Beside the Seaside

The consensus of opinion was that the company wouldn't last the year out. They were being battered by the union, the sun was rising in the East and the shareholders, as shareholders did, expected a better return. Most of the management were present that day, seated around the boardroom table, and to a man they could see what was coming: the dark cloud looming. They had all lived through worse and understood the feeling of impending doom; the approaching storm and the hardships that would follow. Grimshaw still covered his mouth with a carefully placed hand when he spoke, in an effort to cover scars that resulted from his awful burns. The youngest there by far, he always wore garishly chequered suits with a bright handkerchief tucked in the jacket's top pocket; a deflection, everyone thought. And there was Allinson, a haggard looking and twitchy forty-something who always voiced approval with the words, 'I'll drink to that'. They were all in some way Allinsons and Grimshaws; live for the moment that's what they'd learnt, and they all bore the scars in one form or other. Allinson said the brass hats didn't understand what was going on at the front, and that was the problem. They'd have to dig in until support arrived or it all blew over. Grimshaw, speaking from behind a raised hand, told them that if better kit wasn't made available and the men didn't play the game, they would be lost for sure. It was as simple as that, he said. There were nods all round. They would need to stand firm, he said, and got up from his seat and walked to a small table in the corner of the room, one that was always laid out with numerous bottles. All around the room hung the portraits of those who had 'commanded' before; a dusty display of heredity, position and place. “I'll drink to that”, Allinson said, and slumped in his chair, stretching his legs out under the table.

The factory floor was always swept clean; the chassis were lined up in neat rows, in time honoured fashion; and the men moved among them, in and out, following channels worn into the floor by generations of workers before. In the canteen the talk was of new motorcycles from BSA and Triumph, the latest music and all the newfangled gadgets coming across the sea from America. On the walls, posters advertised saving schemes and premium bonds. Everyone knew the price that had been paid and the debt they were owed. The war was still very fresh in everyone's memory. They believed they had prevailed against great odds and were undefeated; the country was the best; produced the best; deserved the best. They thought, as victors, they were owed a better life, and because the country had been saved by everyone fighting together the old establishment should be washed away, like castles made of sand on the beach. Wage demands and the threat of strikes were always present, even when it became obvious overseas competition was a serious threat. Talk of closure had started to filter down from above. Rumour, that's what they thought; it was all just rumour. But soon things got serious and a wave of panic started; and, of course, the questions. Who was responsible, and why? In the end there was speculation about mergers, Government interventions and co-operatives; all materialised to some extent or other, but non worked.

At home the women carried on as normal; very little had changed for them. Their work was the same as it always had been. Making ends meet, raising a family, keeping things afloat, looking after the home. Such as they were in those days. Terraced houses with outside toilets and fires you had to make each morning; no microwaves or fridges, or any of the things we have these days that make life easier. Except for the occasional holiday by the sea, if you were lucky, life for the women had changed little since the end of war. Rationing had continued for ages and they still had the worry; it was just a different worry, that was all. And when, in the end, when the factory closed, it was the women that had to keep things together. Trouble seemed to come in waves; some days rougher than others. If anyone deserved a holiday, they did.

It was all right for me, though. I was only young then and a secretary at the factory. I had to take minutes at management meetings but at the same time I was from the same streets the workers came from, so I knew the boardroom as well as I did the shopfloor. I lived at home with my parents in a little two up, two down and had no real responsibilities to speak of. For all my knowledge of the company, I didn't really appreciate the extent of the concerns people had about the future, and, I suppose, I was too young and naive to understand. I was a child in the war, you see. I couldn't fully appreciate what the grown-ups had endured; everyone had a story to tell that involved some sort of loss, no matter how small. I was always thinking about holidays and coming here. To me at that time there seemed little else to look forward to; what else did we have but the seaside?

She was sitting on a bench on the seafront close to my truck and we had somehow just got talking. I was waiting for a machine that a construction company was using for some foundation work to be ready for loading and she seemed to be in no hurry to move on. She was old, probably in her mid to late seventies, and immaculate in every way, which made her look more like visiting gentry or a retired headteacher than a retired secretary. “More changes”? She said, looking at the works going on nearby. “Yes”, I said. “Everything changes, thankfully”. She looked at a loss for something to say. “More work for people like me”, I explained. She glanced at my truck and its low-loader trailer, and then screwed her lips into what I took to be a smile. But then someone caught her eye and she stood up. A smartly dressed man, probably a few years her senior, was approaching us. He was wearing a brightly coloured sports jacket and a pair of brogues that almost glowed burgundy. With a matching handkerchief flamboyantly draped from the jacket's top pocket, he looked a little over dressed among the more retiring of that seaside retirement stronghold. She said her goodbyes and took his arm as he nodded an acknowledgement to me, carefully holding, I noticed, a hand over his mouth. 

This Sign is Not in Use

It must be one of the strangest signs you see on the road. THIS SIGN IS NOT IN USE it informs you – and with considerable effort if the forty-foot gantry post and all that expensive electrical equipment is anything to go by. But why? The sign seems to be telling you to ignore it; which you would have had it not grabbed your attention with an enormous message suspended above two lanes of the carriageway. If it's got nothing else to say, why not display: JUNCTION 25 35 MILES 30 MINUTES, which could be useful if it didn't assume an average speed of 70 mph, a speed at which few vehicles actually travel. DON'T DRIVE TIRED has replaced DON'T DRINK AND DRIVE now that most people have got that message, so it could be used to encourage drivers to take a break. 

There is a problem with these messages, though, in that they sound like an order. Whenever controls are imposed, something inside us reacts to make any limit seem like a challenge. If we can't avoid it, we'll exploit it. In this way a limit becomes a target; if it's not possible to exceed, then it must be reached. I'm sure this behaviour is deeply rooted in instinct, and that all animals have it. My Labrador will eat anything, all day if I let her; any survival expert will tell you, eat whenever you can, it may be your last meal for a while. It's this trait that supermarkets exploit when they offer special deals. Four bottles of beer for a fiver; which makes you pick up more than you wanted, or is probably good for you. Buy one, get one free; when we all know one could be sold cheaper. We snap it up. Logic says it must be a sales pitch but our minds won't let us see it that way. That thing inside us all which says we must get as much as possible, straight away, concludes that a limit has been set and we must go to that limit. The fact that we believe it's a bargain, clinches it. Subtly, we have been convinced that this is the most we'll be able to have, and we are left with only one option: 'go for it now'.

