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.