken on a ferry or train a driver must have access to a bunk or couchette. In this way, I suppose the regulations are giving the driver every incentive to get some sleep. If he doesn’t, and drives while tired, then a much harsher piece of law takes over.

Sections 1 and 2 of the Road Traffic Act 1988 deal with Dangerous Driving and each carry prison sentences as a maximum punishment. There are a number of aggravating factors that are seen to increase the culpability of a driver at the time of an incident. Driving when knowingly deprived of sleep or rest is one of them – in other words, in breach of the regulations or just plain tired. There are, however, always people willing to break any law, no matter what the cost - so the law insists on help from all quarters.

According to my guide to tachograph use, employers can be held responsible for their drivers’ actions. This can be seen in the part of the regulations that says that a driver cannot have with them any paper record older than 42 calendar days. This gives the operator sight of the records and scope to check that his drivers are working correctly within the rules. It also allows him to look at the charts to see if any problems are apparent with the instrument. This is true of all tachographs, whether the older, analogue version or a newer digital type - it is a requirement that digital instruments are periodically downloaded by the company. Even with these pieces of information, problems are not always obvious, so a reasonable knowledge of the rules and what the tachograph itself is showing are needed.

The drivers hours rules state that a daily rest must be completed before the end of 24 hours from the start of activity for a particular daily period. A regular rest is 11 hours, this can be reduced to 9 hours up to 3 times between two weekly rest periods. A regular daily rest can be taken in two periods, the first not less than 3 hours and the second, at the end of which the ‘24 hours’ ends, being not less than 9 hours (total 12 hours). There are additional rules for ferry and train journeys. It’s not always the amount of driving that’s a problem to some drivers, but fitting everything – driving, other work, breaks etc – into the (maximum) period of 24 hours from the start of activity. And it is then that deceiving the tachograph gets the attention of drivers who wish to create a false record of their activity.

Self-diagnostics became mandatory on all instruments manufactured after 1996 and saw a revolution in the identification of problems. An analogue tachograph essentially relies on two main electrical inputs: permanent power from the vehicle's battery and a signal from the gearbox sensor. If the permanent power is interrupted the tachograph dies, and most importantly, the clock stops. On reconnection the instrument puts one (or more, depending on the model) full scale deflection on the speed trace, telling anyone who subsequently looks at the chart what has happened. A gearbox sender fault results in block-traces, either 0-30kph or 0-40kph depending on the model. Faults or interference, therefore, became easier to detect. However, nothing is insurmountable and even today, with all the technology heralded by this digital age, some drivers are apparently getting round the safeguards and managing to create records that do not represent the actual hours they have worked.

I think I now know why the authorities are so keen to make sure drivers have sufficient rest. A reduction in the number of casualties on our roads must be a priority and whatever means are available should be used. The temptation to cheat the rules will always be there, I suppose, and the pressures of timed delivery and traffic congestion will only get worse. That’s why I’m pleased that is all behind me for now and I can sit at home and relax – as long as a policeman doesn’t come knocking on my door.

Grey Matter

A black Jaguar pulls to a halt on the gravel drive of a large country house and its driver, a forty-something male wearing a light grey suite, hurriedly gets out and opens the rear passenger door, over on the left side of the car. No sooner has he done so, the front door of the house opens and a forty-something male wearing a dark grey suite casually walks to the open passenger door and gets in. Light grey suite shuts the door, gets back in the driver’s seat and the vehicle pulls away.

Dark Grey: “Into the office today, I’m afraid, important meeting at ten-thirty. Can’t say I’m looking forward to it. It’ll probably be all ‘EU Directive this and EU Directive that’. Don’t suppose anything of real importance will be discussed. What’s the A40 like?”
Light Grey: “According to the radio there’s a lorry gone through the central barrier at Greenford, I don’t know what its like after that, sir.”
Dark Grey: “There would be. Bloody lorries, they’re nothing but trouble. And to think, they want even bigger ones, as if thirty-odd tonne doesn’t cause enough bother".
Light Grey: “I think they go up to forty-four tonne now, sir.”
Dark Grey: “Good Lord, do they really? Oh.”

The Jaguar winds its way through the lanes of Buckinghamshire and joins an A-road that will take it to the A40, and into London.