Drive down any country lane and you will see car drivers hurtling along at speeds where no margin is left for error. Too fast for the width of the road and the view available through the bends, while thinking they can travel at the speed limit of 60mph. Tachograph hours can cause the same type of confusion: 4.5 hours driving without a break is permitted under the regulations when, according to the road safety charity BRAKE, we shouldn't drive for more than 2 hours without stopping.  And there's the problem: by implementing tachograph regulations the law has created a limit.  One that we chase, often ignoring other signs that tell us something might be wrong, all in the false belief that we must use every minute of driving time, immediately.  DON'T DRIVE TIRED doesn't seem such a bad instruction after all.

Normal sleep does not occur without warning and most people would recognize the signs of its approach: increased difficulty concentrating; yawning; heavy eyelids; eyes starting to ‘roll’; and neck muscles relaxing, making the head droop. Winding down the window, listening to music and talking to a passenger do not help prevent sleep, although they may temporarily help us to stay alert until we find somewhere safe to stop. Again, according to BRAKE, 'microsleeps' of about 10 minutes seem to be the answer, so a 15 minute break followed by a 30 minute break around a couple of hours later (permitted by the tachograph regulations) might be what's needed to both comply with the law and allow us to respond to the signs our body is giving. Signs we simply can't afford to ignore.

It could be that all signs have a genuine message. Maybe by displaying, THIS SIGN IS NOT IN USE instead of simply remaining blank, those gantry signs are telling us that they can't warn us, and their real message is: THERE JUST MIGHT BE A PROBLEM AHEAD.

Dreamtime

“Perhaps he couldn't see the wood for the trees”, Bernard said, looking at the sergeant, a faint smile appearing on his lips. The sergeant bent forward and placed the palm of his right hand on the only part of the Nissan's roof that was still flat, steadying himself as he looked through the remains of the driver's door. There was warmth in the metal from the late afternoon sun. Bernard stood a few yards away and only had to stoop to see the driver's blood stained head wedged between the steering wheel and a windscreen crushed by the front of the roof during the impact. The torso seemed to be wrapped in deformed  plastic and metal that had once been a dashboard and engine bulkhead. They both focused on the driver’s eyes. Dead, young eyes; half closed, fixed, dull. “Any smell of booze in there”? Bernard said. “You know what they're like”. The sergeant looked past the driver's head and saw his own face reflected in the few remaining pieces of a twisted and broken mirror mounted on the outside of the passenger door opposite. His eyes went back at the driver before he stood up and faced Bernard. “Sorry”, Bernard said.

The Nissan, a small flat-bed truck, a 'tray', they called them, was trapped underneath the rear semi-trailer of a 'pocket' roadtrain. The Nissan had been travelling along the main route, the roadtrain, loaded with logs, was leaving a track from a forestry site, turning across the small truck's path. Paramedics had been and gone, there was nothing they could do, and the driver of the roadtrain was now talking to some local officers, as Bernard and the sergeant began their investigation. The enormous forest formed a backdrop that climbed a low escarpment in the distance; a mass of greens and browns set against the clear blue sky. The sergeant looked to the distant trees; there was a breeze up there making some of the branches sway. “Any sign of braking?” Bernard asked, walking slowly back down the road a short way, studying the dusty surface over which the Nissan would have travelled. It wasn't long before he sauntered  back. “There's no marks”, he said. “What about the tyres”? Bernard crawled under the trailer as he spoke, intent on getting a closer look. The Nissan had been dragged sideways after going  under the roadtrain and there were marks on the road to show this movement, but nothing else: no additional heat scarring on the tyres themselves that might have shown the Nissan's driver was braking before the collision. The sergeant followed Bernard's movements with an occasional glance but remained standing beside the dead driver, his hand still resting on the roof above the body.

“The brake light bulbs might tell us something”, Bernard said, pulling a multi-tool from a pouch attached to his trouser belt. He flipped out the Philips driver and began removing the rear light lenses. “If the filaments are stretched it may indicate the lights were on; their metal hot”, he said. But neither bulb showed any sign that they were on during a sudden deceleration. “Both broken but not stretched”, Bernard sounded disappointed. “The sun may have been low, maybe it was shining in his eyes, so he couldn't see”. Bernard seemed to be talking to himself. “Mind you", he said. "The locals say there were some clouds about, so the sun might not have been out when it happened”. The sergeant just looked past him, still gazing towards the distant hills. There would be kangaroos up there, you could imagine them foraging as dusk approached, now the real heat of the day had gone. “How long do you think it would have taken the prime-mover and the first semi to get to where they did before the collision”? Bernard asked. The sergeant thought for a moment, but wasn't able to answer before Bernard came up with his own assessment. “Could have been about five seconds”, he said. “Possibly”.

“Apparently, it's one of the biggest natural forests in the country”, Bernard was now saying. He didn't know the area well; he'd just read about it on their trip up. It wasn't a region anyone, as far as he could see, would wish to visit and he certainly would have no reason to go there himself, under normal circumstances. It was a long way from civilization. In fact, it had taken a couple of hours to fly from State Police headquarters, a journey they would have to retrace later when they headed home, leaving local officers to clear up and deal with the body.  "Pretty impressive, aye; trees as far as you can see”. The sergeant heard what was being said, he nodded occasionally, but his eyes were fixed on those hills. There would be snakes among the trees, the serpent, and frogs, probably, and, of course, birds. The butterfly too. “These rigs are in and out of here all day long, carting logs away, if he's local”. Bernard gestured towards the Nissan as he spoke. “He must have known that”. He paused for a moment. “If he was doing sixty kph, he would be about ...”. There was a further silence from Bernard; his face raised to the sky while he concentrated on the computation. “... Let's see, a kilometre a minute, so, that's … over sixteen metres per second. In five seconds, that is at least ... eighty metres. Eighty metres! He must have been asleep not to see the rig pulling out in front of him. He could have stopped, easily; he wouldn't even have had to brake hard”. The sergeant wasn't listening now. There were koalas too; before the machines came, anyway. “Or just taking time out”, Bernard said.

