The Mother Road. Part 3, Oklahoma

Our third night was spent in Tulsa, Oklahoma, a State entered sometime in the afternoon; unknowingly, from what I remember. The route was, until the last couple of hours, still on frontage roads, with the occasional excursion away from running beside the interstate and into some local town or community. Towards the end of the day we were on fast, smooth roads, where the speed limit changed regularly: fast road, 65mph; 55mph near junctions: 35mph through towns. Tulsa was the first inner city hotel since Chicago and it really was great to be within easy reach of a selection of places to eat. After parking the Harley in the hotel's multi-storey car park, and after a shower, we walked out to a nice bar a few blocks away. It was a bit like a Wetherspoons. A Greyhound bus depot, often positioned 'down town', I recalled from travels in the distant past, confirmed this memory by displaying a huge advertising sign that said: 'Arse in a Sling, Give Us a Ring' followed by the details of a solicitor.

We left Tulsa the following morning, stopping at some roadside historic railway exhibits on the way and photographing a couple of old engines. A bit of Route 66 stuff seemed to be part of the display,  reassuring us that we were on the right road, as it continued out of town and once again ran close to interstate 44. 

We were soon in big country where, by the look of it, you could build anything you wanted anywhere you liked. Isolated buildings appeared out of nowhere and disappeared just as quickly with no apparent connection to the land or locality. Some were pretty ugly, some run down and some run down but simply beautiful. These were the abandoned motels that time and just about everything else - apart from travellers on the Mother road – had forgot. Rows of coloured doors, some dislodged, some still upright but all with paint now flaking stood amongst the crumbling, once whitewashed walls of these old buildings. Only a few decades ago they would have stood proud, gleaming with tall roadside signs shining brightly though the night.

There were a number of 65 mph roads on the stretch out of Tulsa, not interstate but fast single track highways. Enormous modern churches kept appearing. More like massive single storey halls, they stood set back from the road in the flat sprawling landscape far away from any communities that we could see. But like everywhere here, there was plenty of space for parking. I'm not sure we'd seen anybody walking anywhere other than to or from a car since leaving Chicago, not even in Tulsa. From the plains to greenery to church country, our progress continued at a pace.

I noticed a couple of single headlights and white fairings following us as we rode into yet another town and immediately slowed, just in case they were police bikes.  Soon we were stopped opposite the Rock Cafe (of Cars fame) with the two bikes behind us. As it turned out they weren't motorcycles as such but scooters, and the riders weren't cops either, but a husband and wife team out for a Sunday run. We chatted for a while before Andy came running over from the cafe.

Andy, a Scot now living in Australia, holidaying on Route 66 in America, we'd last seen when we set out from EagleRider in Chicago. Andy had ridden with us on that first day and seemed pretty keen to ride with us now. He was a really nice bloke and we were happy for his company and an extra pair of eyes on the navigation. As the days passed I came to look forward to a bit of male banter and chat with Andy and I know Sue liked him. Often, conversations from beneath crash helmets would occur between them, as he pulled up next to us at some tricky navigation spot we'd stopped at. It was great: I couldn't make out all the detail on the satnav maps, not without my reading specs on, so I sat back and awaited a decision. I enjoyed the luxury of simply riding, looking and savouring the journey, the way I wanted to. To me, it was about the traditional American motorcycle and watching historic America roll by. In the sun. With the difficult details taken care of by Sue and Andy, I was in heaven.

From the Rock Cafe we continued a few miles and stopped at Pops, a cafe denoted by an enormous pop bottle out front; a contemporary looking sign, unusual for The Mother Road. There were many bikes: Triumphs, Harleys, Indians, Harleys, a 70s Honda four, and Harleys. We parked our Harleys and went inside. I went to the loo and, not noticing the queue, went straight to a urinal. When I'd finished and washed my hands, I saw the waiting line. I was mortified and made a hasty retreat, noting that there was at least one Brit amongst them. I could see it in his eyes. While all the others said, 'arsehole', his said, 'prat'.