Dark Grey: Looking up from his broadsheet, “Bit slow this morning, isn’t it. Not usually this bad, surely?”
Light Grey: “There’s a lorry up ahead, sir.”
Dark Grey: “Hell, so there is. What speed is the idiot doing?”
Light Grey: “About forty by the look of it, sir.”
Dark Grey: “About forty. Bloody fool's one of those fuel protesters, no doubt.”
Light Grey: “No sir, I think forty’s the limit.”
Dark Grey: “Don’t be ridiculous, there’s one of those white sign thingies - the one with the black stripe. It’s seventy along here.
Light Grey: “National Speed Limit sign, sir. Which means it’s sixty for us and forty for him.”
Dark Grey: “Are you sure? Oh.”

The Jaguar finally joins the A40, that slow, often choked and always busy river of metal that’s called arterial. Today it’s having a coronary.

Dark Grey: “Look at these people, they sit in this traffic day after day. I couldn't do it.”

Light Grey: “Too soul destroying, sir?
Dark Grey: “No, don’t have a licence.”
Light Grey: “Oh.”

Soon the inevitable happens and the road grinds to a halt. All around fed-up drivers slump in their seats as if in front of the telly on Christmas afternoon. The Great Escape is what they want but The Old Man of the Sea is what they get - tedious, depressing and seemingly, never ending.

Dark Grey: “Our lorry driving friend, no doubt. He of the central barrier.”
Light Grey: “Probably, sir: Greenford’s not far.”
Dark Grey: “What ever possesses someone to drive a bloody great lorry through a crash barrier”?
Light Grey: “Well, I don’t suppose he did it on purpose, sir, maybe he was cut-up. Maybe he just lost concentration - It must be difficult driving one of those things mile after mile.”
Dark Grey: “Do you think so, well, you may be right, I suppose. Can’t say it looks that difficult to me. But if concentration’s a problem, then it’s important – especially if the result could be something like this. Can’t they do something to help keep themselves alert?
Light Grey: “I don’t suppose there are many things they can do, in reality, sir.”
Dark Grey: “They could telephone someone, conversation’s good to help focus the mind.”
Light Grey: “I don’t think that’s always advisable, sir, even with a ‘hands free’.”
Dark Grey: “Oh yes, of course. What about Crossword puzzles? I swear by them. They keep me wide awake and, If I say so myself, sharp as a knife.”
Light Grey: “They’re driving, sir.”
Dark Grey: “Oh.”

The minutes drag on until finally the stricken lorry is passed. The Jaguar continues east and into town at a slow but, by now, steady pace.

Dark Grey: “Well, there must be something they can do? What about a ‘game-laddie’, thing.”
Light Grey: “Game Boy. And they’re driving, sir.”
Dark Grey: “Oh yes, forgot. They could brew a pot of tea. Nothing like a cuppa to keep you on your toes.”
Light Grey: “Drivng, sir.”
Dark Grey: “Blast. Knitting, that’s it, mother’s always at it and she never misses a trick.
Light Grey: “Driving.”

They turn right at Marylebone Road, in silence now, as Dark Grey is in deep thought. Marble Arch passes unnoticed such is the depth of his concentration. Soon, it’s Hyde Park Corner and Parliament Square and the Jaguar turns into an entrance marked Department for Transport and comes to a halt facing a pair of substantial iron gates.

Dark Grey: “Got it.”
Light Grey: “Sir?”
Dark Grey: “I’ve got it. The solution to the lorry driver problem.”

Light Grey lowers the electric window by his side and shows a pass that hangs on a neat, printed ribbon. The gates open and the Jaguar drives forward.

Dark Grey: “It’s obvious. So obvious, I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. ”Mother’s little comforts. The very thing that’s sustained generations through thick and thin. In times of trouble, when you need to be at your best, what do you turn to? The old filter-tipped, of course. Fags, that’s the answer, we’ll encourage ‘em to smoke. Within reason of course; health and all that".
Light Grey: “Well, you certainly see a lot of lorry drivers smoking, sir.”
Dark Grey: “Of course you do; they know what’s best. It’s got everything: something to occupy them but won’t interfere too much with the driving. Nicotine is a stimulant and will help to keep them awake. It’s something to look forward to on those otherwise dreary, long journeys. Yes, that’s it: The good old cigarette.”