Building a Scania R500 - Part 7. Brakes

I`m building a Scania R500 - from a 1:24 scale kit produced by ITALERI.

I`ll be looking at aspects of truck construction as I go along, hopefully highlighting some basic truck technology.  It`s easy to think that modern vehicles bear no resemblance to those of the past, but that`s not true.  Suspension and steering; engine, transmission and final drive; and tyres are all there to maximise the laws of physics, and have retained the same configuration since diesel replaced steam.  Cost and natural performance limits have meant that the chassis abandoned long ago in car design is still used in truck manufacture.   Yes, your truck is computer controlled and a modern marvel;  but so is the modern cruise liner - which is still a Titanic underneath.

Building a Scania  R500    Part 7.  Brakes)

Although complex in detail, the principles behind truck braking systems are reasonably simple.  Compressed air is used because of the braking force needed to stop up to 44 tonnes (UK).  Force = pressure x area, which means that cars and light vehicles are able to use a vacuum (atmosphere = 1 bar) servo to provide additional force in the braking system; the 8 bar used by trucks would need a vacuum servo 8 times the area of those used in cars.  This would be totally  impractical, of course.  Air brakes also continually replenish the medium (air) so leaks can be less significant than in hydraulic systems.

All new heavy trucks use EBS (electronic braking) but this refers to control (foot, hand and relay valves) not to the method of actuation.  This is still done by compressed air.

Air braking systems have four sections - compression and storage, control, actuation, monitoring and warning.

  

Air cylinders are the best shape to deal with a compressed gas - and air is a gas

The skin of the cylinder is put into tension by the force of the gas

Although now typically contained in one unit mounted beneath the front of the cab (air processing unit) the air dryer, unloader and multi-circuit protection valve (MCPV) perform separate functions. The unloader valve prevents air pressure going above the set operating value of 8 bar (sometimes storage is higher).  A lengthy pipe between the compressor and the unit allows air to cool, protecting the valve.  The air is then dried before it reaches the circuit protection valve.  The logic of this sequence should be obvious - compression, regulation, drying, then the valves (the MCPV is the first of many).  The unloader blasts air through the air dryer when it kicks into operation, when pressure is 'up', in an attempt to clear moisture from the crystals - you of ten hear this when standing by the vehicle. Multi-circuit protection is one of the most important valves as it controls air on build-up and run down.  It protects the service brakes and distinguishes between brakes, suspension and ancillaries.  ( E.g. If air was completely depleted, the MCPV would charge the service brakes before it allowed air to release the park brake.) Many vehicle run park brakes and ancillaries from the MCPV utilising as fewer tanks as possible. All service brake (foot) systems must be split in two, so just like hydraulic master cylinders in cars are dual circuit, truck foot valves are dual air units.  

Although now replaced by EBS electronics, these control valves still exist as back-up systems - in fact EBS valves have to do the same job and that is to provide gradual actuation in response to the drivers braking demands.  Air control valves rely on 'lapping'; air that goes under the piston in the valve and works against the driver's foot (in the case of a foot valve - hand valves and relay valves use the same principle).  When the driver stops pushing down, the valve will become lapped and no further air pressure will be applied to the brakes.  When the foot is removed, the inlet valve closes and air in the valve, along with that in the brake servo/actuator, is exhausted to atmosphere.  This is a simplified foot valve, in reality the  unit  would have two elements supplied from two different tanks, themselves fed from two different elements of the MCPV - Service 1 and Service 2.

Air relays (and EBS electronic relays) are a type if control valve.  They are designed to speed up application of the brakes.  Air from a storage tank sits close to the foundation brakes (at an axle) and the relay valve is signalled by the foot valve to allow air to pass to the brakes.  The law (UK) requires a maximum 0.6 seconds between foot pedal application to the brakes coming on - this is about 7 metres for a truck travelling at 30mph.  EBS shortens this time.

Winter Wonderland

Ask most blokes what they know about Sweden and you usually get one of two things: an animated description of a curvy blond that looks like someone trying to shape an enormous hour-glass on a potter's wheel, or an impression of the chef from the Muppet Show, that sounds like someone with their head in a bucket. What they don't often say is that Sweden is one of the wealthiest countries in the world and despite such a harsh climate, it is not suffering quite like the rest of us .

In many ways Sweden is similar to the UK: a large percentage of its workforce is employed in the public sector, it has high taxation, and despite being in the EU, it has remained outside the Euro. But that's were the similarity ends because Sweden has a large GDP, it exports more than it imports (a situation long forgotten in the UK economy) and it has many international manufacturing companies (including Volvo and Saab/Scania). Sweden can suffer from some pretty harsh temperatures in winter (down to -40^o C in some areas) but just like the country doesn't seem to be effected too severely by the global economic climate, it doesn't appear to suffer from the weather either; in fact it seems to benefit from it.

Every time I read about the exploits of transcontinental and Middle Eastern drivers, watch Destination Doha on DVD or look at the resale value of some trucks, I'm reminded of why we see so many Scanias and Volvos on the road – and no Leylands. If Scania and Volvo trucks can operate in temperatures so extreme at one end of the spectrum, they can presumably survive the other; If they can endure those rock hard winter logging roads, the desert must be a doddle. It's no wonder they do so well on ordinary work, and have such a following. Sweden does have natural resources that help with the balance of payments but it's quality products like these, and a tough attitude towards a diverse economy that has really created success.

Sweden is not dissimilar to the UK in that it has produced the machinery needed to build a developed world; the difference is that we no longer do. Where we have totally succumbed to the philosophy, 'let the market decide' and allowed so much of our major industry to go to foreign ownership - and in too many cases seen it closed by the new owner - Sweden has retained control of its factories. And although it's true that a number of Swedish companies operate overseas manufacturing sites, where labour is cheaper, home ownership still means that decisions are presumably made in Sweden's best interest and not that of an overseas economy.

Sweden's banking system went through the mill in the 1990s and emerged stronger, hopefully ours will too. Like Sweden, we have brilliant scientists, engineers and innovators, and we can make quality products. All we need is a government that can think beyond the service industry, encouraging a diversity of economy that will not just protect jobs but create them, lead to exports and exploit the demand for machines and technologies in the gowing economies of India and China. They stood up and kept us out of the Euro in the interest of our financial sector; now winter's come it's time to come out fighting for a change in the whole climate.