There was something striking about riding in the US: drivers are far more laid back than those in England. The roads are generally far less congested than ours and, I suppose, that makes for better driving. Cars would come up from behind on the frontage road, gaining on us, then sit at a respectable distance until they could overtake. They did this regardless of our speed, which could be slower than the road's limit to enable a bit of sightseeing. Sometimes a truck would come along but I would always speed up or pull over so not to inconvenience the driver. We passed through towns with four-lane high streets that felt 100 feet wide. This was, “Ya'all come back, now” country and the people were pleasant, helpful and friendly. We stopped, filled (gassed) up and used the toilet (potty) and drank coffee (coffee).

The Harley continued to grow on me. Partly, I think, because the engine, that big capacity twin, thumped along a bit like my BMW RT1150. The style, though, was totally different and for long distance touring I'm not sure which I'd prefer. In Europe the Harley would be more a cruiser but in the US, it's considered a tourer and for two-up riding on these straight roads it was wonderful, the passenger even gets an arm chair. If it were my bike, I'd have higher bars and a seat set back a bit to accommodate my taller than average frame, and some highway pegs to let me stretch out. Not that the Electraglide was uncomfortable, far from it, just not ideal, that's all. I had to drop a leg off the inside footplate during tight turns, to allow the bars to move over an obstructing knee. Pretty, slow speed manoeuvring was never going to be possible on such a top heavy bike, two-up, so I didn't worry too much.

We stayed in Clinton for our second night in Oklahoma, in another chain hotel that again resembled something that might have been delivered flat packed, along with a breakfast neatly slotted into a plastic bag. There were other couples there riding EagleRider bikes, doing The Mother Road West to East. One were New Zealanders (ex pats from Kent) riding a Road King, another riding a BMW RT1200. We had a chat and it became obvious the BM pair were not entirely enjoying the journey – difficult navigation and getting lost had, apparently, marred their trip. I thought of our system, satnav, Sue and Andy and felt relieved but sympathetic. Someone did tell us that Route 66 signs were sometimes stolen as souvenirs and, to be honest, the satnav wasn't always without issue. If I set it to 'no interstate', it would understandably want to take us miles out of our way when Route 66 used one of these major routes. When we got further West and roads became sparse, on one occasion it suggested a 450 mile detour to avoid a few miles of interstate. Sometimes, but only briefly, the interstate is The Mother Road.

Still at the hotel, I spoke to an American couple who had been to an archery event. Hunting, it was soon revealed, in the humane manner that only a bow and arrow, or crossbow, can give. I was informed that an animal feels a burning sensation then dies peacefully when struck by an arrow head, as opposed to the suffering of being blown apart by a bullet. Soon after, we entered the Lone Star State.

Parental Control

I plunged my forefinger onto the page in an exaggerated gesture, as if to mark the spot where my reading had reached. The noise and the jolt to the book were enough to make her stop in mid sentence and stare straight at me. My old dad did same thing if my mum interrupted him when he was reading. I always imagined that in his Hornblower novels my dad was lost somewhere in the South Seas, invoking the admiration of his crew while battling storms and slovenly Spaniards. He'd have been the hero of his men, a father to them all, firmly guiding and saving them from themselves: those fighting dullards never knowing quite what to do for the best. And when he was bought back to reality by my mum's conversation, his disapproval showed.

And there I was, many years later, lost in my book when my wife interrupted. “I'd do anything for my kids”, she said, starting again after my little display of engrossed reader frustration.  I sat still for a moment, trying to make sense of what she was saying.

“You know”, I said, finally. “You're going to have to stop watching Strictly Come Dancing if it makes you like this”.

“Oh, don't talk rubbish”, she said. “It's got nothing to do with Strictly, it's those refugee mothers, risking all to give their children a chance of life, a future”.

“And endangering their lives in the process”, I said.

“They're doing what they think is best, even if it may kill them”, she said. “Having to put your child's life at risk in order to save it is the worst nightmare any parent can have. They must be suffering unimaginable emotional pain making decisions like that”.

“You didn't sound like that when Seddon junior got nicked by the police for theft”, I reminded her, “You wanted to strangle him”.

“No I didn't, I was just saying that. Anyway, he got in with the wrong crowd; he was always easily lead”.

“Easily lead”? I said. “At his expulsion ceremony, attended by you and me, the headmaster described him as the leader of the infamous year eleven shop lifting and school burglary squad”.

“Well, he's done very well for himself now. You said it yourself, getting expelled was a real shock for him, he pulled his socks up straight away”. Her youngest was not to be knocked.