Trueclassic Park

The land was on the whole not unpleasant. There were large, open areas covered with a light, sandy earth, and woods too, with tall pines and beds of fern bushes. It was in these woods that lay the ruts and gullies, dips and sharp climbs that made the island a place difficult to traverse – the very reason we were there. I call it an island not because it was surrounded by water but because it was an oasis in the middle of the motorways and busy A-roads, the towns, the parks and all the cultivated land that make up most of our country. This island was where vehicles could roam free, off-road.

I had been asked along by The Professor, an acquaintance of some years who wished to try out his new Land Rover Discovery. Known in the business for his ability to fix any problem - legal, procedural or contractual - The Professor had earned my respect and, to a degree, my loyalty. There was one thing he couldn’t fix, however, and that was machinery. That’s why I was there: to sort any problems with the vehicle and get us out of the mud if we got bogged down. The Professor had brought with him his two young grandchildren, Maxine and Tom, and they sat in the back of the Land Rover gazing out of its windows, as we entered this strange, new place.

We started gently, taking the vehicle over a few small climbs and through some shallow mud baths. It handled them with ease. We were already in low range (a ‘mountain’ symbol was illuminated on the dashboard display) and, as the vehicle is permanently in four-wheel drive, there seemed little else for The Professor to do but drive. I glanced at the small screen positioned in the centre of the dashboard and saw the differential lock symbols moving from green, open padlock, to red, closed padlock, as the diff-locks engaged and disengaged automatically. With traction control combined, The Professor simply put his foot down and let the vehicle, or rather, its computers, do the rest. All that was required of us was to know what was coming up - it would be no use looking at the sky one second, cresting a hill and finding ourselves facing a tree trunk the size of a Renault Magnum the next.

After passing through a reasonably long and muddy gulley we came to a large, flat clearing that had several tracks leading from it. But it wasn’t the thought of these and where they might lead that took our attention, it was what we saw in the centre.
“I haven’t seen one of those for years”, I said. “In fact, I didn’t think there were any left, anywhere”.
“What is it”? Maxine and Tom asked, speaking almost as one.
“What is it, why it’s a Bedford, a type of military TM, if I’m not mistaken". The Professor was craning his neck forward over the steering wheel as he spoke, to get a better look. “TW’s right, they became extinct long ago. Well I never”.
“What happened to them”? Tom had inherited his Grandfather’s inquiring mind and I knew he wouldn’t be satisfied until the whole story was unveiled.
The Professor looked into the distance, while softly stroking the crop of white hair on his chin “Oh, they couldn’t survive the challengers, I suppose. None did in the end”, He said.
“This one’s still here”, Maxine tried to be cheerful, despite her grandfather’s sad expression.
“It died long ago, I’m afraid”, I said. It was true. The lorry had been stripped of its front grill and other body parts, and all its tyres were flat. “But there were a few about in their day; I kept a small number myself”.
“Who were the challengers”, said Tom.
“The ones you see all around you on the roads now, Volvos and Scanias for a start”, I said.




It wasn’t long before the sight of the old Bedford became depressing, so I indicated to one of the tracks leading from the clearing and wondered aloud as to where it might lead. The Professor took the hint, engaged drive on the Land Rover’s automatic transmission and we accelerated forward. After a glance over my shoulder at the decaying carcass quickly disappearing behind, I felt the shadows of trees envelop the Discovery and we were gone.
“So, how were the challengers able to destroy the Bedfords”? Tom’s interest had been well and truly aroused.
“It wasn’t just the Bedfords, there were other indigenous makes - too many to mention”, I told him. “But it simply came down to survival; the challengers were better equipped to survive than our lorries.”
“How?”
“Well, the Bedfords - and the others - needed more care than the challengers, we had to tend them and keep a closer eye on them. The challengers were more expensive but they were good; they’d keep going, sometimes when ours had stopped. That was more important in the long run”.
“Why didn’t the Bedfords evolve and beat them off?”
“We didn’t let them,” I said.