  

The Mechanics of Failure

A small fault starts, unseen at first, easily missed, a stress is applied, back and forth, to and fro, fatigue and creep, building slowly, you hardly know, finding its way, increasing in size, taking over, gathering speed, the structure fails, suddenly torn, catastrophic, an enormous crack that signals the end. 

What's it in for, he asked. Chassis extension, I told him. What, to a tractor unit with a bonnet, what's it going to be pulling, a caravan? No, I said, it's to make a rigid, a beaver tail plant carrier. Oh. Why? He said.  Never mind why, I told him, what are you all of a sudden, 'Mr Workshop'? No, he said, sheepishly, I'm 'Mr Office'. Right, I said, winking at him, tell DH (Mr Workshop) to get on it as soon as. He's short this week, he said, two off and plenty of regular customers in for urgent work. Get the boy to do the welding, I told him, he's two years with us now; his welding's okay. Right, he said, tucking into a Tupperware pot containing a meagre looking salad. I'll be out for the rest of the day, I informed him. Right, he said, winking at me. Oh, and I won't be about 'till the end of the week, either, I said. Don't forget you'll be needed after that, he reminded me, DH is taking a long weekend.

The Boss says The Boy can do it, he tells Mr Workshop. The Boy? Mr Workshop says, he can barely dress himself, let alone build a chassis. The Boss said he's okay, Mr Office says, and apparently all the bits are here already, and he knows you are busy. If that's what The Boss wants, Mr Workshop says, I'll try to keep an eye on it. Axle stands are in place; the cutting and welding kit is assembled close by. I need a hand with the timing, says Tech 1; that bearing is weeping again, says Tech 2; the diagnostics are not connecting says Tech 3. Mr Workshop drains oil and changes filters, servicing as he passes by, moving from bay to bay, and back again, all the time answering the calls of his technicians. The Boy's voice is not heard. Tea is taken on the move; lunch is a squeezed, gulped sandwich, oozing its filling over oily hands. The Boy cuts. The Boy measures. The Boy positions. See what you think; says Tech 1; give us a hand, says Tech 2; look at this, says Tech 3. The Boy welds. The Boy drills. The Boy assembles. Mr Workshop wipes his brow with his sleeve; Mr Office answers the phone. The days pass in the blink of an eye. We seemed to have survived intact, Mr Workshop tells Mr Office. I haven't stopped, Mr Office says, the phone just rang and rang; all those invoices; the spares I've ordered in the last few days! The workshop! Says Mr Workshop, we haven't had a moments rest. You've managed to complete all the work? Mr Office asks. All the technicians' jobs are signed off, Mr Workshop says, proudly. The lads did really well, every last one of them.

How did the chassis job go? I asked him. DH told me it went okay, he said. He signed off all the work. I'll have a look at it, I said. Too late, it's gone out, they took it for plating earlier. Oh, I said. How long did it take? Don't know, he told me, we were very busy; the Boy spent all his time on it. The Boy? The Boy!  I said. You said he could do it, he said. I told you he could do the welding; welding what bits he was told to, I said. Oh, he said. Oh? I said, Are you telling me The Boy did the whole job, alone, by himself, unsupervised? Oh dear, he said. Oh God, I said. Did he use the correct cross members on the ladder: pressed and box section for bending loads and tubes for twisting? Did he use enough flitch plate material to strengthen the rails - the frame? Did he use bolted joints to relieve stresses in some members, and weld sympathetically for torsion in the chassis. Did he consider how bolted and riveted joints become crack arresters? Did he consider stress concentrations when he drilled into the chassis rails? Oh dear, he said.

                                                   *************

It failed, they tell The Boss, the Tester said there was cracking and some of the body's mounting bolts had sheared already, so The Boss gets it back in the workshop and tells Mr Office to get on the phone to the customer and tell them there is a delay due to the volume of work and The Boy and the Boss get the plans out and the alignment kit and dismantle, cut and unbolt and then The Boy and The Boss measure, weld and bolt, and Mr Office deals with the phone.

And they stop for lunch, and they sit down together for tea, and they relax and talk -  for as long as it takes.

Nearly, Mrs Robinson

I can't help but applaud Karen Bancroft for her motives in writing to
the Department for Transport (letters: Trucking Magazine and Truckstop
News) but it's the rant and apparent confusion that mar the whole
enterprise, in my opinion. Rogue VOSA practices and foreign drivers
wrapped up in sarcasm about the treatment of her mail - it makes
difficult reading if you wish to stay focused on the point. Which
seems to be some sort of misunderstanding of the aims of the Road
Transport Working Time Directive and the EU Drivers Hours regulations:
the former is about rights, the latter about road safety. Focus on
that and all becomes clear. The job has to be done; the country
depends on it. Drive within Drivers Hours regulations, use your rest
wisely and be safe. Enjoy the extra time off given to you by the
RTWTD. And if you want something to rant about, try the fact that EU
Drivers Hours regulations (EU/561/2006) do not allow a Regular Weekly
Rest to be taken in a vehicle. It's true; ask them

Riveting Stuff

This is the first piece of writing on my new laptop. A piece of kit, I must say, that’s a vast improvement on the old one. The screen resolution is better, the operating program seems an improvement and it certainly works faster. Even the keyboard feels better. It should be no surprise, of course, it's a whole five years newer. Yes, it certainly is a better machine. How odd that if it hadn't been for the sudden death of the old one I would never have gone out and bought it in the first place. I would have struggled on, in the dark ages, making do with dated technology.

Well, that’s not completely true. In many ways the old one wasn't that much different from this one, and when you consider what most of us actually do with our computers, I would probably have carried on using it for a number of years to come. I miss the familiarity of that old laptop; I knew my way round it. I'd grown used to its quirks and the little problems that had developed during our years together. It was like an old friend. And all my files were on it; files which will now have to be transferred. I have to ask myself if this really is a better machine for me, for what I do.

However, you really need to consider the long view, and the wider sphere of life in general, to  see that renewal is always a good thing. Advancement in every arena is essential - not just in computers - and where would we be if some of the old ideas had not been replaced? Would we still believe that the sun and the planets rotate around the earth? Just as everything must grow old and die, so that it can be renewed, even we must die so that the young can relearn and re-evaluate. If Newton had been allowed to live forever at the expense of newer scientists, Einstein might never have come along with his new explanation of gravity. As the old die away, new objective thinkers come along, uncluttered by dogma so that new ideas, new technologies and new machines are born. It's as simple as that.

