Jubilee Cerebralation

I wonder if Her Majesty the Queen sat on the throne as the morning of her Diamond Jubilee approached and pondered the mental capacity of her governments, both past and present; I know I did.  She of all people will have realized that just because someone has had a privileged upbringing it doesn`t naturally follow that they are clever.  With all due respect, she only has to look to her own progeny to see that although public school and university can fill a head with facts, it`s the capacity of the brain to manage, interpret and apply them that`s important – that rare ability to assess and come to the right conclusions, and then make sound decisions.  I suppose we must be grateful that her lot can`t do any real damage. But the same can`t be said for some non-royals, where the superiority engendered by public school combined with knowledge and limited cerebral capacity can be such a dangerous cocktail. And if she was thinking along those lines, she will have had little choice but to be reminded of all those Prime Ministers that have kneeled before her.

Didn`t they realize, Her Majesty will have asked herself, just as I did,  that economic weakness continuing over decades must have a root cause. And if they couldn't get their heads round that simple fact, how in the name of the future king are they going to deal with the number of other important problems the country has to face.

The Queen was no doubt thinking, as I still do, that countries that do really well, all round, are those maximising their resources.  Australia mines precious metal, sheikdoms in the Middle East drill for oil - and Germany retains a skilled manufacturing base. When Prime Minister Blair was planning to solve this country’s problems by sending 50% of all school leavers to university, Germany was sending 67% of theirs into apprenticeships.  While we allowed Foden and ERF to be sold abroad, losing control of the future of hundreds of jobs, BMW were deciding on how British workers would fit into the German economy. (The same deliberation TATA now has to make on behalf of India.) By not being totally reliant on one particular area of business, the Germans have maintained and spread their assets, and survived the better for it.

Our eggs, The Queen will have lamented, as I have on so many occasions, all seem to be in one basket, our resourse of established industries supported by a skilled workforce ignored. In her reign she will have seen British companies using British made machinery build large parts of the world that we know today.  She will have seen roads filled with British vehicles of all descriptions and she will have seen a significant part of the workforce occupied in manufacture.  Now, only 15% of business in the UK is in manufacturing; we are almost totally reliant on the service and financial sectors. The result of successive governments following the free market principle of natural selection is that we have had to spend billions of pounds of public money bailing out banks in order to save our constrained economy. This last ditch measure is the result of years of poor thinking and mismanagement - similar measures taken years ago with the manufacturing sector would have saved this country at least some of the pain it`s going through at the moment. While millions in the UK remain in poor employment and vast numbers of young people exist without the hope of a future let alone training, the banks, because they`re all we`ve got left, attempt to increase their reserves.  And as we pay for benefits and bail-outs, the rising economies in the East hunger for the produce of manufacturing: the machines and merchandise needed to build a modern infrastructure.    

We are not pleased, I hear Her Majesty say, speaking for the two of us, and demand better governance by truly clever and capable people. We demand a policy on business, not just a short term strategy.  We demand a larger manufacturing sector with appropriate skills training.  We demand long term, full employment. 

I waved my Union Flag on the Sunday of the Queen's Jubilee parade, watching a procession of the country`s elite escorted by German built police cars and motorcycles. But I didn`t wave it for them, not any of them.  Well, except one.  

Horse

It wasn`t my first truck, and it certainly wasn`t one I would have naturally chosen – it just sort of came along. I had been running an ERF up until then but things between us were getting a bit tense to say the least. Basically the old girl was under powered - not a crime in itself, especially when refuelling, but annoying in the long term - and she had let me down on more than a couple of occasions, which was, I forced myself to admit, unforgivable.  I have always accepted the diesel ingrained in my skin (a situation dating back long before barrier cream and then latex gloves became compulsory), in fact, at one time, I wore those black, ingrained fingernails with a certain amount of pride.  However, that particular ERF tested my apathy towards dermatitis to the limit.  We had spent a lot of time together: all those sunny days and open roads; misty mornings and muddy lorry parks.  I loved the feel of her.  I loved sensing her engine power as the revs climbed and fell every time we accelerated away from traffic lights or when we climbed a hill.  I loved the touch of the non-syncronised gearbox, the way each ratio fell into place at end of that long lever - and the satisfaction of getting gearchanges right.  There`s nothing like driving a loaded artic, especially one you feel connected to in such a way.  Every vibration, every change in road surface and engine note, sent a sensation of raw oneness between me and my machine.  What she felt, I felt and it was great to have such attachment and control.  And every night I would check her over, making sure nothing needed tending to before the following day – bedding her down, I used to call it. Over the years, and like this, we`d wound our way North and South, East and West.  Then, as if it had crept up on me without warning, I came to realize she`d become tired and was no longer up to the job.  