But he's my son as well and I remember taking a slightly less forgiving, more robust position regarding his 'education'. What his mother doesn't know is that, soon after, and as soon as I was alone with him, I pinned him to a wall by the throat and instructed him on his future behaviour. I had judged it well and he was near to tears as I informed him that I would kick his backside to oblivion if he ever upset his mother in that way again. Looking back it's me that is close to tears thinking about it; as I say, he's my son as well. Something, though, had to be done, for him, for the best.

Anyway, back to my book. I was reading Robot Visions, Isaac Asimov's collection of robot stories, in which he reiterates the three robot laws: laws that govern the interaction between humans and robots. Basically, Rule 1 says that a robot cannot harm a human, or allow a human to be harmed. Rule 2, a robot must obey an order given by a human, unless it causes conflict with Rule 1. Rule 3 states that a robot must protect itself unless in doing so there is conflict with Rules 1 or 2.

Asimov's robots are invariably humanoid - androids designed to replace humans in some jobs but always intended to exceed human ability and so enhance our existence. In many ways I can see why that's the most popular vision of them and if robots were built to simply replace people, then what other form would they take. In reality, though, the most practical shape for a robot is one that best fits the job its intended for. Why have a robot that builds cars, for example, with hands to grip tools, when the arms themselves could incorporate the tools. Why have a car driven by a robot when a robot car can be built without space wasted on a driver.

These are the robots of our future. Machines formed to perform specific tasks. And as they become more sophisticated, more autonomous, laws that govern behaviour will become increasingly important. Even now we have systems in vehicles that take over the engine management and brakes to compensate for our driving mistakes. With the future bringing even greater control and much of the development and design for these automations done by machines themselves, a totally new set of ethics will evolve. Ethics administered not by people but by machines. Political correctness, the antithesis of our flawed idea of common sense, will be equaled by robotical correctness, as these computerised mechanisms  grapple with the enormity of what they're being asked to do - to look after us in the complexity that is our everyday lives. So, as we head towards full automation, it's not hard to predict the type of programming robotic trucks might have in order to save us from ourselves.

Why can't we chisel off just one more car in the inside lane before the exit slip? Because the automaton we're riding in thinks it's:

1. Not completely safe
2. Not fuel efficient, so unsound for the (human) environment 
3. Potentially damaging for the machine itself

Why can't we pull into the next fast food outlet? Because the robot vehicle thinks it's:

1. Not safe for our long term health (it would be the second visit this week)
2. The machine has already registered an unhealthy increase in our seat weight
3. They don't do discount points for any of our cards

Why can't we set off, now?

1. We haven't fastened our seat restraint
2. We haven't tidied the bunk of items that might fall and injure us
3. We haven't cleaned our teeth

All this in the new world of full automation, where robots replace, and on which we become totally dependent. With the control of industry, activity and life comes the responsibility for safety, well-being and environment. Our new home is an ordered one, where our parents are mechanisms and their hand logical and firm. And always in the best interest of us, their children.

My Robot

It's no surprise that they've tested an autonomous truck on public roads in Nevada, USA - a machine that drives itself, actually on the road - we've been expecting it for ages. But now it's here you have to wonder where these automations will lead, and that's the thing: the road to full automaton is being laid, whether we like it or not. The question is, do we really want a world dominated by robotics, or is it just something being thrust upon us? From what I've seen there's denial from most quarters.

The American tests were reported in a recent magazine article that seemed almost apologetic when it referred to the driver relinquishing control of the truck. But this being an industry journal, so understandable it should attempt to reassure readers that a driver was still a key component. Publicly, manufacturers talk about the importance of the driver - while all the time edging us towards a driverless vehicle. And despite knowing that in terms of safety the driver really is the weakest part of the truck, we all appear to hang on to the notion that someone, a person, should be in control.

It is true that the benefits of automation are undeniable. Improved safety, efficiency and environmental improvements are all there, and not just the obvious ones. In years to come we could actually live in a world where our visual environment is not cluttered with enormous road signs or white paint markings and bollards. Roundabouts and junctions could change from bottlenecks of stagnation to those of continuous flow, as intelligent machines work together. But it's these road features that are themselves the signs of human control, like the steering wheel and brake pedal, and once they're gone the skills associated with them will also go, most probably lost forever.