Well, not quite. There is the tempering effect of established wisdom to consider and how it can prevent those rash decisions that so often lead to disaster. Look at the impetuousness of youth when it comes to buying cars: doesn't just a little experience help weed out the duds, the rust heaps and oil burners. What about superseded vehicle technology that reappears decades later: multi-leaf spring designs that disappeared from cars in the seventies only to be reintroduced as an essential component on some modern four-wheel drive pick-ups. So, it's not only the secure feeling we get from familiarity that makes us value convention. There is something to be said for proven know-how. Maybe that's why many of us are prone to cling to the past.

Yes, and isn't change often just an illusion of improvement - surely, that's what fashion is, isn't it? It's obvious we have a tendency towards change as much we do towards preservation. More evidence, I suppose, of the moderating balance necessary when renewal is so important. In my own experience, I've seen canal boats made to look like old working boats despite being simply living accommodation for water gypsies - of which, I am so happy to announce, I am one myself. (The water road is like the tarmac road of the fifties: less regulated, less congested, freer.) The modern working boats are actually hire boats – although, to admit to such a view would be sacrilege to many boaters – and 'working boats' are simply privately owned vessels constructed to look like the traditional pliers of trade on the waterways. Some have modern engines, buried below the stern deck; canvas covers, that reveal sumptuous living accommodation; imitation woodwork created by a painting technique called scumbling; and all the modern gizmos – washing machines, showers and a type of flushing toilet - that make life so much easier. They even have fake rivets.

Rivets - those small, domed, thread-less and, with a little help from a hammer, self securing bolts used to join sheets of metal. Although still used in modern fabrication, riveting is a method that was once far more visible than it is today. On the canals, we love to see riveted boats; we think they are quaint, picturesque and unquestionably likable compared to some modern boats; in the same way we view wind turbines as the scourge of the countryside and windmills as as an embodiment of the perfect landscape. Wood and rivets, it would seem, might provide the disguise needed to make new appear old and turn violation into veneration: a cosmetic treatment that will cause people to turn and look instead of turning the other away.

Maybe that is what is needed in the world of trucks, where hostility exists around almost every corner to the presence of such large vehicles on our roads. Instead of concentrating on designs that appeal solely to the operator and driver – those transformer lookalikes or the sleek and shiny modular towers that most tractor unit manufacturers have adopted – what about something a little different? Why not appeal to the public at large in an attempt to make trucks more acceptable? With only a few small changes (and without destroying important aerodynamic shaping) trucks could be made to look more 'old world' and, therefore, more attractive in a traditional sense. Just a bit of Freightliner-like riveting and some fake old Scammell-like wooden coachwork (oh, and a bit of proper sign writing) could turn a juggernaut into a quaint lorry – just like the ones they had in the good old days. And my new laptop? I'll get used to it, of course, and appreciate its new features and faster systems. Soon, I won't be able to live without it.

Doctor Diesel

I`m at the quack`s; and if there`s one thing I hate it`s being `doctored`.  If it isn`t my weight he attacks it`s my drinking and, of course, he`ll always have a go at my smoking.  “I bet you wouldn`t treat your truck`s engine the way you treat your engine – that body”, he will say, waving a pointing finger between my chest and stomach.  To which I tell him that I need to treat my truck well because everyone else is trying to destroy it.  “I bet you wouldn`t accept food additives the way we have to accept the stuff they put in diesel”, I say, ensuring the argument comes to a spluttering halt.

But this time it`s different.  Obviously frustrated by the failure of his previous efforts and apparently intent on taking the argument to a new level, he tries, “If it makes the engine run better, then it`s for your own good.  Just like the benefits of a more wholesome intake that you need to be trying”.

Without further debate I relate to him this story:

In 1959 a US B52 bomber dropped unexpectedly out of the sky. As it went into an uncontrolled dive from 36,000ft to 8,000ft in less than a minute it exceeded the speed of sound and began to break up. Four of the eight man crew managed to eject but only the co-pilot survived. The cause of the tragedy – a life form so small it takes a microscope to see it, yet so catastrophic that to this day it remains a menace to planes, ships, trains and leisure boats  And, given the chance, to trucks.

“I suppose this life form was somehow connected with the lifestyles of these airmen”, he scoffs. “Don`t tell me, had they smoked they would have been all right”.

 “It`s a fuel bug I'm talking about, and in our case, Diesel Bug”, I tell him.  “A diesel engine`s worst enemy.  It clogs filters and secretes acid that can eat the innards of my fuel pump and injectors.  It`s a cancer that can spread throughout the body of an engine, eventually even wrecking it completely”.  

He looks at me closely, searching my face and eyes for any hint of mischief. “Cancer is a different matter all together and not something to be taken at lightly; it`s a prolific killer”, he says.  “Do you know how many people a week I have to tell they have the disease?  Too many, that`s how many.  Just like your engine, If only people looked more at what they put in their bodies. Less processed food, a more natural intake, and no fags, that`s all it would take for some people; they`d be so much better off". 

“How”? I hear myself saying.

“Well, they`d live longer for a start”.

“But living longer isn`t necessarily good, not for the planet or the individual, surely?  Aren`t there too many people in the world already; and too many vegetating old people?  Besides”, I continue, “it`s the bio, supposedly good stuff their bunging in diesel that`s making the situation worse for engines.  It eventually deposits water and that`s exactly what the bug wants; it lives on the interface between diesel and water.  You can`t address some problems without creating significant new ones, that`s what I think. Maybe there`s a lesson here: you shouldn`t confuse `ideal` with what, in reality, is best”. 

And then he tells me this story:

A man went to see his doctor for a check-up.  He was a middle aged man with a wife who was always complaining they couldn`t afford a decent holiday like some of their better off friends.  It transpired that the man smoked 60 cigarettes a day.  The doctor reached into the drawer of his desk and pulled out a calculator.  Within a minute of tapping away at its keys he held out the machine so the man could read the figure displayed.  There, he said, that`s what you spend each year on cigarettes.  You could afford two weeks in the Caribbean on that much money, all you have to do is give up smoking.

