Since way back, when I decided to to go it alone and get my own show on the road, I`ve customized my wagons in some way. In the early days, when money was tight, I would make do with a few stripes, or my favourite, doors a different colour to the cab (I`ve always liked yellow doors on a white cab; it`s both subtle and eye catching). Once I`d mastered the spray can – little at a time; not rushing it; plenty of preparation, even between coats – I could produce some pretty good designs on top of the truck`s basic colour. Now, 20 years down the road, the possibilities are endless. For one thing, I have more money but the real difference these days is that technology has opened up a world of design and truck decoration that, at one time, could only be dreamt of. It doesn`t mean that all special paint work is good and the only thing to remember, as I always I tell myself, is that it`s like tattoos – there`s loads of crap out there. A great tattoo is one that catches a person`s eye, someone with no interest in tattoos what so ever, and makes them think, “that looks good; that person looks good”. A truck`s paint job should be the same. (I don`t have any tattoos, incidentally, in fact I don`t decorate my body at all - no rings or piercings, or whatever it is that`s all the rage - I`m just not the right type.)
When I got this truck, the one I`ve entered in the competition, I decided she would have to be different. I didn`t want one of those tired old western scenes, or motor racing stars, pop stars or galloping horses all over the cab, like it was a rug in a pound shop. I not only wanted the truck to make people turn and look, I wanted everyone who saw it to be impressed. I knew this wouldn`t be possible unless I had something to build on that looked good in the first place, so I was pleased with my choice; the truck certainly had potential. First of all, she was a heavy duty, high powered 6x4 tractor unit. She had been on tipper trailer work and was already fitted with exhaust stacks, and once I`d removed the hydraulic tank and tipping gear there was plenty of room for spoilers and wind deflectors. In keeping with her strong, engineered appearance, I decided on a simple but imposing design of chrome and dark grey; Brunel would have loved it.
The months passed and bits arrived. Winter came and she was washed and polished; summer came and she was washed and polished. More bits arrived, until, eventually, everything was in place. The whole front grill had been given the appearance of chrome plating, as had the visor and bumper. The cab, including mirrors, I`d had painted gunmetal grey and all the spoilers and deflectors, a lighter grey. With black chassis, chrome exhaust stacks, red painted air valves and brake callipers, and polished alloy wheels, she was striking – a real stunner. For our first trip out, I replaced my trusty work horse with her on my King low-loader trailer and we took a large machine press from a warehouse in North London to a factory in the Midlands. We shone in the dull drabness of the North Circular Road.
Outside a cafe, one close to the warehouse where I had just loaded, I was accosted by a driver as I climbed back into my cab.
“Beautiful”, he said. “Never seen anything like it”.
I was pleased. “It`s been a lot of work”, I told him.
“My father drove one of the first of these in the country, back in the fifties”, he said. “They were one of the few companies to have foreign trucks, everyone had British then”.
“Yes”. It was about all I could say.
“I`ve driven most trucks in my time”, he went on. “Mostly, in the old days, on continental work. It was different over there then, more of an adventure and there was much more comradeship, everyone helped everyone else. My first truck was a Leyland Marathon. That took some driving. I`d do twelve, fourteen hours behind the wheel and think nothing of it. Italy mainly but sometimes Greece. We did Spain as well, on the odd occasion. My brother was the first to drive onto the Eurotunnel train, he works for himself, does a lot of fruit. He`s got one of those high powered Volvos and hires the fridge trailer. He`s doing alright for himself, does a bit of storage, we go to his farm in Kent a lot ...”.
I nodded frantically, made some rapid excuses over his continual chatter and closed the cab door. The air inside was quiet and still and smelt of leather. I turned the key in the ignition and instantly, but only for a moment, the radio became centre of attention - a female singer was convinced that someone thought the song she was singing was about them. I headed North on the motorway, vainly watching the reaction of other drivers to my pride and joy. To my satisfaction, car drivers and truck drivers alike were looking at us. A family in a people carrier stared as they passed, the children in the back turning their heads as they went, as if wanting the experience to last as long as possible. A Harley dude waved.
I stopped at some services to buy copies of a few of the trade`s magazines; I was thinking of sending some photographs to one or two of them. In the shop - the newsagent bit that sells sweets, drinks, sandwiches, books, DVDs, CDs - there were rows and rows of different magazines on display. As you would expect, every subject was catered for, and all represented like glossy `fashion mags`, crammed with photographs. Motorcycle magazines displayed journalists dressed in expensive leathers, captured mid-corner, knee down, racing style. Sailing magazines, running magazines, cycling magazines, they were all there, alluringly bright. Every one of them waiting for the next person who wants to shine; someone who will come along and flick through the pages, imagining they are in that car, or on that yacht.
“How long have you been driving, then”? A voice said. I looked round and saw that someone had sneaked up on me while I was dreamily thumbing through a magazine dedicated to vintage lorries.
“Oh, I don`t know, a while”. I replied, a little taken aback by the directness of the question.
“I mean trucks”. He nodded to the magazine I was holding. I noticed another chap standing close by, listening. Casually dressed and of a certain age, they gave the impression of retirement.
“Since I was old enough”. I said, keeping it short.
“Some people get a bit carried away with it, don`t they? Forget it`s just a truck.” He turned briefly to his companion with a smug smile.
“I don`t know, do they”?
“Some do”, he said, “You see them on the motorway, silly stickers and fancy paint. Some of the older, real professional drivers must cringe when they see them”.
I didn`t say anything, I just smiled, politely.
“They must realize it makes them look like right wallies, surely”. He wasn`t giving up.
“How about you”, I asked him, “Do you drive a wagon”?
“Never could see the attraction”, he said. “What do you drive?”
“I use a Renault Magnum tractor”, I told him, which was perfectly true; it was my `every day` wagon.
“What about the one you drove in here, that wasn`t a Renault”, there was a hint of anger in his voice.
“Correct”. I said, and just stared at him; politeness only stretches so far.
With that he walked off, briskly, importantly. “I`d better phone the office, check if my truck`s back from service”, the words came over his shoulder as he went. His friend looked at me; he was clearly embarrassed. Above the din of families and mobile phones, the sound of clattering plates from the restaurant area opposite and the beeping of tills, the service station`s background music was clearly audible; Some old crooner was singing, You`re too Good to be True.
I continued along the motorway and left at the exit that would lead me, within only a few minutes, onto the industrial estate and the factory I was destined for. It was still quite early when I parked up in front of its massive roller shutter door. The removal crew and crane were booked in for the following day, so there was nothing to do but eat, sleep and polish. The factory owner arrived the next morning, about an hour after the main workforce; preparations, by then, were well under way for getting the machine off my trailer. I was putting some kit into a locker on the trailer`s neck when he arrived – driving an Aston Martin in the same shade of grey as my tractor unit.
The trucks are grouped around on the grass in front of the stage and we, the owners, stand beside our respective vehicles. The crowd that had, up until now, circulated amongst us, are standing still, watching and listening, captivated by the man with the microphone. A middle aged couple are standing next to me, he is heavily tattooed and they are both wearing brightly coloured T-shirts, emblazoned on the front with a picture of an American truck. The words Rollin` Thunder are written across their chests. They had been reading the information plaque next to my truck, the one giving its specification and the sort of work we do.
“What did you have it chromed for if you do heavy machinery”? The woman is asking me. “It`ll last five minutes on a building site. I wouldn`t have had the brakes painted, there`s no point ...”
I`m not listening; not to her, the music or to the man on stage. I`m not there. In my mind I`m driving an Aston Martin through the town where I live, to the admiration of all who see me.