So there it was that remarkable new truck.  Air assisted throttle, gear change, clutch – everything.  Synchromesh gearbox with 16 ratios, power assisted steering and, unusually for that time, a big and comfortable sleeper cab.  I had never seen anything like it, and had certainly never even considered one before.  It was my first Volvo, bought after a chance encounter, and it became the first of many.  The trucks were quite simply the right tool for job.  Driving became less tiring, less painful and, I suppose, less challenging.  It was easier and in a world of increasing legislation and traffic, it helped.

After that I`d almost completely given up on British machinery.  Although I ran a Ford van there was little else British built to choose from, both on four wheels or two. Triumph and Norton motorcycles were all but dead with only a few diehards buying what was left coming from the factories.  By the mid eighties I was riding a BMW, a flying brick; unbreakable, solid reliability that carried me for miles.  The bike was equipped with factory built luggage, a smooth, four cylinder engine, and controls so brightly coloured they looked like something out of a sweet jar. But it worked. It was easy to use and I loaded it, rode it, serviced it occasionally and hardly ever checked anything, apart from the tyres (on any motorcycle, you`re a fool if you don`t).  Shaft driven and bullet proof, it offered soulless reliability.

In 1987 I took it to Spain, crossing on the ferry from Plymouth to Santander, and then rode back across France to Cherbourg. Through the Pyrenees the BMW performed faultlessly.  Nothing phased it.  Rain one day covered the whole lot, me included, with a pasty yellow mulch thrown up from the road.  I jet washed the BMW off at a B&B that night and never gave it a second thought, or a dose of WD40.  In the intense heat of the lower levels, I suffered; the motorcycle didn`t. For me, that motorcycle and my Volvo truck heralded a new age of disconnected technology – they did their thing, I did mine.

In the Pyrenees I stopped one night in a small village I came across nestling in the rock and scrub of the mountains.  Cottages, shops and bars ran down each side of the road and I could see huts jotted about in the hills above.  A small stream ran along one side of the road.  I booked into a B&B and went into an adjoining restaurant for a meal.  No one spoke English and to my shame I spoke little Spanish, so everything was done with the universal sign language of hunger and thirst.  The food was apparently locally sourced, so it was meat and no vegetables - and a beer. When I had finished and I went to the counter to pay, a hairy individual, probably of similar age to myself, and not dissimilar in appearance, turned to me and in the recognizable accent of an Englishman said, “Is that your machine out there?”  And it was those few words that started a bar crawl.

He had gone out there in the 60s, when free love and flower power were `in` and the cool thing to do was to `drop-out` in sunnier climes like San Francisco – and Spain.  Post Second World War Britain was captivated by the memory of war, which became associated by the next generation with the establishment, restriction, discipline and duty.  Traditional values were rejected and a contrasting ideology emerged of colour, love and personal freedom; a revolt was almost inevitable. We walked from bar to bar as he told me how he lived in a hut in the hills with no electricity or running water.  Everywhere we went he was greeted like the old eccentric he probably was, and at each bar we drank a thick red wine, because, he said, it was cheap.

In one place the elderly matriarch of an owner took a special, and on first appearance, disapproving interest in him.  When I asked about what she was saying, he told me it was just fuss about his drinking and concern that he should look after himself better.  She had known him since he first arrived, all those years before, in that small village, the place he`d not moved from since. His lifestyle obviously hadn`t changed despite his age, although the ideology, I felt, was long forgotten: drink, odd jobs and his little shack on the hill seemed to be a cruel destiny for one who must have had such a clear dream.  The rest of the village had moved on with the world.  The villagers dressed fashionably, casually; they travelled outside the area to work. I looked closely and saw that almost every one of those road side cottages had a satellite dish on the roof. When I left him to return to my accommodation, my new friend staggered off alone; the rats in the sewers couldn`t have looked more dishevelled – or less miserable.

My current motorcycle was not one I had thought I wanted.  I`d been looking for something a bit different, and then found it.  Touring motorcycles had become cumbersome, over stacked with delicate looking fairings and luggage. I wanted something capable of racking up the miles but also one that could cope with the rough and unexpected tracks of Spain and beyond.  And one I could ride on those days I wasn't out working the Volvo.  I looked, inevitably, at BMW GS adventure motorcycles but they were bulky and dated.  Then I came across a Triumph dealership and went in to browse.  I walked out with a receipt for a Triumph Explorer.

I love the way she pulls instantly, something to do with the ride-by-wire technology, as well as the torque developed by her 3-cylinder, 1215cc engine. Switchable ABS, traction control and cruise control make her a joy to ride, while giving me a certain amount of control – and a feeling of security.  Virtually maintenance free shaft drive, a higher performing generator for those electronics, and off road capability; she`s a beauty. I wash her and get the polish and WD40 out, not always because I have to but because I want to. It beds her down for the night.