“And I suppose he quit the habit”, I say, raising my eyes to the ceiling.

“Not quite”, Doc says. “He said, yes, but for the other 50 weeks of the year I`d be f*****g miserable”.

A Man`s MAN

It came as quite a shock, the information my good lady wife imparted to me from a certain women`s magazine she was reading.  Apparently, because of the nature of their work and the separation this entails, sea captains sometimes take their wives along on voyages.  My reaction, I have to admit, wasn`t too convincing - it was very sensible, I said, for these middle aged men, travelling to the flesh spots of the world, thousands of miles from any of their wives` friends who might recognize them, to be accompanied in such a way.  The inevitable result was that my wife immediately suggested she accompany me, in my lorry, on one of my `voyages`.

When the morning of our trip came, I quickly packed my holdall: spare jeans and a few T- shirts; a handful of socks and pants; coffee and powdered milk; money for breakfast at a cafe each morning and a few sandwiches at night; laptop and my Bay Watch DVD collection - The Box Set, as I call it.  And when, at least an hour later, my wife first appeared downstairs with a bag not much bigger than my own, my relief must have been obvious.  But my joy was short lived, as she announced this was simply hand luggage; her suitcase was too heavy for her to lift and I was to fetch it from the bedroom.

A brief explanation about bunks – roomy, happy, sleepy - and their arch enemy, luggage, was met with considerable incredulity as it became apparent that I had missed an essential point about our journey.  This was to be a pleasant break, not an ordeal; not some sort of macho, sweaty, unwashed smelly and most of all, cramped, expedition that only a man could enjoy. We, she explained, would be staying in hotels.  We, I said, don`t make money by staying in hotels.  There was no need to add the, `staying in hotels`, she told me, rather cruelly.  And that was that: if We were to make no money, she had decided, We would do it in comfort.  I loaded the lorry, vowing never to be unkind to a mule as long as I live, and We, my good lady wife, her wardrobe and I, headed East along the A roads of England.  

I was using a rented MAN tractor unit at that time, on a temporary contract with a curtain sided trailer.  It was easy work.  The journeys were short by my usual standards, just a few nights away at a time, and totally within the UK.  I was happily back in the land of transport cafes with English breakfasts of fried slices, black pudding, fried eggs, rashes of bacon, and mugs of tea.  “We`ll pull in at the next cafe”, I suggested to my perfumed passenger.  “Why”? She asked.  I glanced at her - and yes, she was serious. “For breakfast”, I told her.  “But you had toast this morning”, she said, “I`ve made us a cheese sandwich each for lunch, they`re in the cool box, we`ll wait until then”.  “We need to stop”, I informed her, “it`s the law”.  We`ve been going twenty-five minutes”, she said.  “I need a loo”, I tried.  “There`s bound to be a filling station before long", she said. "I`ll be able to browse the magazines while you`re in the toilet”.

The day rumbled on in sympathy with my stomach, which only received the cheese sandwich and a packet of crisps (salt & vinegar, family size) I had bought at the garage to keep me from fainting at the wheel.  “No wonder your seat in the Renault is so dirty”, she said, as I munched away at the crisps, “You`re dropping crumbs everywhere”.  The Renault was my usual tractor unit.  “I hadn`t noticed”, I said.  “I hope you don`t eat junk like this all the time you are away”, she persisted.  “They didn`t have any celery”, I assured her.

Sometime in the afternoon we joined a motorway and after clarification that my discerning driver`s mate was sure she wanted a hotel for the night, I told her that there was a motel at the next service station. “Take the A road at the next junction”, she instructed, turning to me from the GPS with her look of `non-negotiation`.   I did, as instructed, and we were lead onto a thirty mile an hour speed limit road that ran through a busy little village.  “There”, she said, pointing to a large country pub that advertised hotel accommodation.  “It`s a pub”, I protested. “There`s nowhere to park”.  “There`s a car park behind”, she said.  “Exactly, and I know this thing only has two-seats, but it ain`t no car”.  “Pull in”, she told me, “I`ll deal with this”.

I managed to get into the car park, squeezing past a couple of cars, and finally positioning the lorry along the entire length of a tree lined hedge that ran across the back of the property, covering who knows how many parking bays. A ruddy faced gent in a black suit came running from the front entrance.  “What are you doing”? He said, coming straight at me, as I climbed down from the cab. My wife appeared between us, as if gliding on a blanket of mist.  I don`t think either of us, me or the hotelier, saw her legs moving.  “We wish to stay the night”, my wife informed him.  “But this is a hotel”, he said.  “Then, mercifully", she said, "we have come to the right place”.  “But trucks are not permitted in here”, he came back, instantly.  She, though, was scanning the pub, as if not listening. We couldn`t help ourselves but follow her gaze.  First she looked at the large door at the rear of the kitchens, close to where the MAN was parked.  Then she fixed her eyes on the beer cellar`s enormous covers, which were nearby.  And then to the narrow, busy road out front.  “Where do the delivery trucks unload, then”? She asked.  “Well”, he faltered momentarily - you could literally see his shoulders drop.  “That`s different”, he said, gathering himself, manfully.  “The simple fact is you cannot stay here”.  “You said that trucks weren`t allowed in here, but they clearly are.  You lied”.  “Madam, please.”  She appeared to have him on the ropes again, but he still managed to rally. “I am the manager, please, you cannot stay”.  “We have had a long day, we are tired.  Are you saying that ...”, a long, red finger nail tapped the bronze name badge he wore on the lapel of his jacket that proudly displayed the logo and name of a chain of inns.  “... Are you saying these people will turn a forty-four tonne juggernaut loose on the road with a tired driver, during the school run”?  With that the battle was won and he turned towards the entrance of the pub and reluctantly beckoned us to follow.  As my wife made to tag along, I caught the sleeve of her blouse and said, in a low voice, “Tell him we want a room with a view, not overlooking the car park with that bloody great lorry in it”.  “Oh, shut up”, she giggled.

The room was far more luxurious than either of us expected –`bygone opulence` was their speciality, according to a leaflet displayed beside the courtesy kettle. “I don`t think I`ll join you on any more runs in the lorry”, she said later, after we had returned to the room from eating. “It`s too much aggravation. I don`t know how you do it”. I nodded and suppressed a smile. “Great, Total Recall is on later”, I said, flicking through the TV guide.  “Strictly”, she said.  “OK, if you like”, I said. She liked that stuff and anyway, I had had enough of arguing for one day.  “You know”, she said, bouncing lightly on the king-size duvet. “We needn`t watch anything, if you don`t want to”. 