Before long we were putting the Land Rover through its paces with new found confidence. It wasn’t surprising; the vehicle would always dig in, even with its standard tyres, and just keep going. The Professor was impressed - and pleased; he was a man who prided himself on spending his money wisely. The island’s open areas were fairly evenly strewn and so, before long, we found ourselves out in the sunshine once again and looking at another carpet of soft, sandy earth, surrounded by trees.
“There’s another one of those Bedfords”, Maxine was pointing to a lorry that was lying on its side, about seventy metres away.
We approached slowly, like explorers who had stumbled upon some strange creature, one that might awaken at any moment.
“Good Lord, that’s no Bedford, it’s a Foden and a six-wheeler, at that”. The Professor said excitedly, opening the Land Rover’s door and getting out of the vehicle as he spoke. We followed and found ourselves chasing after him towards the stricken lorry. Soon, The Professor’s head was darting back and forth as he ran his eyes over the lines of the vehicle. Its grill was open and parts had already been removed from the panel beneath.



“Was it destroyed by the challengers as well”, asked Maxine.
“It was, I’m sad to say”, said The Professor. “But its kind lasted longer than most”.
Tom was walking up and down the length of the underside of the lorry, stopping occasionally to look at the detail of some part or other – first a suspension spring, then a track rod and so on. “Why didn’t we let the Bedfords fight back against the challengers”, he said.
The professor looked at me before he answered. “Well, people Like TW here liked the challengers. They were quick and comfortable to drive. They came from a land where the conditions were such that they had to be well made. And, I suppose, we didn’t really realise to start with what a threat they were. So we bought them instead of our own”.
I found myself in a type of daydream, running my hand over the front of the cab, feeling the Foden badge between my fingers. It was something, I realised, that was now gone forever.

“Why didn’t the Bedfords and the others join forces and fight off the challengers”. Tom wasn’t satisfied with our almost, apologetic answers and I admired him for it.
“They did”, I said, coming back to full consciousness. “But it wasn’t enough. You see, they needed more. They didn’t breed themselves, they had to be made, and the people that made them let them down, as badly as we did.”
“How do you mean”?
“Well, the challengers were always looking for new ways to make things better. They invested energy, time and money in it. The people who made our lorries didn’t. They only followed on, and pretty half-heartedly at times. They thought they had the market to themselves; but they didn’t. For success in the long term, you have to give as well as take, it’s the same with anything you care to think about – nothing is free. We all just thought of ourselves, and short-term gains. All of us: the people that bought lorries, the people that owned the factories that made them and the people that put them together. There’s always a balance and in our case, the balance swung too far the wrong way”.

We drove off after a while and with heavy hearts. I had allowed myself to forget these lorries, and not for the first time, that was the problem. Seeing them again, in the flesh, had bought back a host of memories. Memories of a time when our roads were filled with British built vehicles. The market is still there – more vehicles are registered each year than ever before - but the badges are gone. Foden, ERF, Atkinson, Seddon have all disappeared. Rover, Leyland, Matchless are no more. All gone; along with pride and sense of achievement - and the type of collective employment that unified communities and built futures.


Soon, another upturned machine came into view – not one, I have to say, that I recognised. We stopped and sat staring at it from inside the Land Rover, each of us speculating as to what it might be. “Some sort of armoured personnel carrier”, I suggested.
“Yes, you know, I think you may be right”, The Professor said, with a puzzled but fascinated look on his face. Suddenly, and coming from somewhere in the woods, I heard the deep throated bark of a revving diesel engine. It was no off-roader I’d ever heard before. “Mmm. Sounds rather big”, said The Professor.
“Very big”, I said, as the ground began to quiver. “And very close”.
“Wow”. Tom had seen something behind us. I turned quickly to follow his gaze, as did Maxine and The Professor. Maxine opened her mouth, but suppressed a scream with her hand, clasping it across her mouth so tightly it made the colour of the skin change. Her eyes were bulging with fear.
“What is it?” Said Tom.
The Professor and I spoke together. “A bloody Challenger”.

No Worries

Although I`d gone all the way to Australia, the work would still see me spending most days in an office. I had to be there to meet people and sort out a few issues but the fact was, just for a while, I simply wanted to get on the road and look at some trucks. It was all well and good talking about them, theorising over this and that - drawings on the white board, graphs on the computer - but outside it was sunny, very sunny, and the sky was clear and bright, and it was warm. And when it’s like that the paint glows and the chrome shines. 