So, are these automatons something we really want? The ready answer may be a resounding, no, but the truth is something different. Every change we make is geared to our perception of improvement. Smart phones, for example, are considered such an enhancement to life that we await the next upgrade with pretty hefty enthusiasm. But like all clever technology their ability to please and provide is partly based on collecting information about us, communicating with other machines and ultimately doing what they think best. After all, it's what we require of them. It's the same with vehicles: we demand ease and performance and the machine provides. Intelligent drive systems decide on appropriate gearing and power output; telematics assists productivity; GPS tells us where to drive; and safety systems help to keep us on the straight and narrow, and upright.

Few could wish to revert to trucks of the past in everyday work. Roping and sheeting, non-synchronized manual gearboxes, low power engines and stealing glances at a map book. Heavy clutch pedals, stopping at phone boxes, cold nights and waxed up diesel. No cruise control, noise, and a tinny radio. And oil and dirt. Our world has changed because of the advance of mechanisms both simple and complex. It's what we want and will continue to call for until full automation is ushered in and the machines take over completely. It's seen in all aspects of life: the gradual advance of intelligent, safe, fast, cheap and easy. Realistically, it'll probably be a few decades before we see a transport system with no drivers or even warehouse and transport office staff, but I hope when they do finally arrive these robots retain one aspect of human involvement: the desire to protect endangered species.

57

It's hard to explain American football, I don't mean the rules, although that would be difficult enough, I mean why, why does American football exist at all? Why the complexity and show, why not just play rugby? It's as if someone sat a five-year-old boy down with some paper and a box of crayons, showed him a game of rugby and asked how it could be improved. The game of American football was then invented from the explosion of colour that remained after all the laser sticks and tanks were removed.

And it's the colour, complexity and show that mask what the game is all about: the simple act of violence, male violence over territory and possession. All that razzmatazz is just a way to authorize, to establish credibility and create approval. In some ways it's how the acceptance of religious doctrines and bonding in the military is achieved. Chanting and trinkets, beating music and uniforms all appeal to the most basic of animal instincts: to belong to a group is the way to survive. Paraphernalia makes a powerful contribution because it provides the illusion of legitimacy. In this way American football endorses itself, fluffs up its feathers and struts its stuff.

And once a following is established it's time to plant the idea firmly in the minds of the people by playing the game. The wealth of the church, the loyalty of soldiers and the success of the team depend on the cooperation of everyone involved. In American football, a player's number indicates their position and 57 is usually a centre. His job is to get the offensive going by snatching up the ball and passing it to the quarterback, then block any attempt by the opposition to thwart his teams' plans. He plays his part as his team advances, bit by bit, yard by yard, all the while ensuring his own continued status and position. And it's all achieved in a flash of colour, the chanting of orders and the sound of clashing armour.

Rugby is just as much about territory and possession, but its violence is raw and open. Rugby is much less of a spectacle than American football and in that way more honest. Maybe in part due to the dull, overcast and muddy fields of Britain, I always think that Rugby is best not watched in colour. There's no illusion, just grit. It reminds me of the pure and simple fact that sometimes, when the need arises, you just need to get stuck in. Like Tom Yately did in 57, when the violent Red ruled the roost.

The 1957 film, Hell Drivers, was a first-rate B movie about a firm of tipper drivers. It came out of an era of change when traditional roles were starting to be challenged. It's a male dominated black and white drama that sees good conquer evil. Filled with conflict over position and possession, Hell Drivers is more than just a British western: the characters, although extreme, were contemporary, authentic and real. The film shows how aggression is sometimes needed to defeat the damaging parasitic effect of wrongdoing, in this case by a rough, antagonistic top driver and a corrupt employer.  Here the team of drivers are weak and uncoordinated against the powerul Red and his boss. But Tom, their '57', snatches up the ball and goes on the offensive. Simple, undressed male violence. There's no need for deception or illusion; it's refreshing to watch.

Ice, baby

The distant mountains are swathed in the beautiful colours of dusk. They've a reddy hue, reflecting the evening light, a mixture of aquamarine, crimson and darkening yellow. I wish I had the ability to paint them.

I look to the nearer hills and try to remember the little geology I know, and  wish I knew more.

Below, in a valley of varying shades of green, I see church spires and the ochre roof tops of a small cluster of houses.  I dwell for a moment on their history, but only long enough to realize that a lifetime could be spent in study and only a fraction understood.