The War Effort

Joey was small compared to the rest of them. Standing shoulder to shoulder or head to head was not an option for Joey; for him it was always head to shoulder.  It wasn`t as if they were Guards either; these were transport drivers, mechanics and the like, just ordinary blokes of what was considered, average height.    The fact was that Joey could only be described as being shorter than average, and then only if you were a friend of his, he was just plain short if you were not. To those that worked with him, Joey was short. REME the sign above the gate to the compound said, and to Joey, unlike most of his comrades, this meant everything: The 'Engineers' was his only true friend – Joey was neither average nor normal.

He`d enlisted as soon as he was old enough, without waiting for National Service to come calling, and was trained as a mechanic.   It was in the Far East that Joey saw active service, deployed as a recovery driver and mechanic in an area so different to home and so dense with jungle that the world he had once known disappeared.  The war, the climate – sometimes wet; always sweltering - meant that most men struggled to make sense of it, but to Joey it was a place to matter. And it was there, in his Scammell Explorer that he mattered: that giant of a lorry with all its winches, chains, pulleys, derrick and enormous towing bars dominated everything around it.  Like a man-made goliath it defied nature - engineered confidence commanding where everything else succumbed.  Joey had found the place he wanted to be - one where he towered, while the world below fought for attention. 

Joey walked as he acted, as if he were being continually measured.  He looked like he was on his toes all the time, although he wasn`t, or as if he was wearing heels, which he wasn`t either.  Joey just stretched his body to its full extent, implausibly squeezing out every last fraction of height.  Chest out, shoulders back; he used every method he knew of to appear taller.  He wrapped himself in the imaginary flags of attraction; those intended to create the illusion of `bigger`.  His Scammell was decorated with a motif copied from a fighter aircraft he`d once seen in a magazine, much to the chagrin of his superiors, and in it, with his arm resting on a half open window and exposed nearly to the shoulder by a tightly rolled shirt sleeve, Joey strutted.  To complete the image (one Joey imagined for himself) a side arm in a webbing holster hung from his hip.  But only when away from prying eyes of the compound - it was unofficial, he told all those he met.  He was glad of it, he would say, as it had got him out of many a scrape, out there alone, as he often was.  They usually nodded, rarely believed him, and without fail, sniggered behind his back.

*******************************************

From a recovery point of view, the job seemed straightforward enough.  A Bedford four-tonner, heading back from a combat zone close to an enemy held part of the country, had gone off the side of a track about 10 miles out and needed pulling from a ditch.  The trouble was the reason it was in there in the first place.  A sniper had hit the radiator and in the ensuing panic the driver had left the road.  His frantic efforts to get out of the ditch had cooked the engine and the vehicle, though, thankfully, not its occupants, was effectively dead.

Volunteers they called them, those that would brave sniper fire to rescue the four-tonner and its crew.  No one, of course, came forward from the ranks that morning. The major scanned their faces but no one so much as flinched, or met his eyes, as he looked along the line.  There was the company heavyweight boxing champion, at least six feet tall and built to destroy - the fit, the crafty, the lazy, the comedians and the new ones, they were all there, at eye level and staring blankly ahead.  “Where`s Big Joey?” the major said, with a grin that was straightaway matched by all those who stood before him.  Joey, in his usual place, under a lorry and covered in oil, was soon found and dispatched; his Scammell, trundling out of the compound, soon disappeared, enveloped in the green.

It didn`t take long for Joey to find the stricken lorry, and as he climbed from his cab, a weary looking and somewhat bedraggled figure ran towards him in a sort of half crouch, and with his head down.  In his right hand the figure carried a revolver which was attached to his belt by a lanyard.  Two pips were just about visible on the right shoulder of his sweat ridden battle dress.  Other figures, equally damp and dishevelled, huddled around the vehicle's wheels, some kneeling, some laying but all with their rifles at the ready.  Joey walked with the lieutenant back to his vehicle, their heads at the same height: Joey on his toes the other man virtually on his knees.  “Keep down, for God sake”, someone called out, “He`s still out there”.  Joey looked around him, the `he` referred to was nowhere to be seen, as far as he could see, anyway.

Joey tried to start the lorry but the information he had been given was right, it was completely unserviceable.  “You blokes seen some action?” Joey said, looking at the small group of men in admiration.  No one answered, they just looked at each other and then back at the surrounding jungle, warily, retaining their defensive positions. “Where were you going?” Joey tried again.  “The pub then home for dinner”, one said, and they all chuckled.  “Back to normality”, said another, “Away from this hell-hole”. “You wish”, the officer was smiling, “We`ve been pulled back for a bit of R `n` R, then it`s back up there, I`m afraid”, he said.  The men muttered.  “What I`d give to be back home, lovely safe job and a weekend away with the missus now and again, in a B `n` B by the sea”, someone said.  There were a few murmurs of agreement.

Joey went back to the Scammell and returned with some rope, shackles and the end of the heavy wire cable from the Scammell`s winch.  The others stayed put and looked on.  It would be no good trying to pull the Bedford directly, as it was at right angles to the track, so Joey rigged a pulley system from the back of the Scammell, via a tree opposite the Bedford, and onto the Bedford`s front axle.  To the wonder and considerable fascination of the small group hiding beside their lorry, he then proceeded to tie a number of the trees beside the track together, linking them to the one opposite the Bedford, the one to which he had previously attached a swivel block.  Then, with Joey back at the controls, the Scammell`s engine revved and the cable tightened.  The trees groaned and began to shift, straining on their feeble roots, but before long the Bedford was back up on the track; all be it still at ninety degrees to the required direction. After coaxing the Bedford`s driver back into his seat, and after instructing him to put his foot hard on the brake, Joey pulled the vehicle`s front round on its sliding, locked wheels and the Bedford was back in line.  While Joey hitched it to the rear of the Scammell, the other men ran from cover and with great relief, climbed aboard.