I went out.

The thing to remember about Australia is that despite being in the Southern Hemisphere, it is in fact part of Europe. The country may be gradually trying to ditch its ties with the ‘old world’, but in attitude, if not always in appearance, it’s definitely 'Anglo-Continental'. When you travel around, you feel it everywhere. Your eyes may see a country that thinks it should be part of the United States of America – with its American trucks and fast-food restaurants - but it's underneath you need to be, at the heart of Australia and Australians.

Australians have a unique blend of attitudes. There’s an almost arrogant self-assurance (German) mixed with those of: ‘if it goes wrong, well, so what’ (Italian); ‘rules are there – for everyone else’ (French); ‘we like it, so it must be right’ (British). The result is a tough but friendly nation – one that seems resigned to the fact it has little of its own culture (Belgian). The weather, though, makes it a place all on its own and the first thing I noticed was just how bright it was. “Better wear your sunnies mate”, was the friendly advice I received as I left the office. “Thanks”, I said, reaching for my sunglasses and thinking I couldn't imagine leaving any building without them firmly mounted on my nose. “No worries,” came the reply, and I headed out towards my car – and the highway.

I stopped at a marshaling yard outside the city, one where road-trains drop off or pick trailers before continuing either in or out of restricted areas for vehicle length. A driver was hitching up a semi trailer to a converter dolly. I looked at his Kenworth appreciatively, and he responded with a smile that invited some questions. “Do truckers prefer American rigs here?” I said, testing the water. “Truckies, mate”, he said, and then, “Most do”. “Where are you headed”, I asked. “Out into the Communities”, he said and then paused, seeing my look of confusion. “Five days in the bush, to the Aborigine lands. This lot’ll stock ‘em up for a while”. “Alone?” I asked. “Brother in Law sometimes joins me and swags on the trailer”, he said. Wow, I thought. “Sounds great”, I said. “All you need to remember is never sleep on the ground”, he said, with a look over the top of his sun glasses. “Oh, and don’t walk in the long grass. And never pick up anything lying on the ground, no matter how shiny it looks”. “Thanks”, I said. “No worries”, he replied.

One thing I had noticed was how short the tractor units were (or prime movers, as they are called) compared to the US versions. The result was quite small sleepers. “What about drivers working hours?” I asked, “Do you use a tachograph”? “Jeez, no. We fill out a log book”, he said, grinning. “How many hours can you drive?” I asked, casually. “S’posed to or can?” He said. It was my turn to smile. "What about tiredness"? I asked. "Goes with the job", he said. I had also seen that most vehicles were fitted with Bull Bars. “They must hurt a bit”, I said. “Roos come out at dusk, and there’s livestock in the bush”, he said. “What about pedestrians”, I asked before I had chance to think. He looked at me, again over the top of his sunnies and, without any measure of unkindness, fixed me with a, ‘you’re a real Pom’ gaze. “The road,” he said, with affected import, “Is an enhanced pavement for the use of motor vehicles; pedestrians shouldn’t be on it”.

I mentioned the Police; how often was he stopped or checked? “No worries”, he said, “You don’t see ‘em in the bush”. And breakdowns? “I fix it, if I can”, was his answer. “And if you can’t”, I said. “Have a few tinnies and wait for one of your mates to come along”, he said. “And the best bits about the job?” I asked him. “The country, the freedom, the open land where there’s thousands of kilometres of single track road and scrub and desert with hardly any people and no cars. Powerful trucks like this one and no boss on my back. And sorting out my own problems as I go”. “And loneliness?” I asked. “There’s the road house, and a few shared tinnies”, he said. “The worst bits”? I asked. “Punctures”, was all he said; he didn’t have to think about it. As he climbed up into his cab and made to close the door, I asked about European trucks. “They’re not trucks”, was his reply.

Back at work, I questioned my Australian colleagues about what the truckie had said regarding sleeping on the ground and walking in the long grass. Creepy-crawlies and snakes, they said. And not picking up something even if it looked too good to leave, I asked. Because there will always be something underneath that wants to bite you, I was told. “No worries”, I said.