   *******************************************

The lorry was soon in the workshop and the unfortunate group of soldiers back on their onward journey to some well earned respite.  Joey, sweating in the humidity of a makeshift canvas cover, was getting stuck into removing the engine`s cylinder head to inspect the damage.  The other mechanics went about their business not wishing to catch Joey`s eye and be subjected, once again, to the story of how he had rescued a ditched lorry and fought his way out of the jungle, under the withering fire of a hidden sniper.

 

Time Trial

It was an old building of red brick and sandstone block work; one that had stood longer than those around it.  A weathered facade displayed the colourful shields and crowns of office and the words Court House were engraved in the light stone arch above a grand entrance. To the interest of no one - except a middle aged man manacling his cycle to railings that ran along the front of the building - the time it took someone to walk the length of those railings was the same as the time a lorry could move in the queuing traffic, start to stop.  No one, except the cyclist, seemed to notice these rush-hour lorries accelerating and braking.  And it was only he that looked up to see how far a lorry would travel from standstill to standstill.

Inside, another day of business was about to get under way.  High up in the main hall, the court clock ticked away the seconds towards ten o`clock, while solicitors, police officers and witnesses mingled with the accused below.  The ushers called out names, solicitors confided with clients, and officers chatted. When Ten o`clock arrived the court sessions began and the hall settled into nervous waiting.  A court list had been posted giving the names of the accused and what they were accused of.  Court One was to hear a matter of dangerous cycling.

The proceedings got under way in a time order dictated by the Clerk of the Court.  The magistrates entered; Court One stood. The accused (referred to by the clerk as the defendant) was ushered into the witness box situated to one side of the magistrates’ bench, above the long tables reserved for the solicitors.  Everyone else, the public and press, was seated towards the rear of the courtroom and on the same, lower level as the solicitors.  As time moved on the defendant took the oath, swearing on the New Testament, and confirming his name as Mr Stone.  Not only did he deny the charge, he told the court that he would be defending himself.

A few moments later Mr Stone took his place at the opposite end of the table occupied by the prosecuting solicitor and a police officer, the sole witness for the prosecution, took to the witness box.  His methodical progress from the entrance, round the back of the main seating area and along the side wall below the tall windows, was followed by everyone.  The officer - in the rhythm of name and number, of date and time, of where and why -  gave the court his evidence.

He was an experienced traffic policeman, trained in all aspects of enforcement including speed detection. He was driving his police car on a thirty-mile-an-hour speed limit road approaching a pedestrian crossing. The cycle was ahead of him, on the left and moving quickly, a racing type with the rider looking in both posture and appearance like a racing cyclist.  The cyclist had his head down and was pumping away at the pedals.  The road was flat.  They approached the pedestrian crossing.  A young woman was on the pavement to the left, pushing a child towards the zebra crossing in a `baby buggy` type push chair.  The cycle went over the crossing just as the front wheels of the buggy were on it.  He believed the child would have been seriously hurt had it been hit.  He stopped the cycle beyond the crossing and reported the cyclist. The cyclist, he said, was travelling at a speed of about 20 miles-per-hour.

The officer was asked by the prosecuting solicitor to clarify that at the time the pushchair was on the crossing.  He answered that it was and that the cycle was two seconds from it at the time.  Mr Stone was then given the opportunity to question the officer.

“You say the push chair was on the crossing when I crossed it?”

“That`s correct”.

“All of it?”

“No, as I have said, just the front”.

“How far would you say I was from the crossing when the front of the chair entered onto the crossing?”

“About ten feet”.

“Which is about three metres?”

“Yes”.

“Are you sure it was three metres?”

“Yes, I believe it was about that”.

“You say I was travelling at twenty miles-per-hour?”

“Yes”.

“Was this as I went over the crossing or after?”

“For the whole time. I used the display on the speed detection device in my car to record the speed before I stopped the cyclist”.  The officer was addressing the Magistrates. 

“You say a lady was pushing a child on the crossing”.

“No, she wasn`t on it.  The front of the chair was on the crossing. There was also someone on the other side”.

 “Did that person walk onto the crossing?”

“Yes”.

“Did the woman with the child actually step onto the crossing?”

“No, she saw the cyclist just in time and stopped at the side, pulling the chair back”.

“You say you understand the speed detection equipment in your vehicle.”

“That`s correct”.

“Do you understand the relationship between speed, time and distance, and how average speed is the time taken to cover a distance in a certain time?”

“Yes, as I said, I have been trained in all aspects speed enforcement”.

“Then tell me, please.  You say the front of the push chair was on the crossing when I was two seconds back and three metres away.  How fast was I travelling, using this information?”

The officer was quiet. He looked at the magistrates but got no help in formulating an answer.

“Let me assist you”, Mr Stone said.  “It took me two seconds to cover three metres. That means I was travelling at a rate of one and a half metres every second.  My speed, then, was about three miles-per-hour.  That`s walking pace, and not twenty miles an hour.”

“Well, no, but... .”

“How did you measure my speed?”

“I used the speed digital display on the vehicle`s enforcement equipment.  It`s calibrated and totally accurate”.

“But how did you relate your speed to mine”.

“I don`t understand what you mean”.

“You followed over the crossing when there was someone on it, crossing from the other side?”

“Well, no, I stopped but so did they. They stood on the crossing and let me pass, and I followed the cycle and stopped it beyond the crossing”.

“So, when you say I was travelling at twenty miles an hour, that`s the maximum speed you reached in order to catch up with me?”

“Yes, I suppose so”.

“And as you stopped on the crossing and then accelerated to twenty miles an hour, your average speed over the distance from the crossing, where you stopped, to where you reached me was less than half that, depending on how quickly you slowed. In any case, probably greater than my average speed.  Remember what was said earlier, my speed was only three miles an hour from your opinion of my time and distance from the crossing”.

The officer didn`t answer - for a moment, he didn`t appear to be able to say anything.

“In fact”, Mr Stone was now addressing the Magistrates.   “The woman hadn`t entered the crossing, she had stopped while I passed by at low speed.  The officer, by his own admission, had driven over the crossing with someone on it, the person crossing from the other side...”.

Outside the traffic was moving freely after the morning rush hour.  People on the footway were passing the front of the building, and lorries trundled along at a constant speed.  No one gave a second thought as to how far they, or any other vehicle for that matter, had travelled in the time it took someone to walk past the front of the building - except the middle-aged cyclist, releasing his cycle from where it had been chained.