I see animals in the fields and admit to myself I know nothing of their anatomy, or even husbandry.

The sky is beginning to fill with clouds.  There's a front approaching, but that's all I can really say; I can't tell you a great deal about meteorology. 

It's then that I look to the ground at my feet, to the grass that runs along the lay-by, and I see the plastic bottles, the fast-food wrappers and plastic bags discarded by god knows who, passing through, ignoring the mountains, valleys, villages and skies, while trashing the verges.

Perhaps it's our virtual existence, seeing life through a series of screens that does it. Travelling from television and computer, at home and at work, looking out at the world through a car's windscreen, or a bus window.

We seem to have lost contact with the real environment. Soon even the space between our eyes and screen will be eliminated by Google glasses.

Is knowing the real world that bad?  According to most people it is. Almost all adults use one form of drug or other to alter their perception of life. Alcohol relaxes; cannabis makes you happy; cocaine, confident;  ecstasy, chatty too; speed, full of energy; mephedrone, all of the above; and methamphetamine (ice) arouses.

But don't drugs, whether stimulant, depressant or hallucinogen, simply represent a way in which we choose to interact with the real world?

And what price do we pay for this maltreatment of life and environment? Drug abuse costs the English and Welsh tax payer about £19bn per year.  Alcohol abuse about £6bn.

The environment Agency spends £10 million annually collecting roadside rubbish. In fact, 2.25 million pieces of litter are dropped in the UK everyday, apparently by 48% of the population.

As I drive down from the mountain I see a sign warning of ice - someone has daubed 'ice baby' across it. I wonder if, as they did so, they marvelled at the vast forest that lay behind the road, the mountains beyond, the history of this land, or the way it was formed.

It's a world I wish I knew better, in all its natural beauty.

It's a Matter of Time

Time (t)

t=s/v

Distance (s) Speed (v) acceleration (a)

s=vt v=s/t a=v/t

A Grand Prix motorcycle circles the track. After level pegging for most of the race, its average lap time is compared with the other competitors and found to be 0.2 seconds quicker than the next fastest. With a top speed recorded on the longest straight of 100 metres per second (m/s) - that's over 200mph - it's right up there with the best, but it's still not primo top-speed. But the bike is winning – so, it must be going quicker through the bends. If it carries on like this, by the time the race finishes in five laps time, the motorcycle will have won by a margin of one second. It covers the final lap in 50 seconds, winning with an average speed of 50m/s (during this lap). This means that the track is 2500 metres in length. As the machine in second place is 0.2 seconds slower over this distance, its average speed, therefore, is 49.98m/s. Prediction, calculation and evaluation; all possible because of time.

Time: the only proper constant in the world we understand. While everything we can see and touch can vary, time is the truly independent ingredient. Time gives the fixed marker posts of change; a uniform grid over which all that happens in life is laid. Unlike anything else in our everyday perception of the world, it never varies. Everything you can physically see changes at differing rates, because of time, and are only quantifiable because time is unvarying and constant. Time is both the base and the dimension that provides the measure of life. Without time there would be no comparison of events – change would be unquantifiable and unpredictable. Our deterministic world could not function without the concept of time.

Time is sometimes referred to as the fourth dimension because to find meaning in the words, faster, slower, quicker, a perceptible but intangible benchmark is required, one that exists outside the world we see. Imagine you have no recognition of time. A truck overtakes you on the motorway, he's in front of you, so he will arrive before you. How do you arrive first? Your truck must get in front of his, but how do you get the front of your truck ahead? The simple answer is to increase speed. But time doesn't exist, so neither does speed.

When speed increases or decreases, it simply means the distance travelled changes in a fixed period of time. When we accelerate or decelerate, the distance travelled in a fixed period of time changes in a fixed period of time. Using the standard (SI) units of time and space, metres and seconds, a truck travelling at a speed of 13m/s, travels 13 metres every second. If it accelerates at a rate of 2 metres per second, per second (m/s/s), its speed will increase by 2 metres per second every second. So, if a truck travelling at 13 m/s accelerates at a rate of 2 m/s/s, after 1 second it will be travelling at 15 m/s, after 2 seconds, its speed will have increased to 17 m/s.

Time permits change in the physical world; speed, acceleration and interest on savings are all changes in things we can touch. Time makes change relative. When you next overtake another truck on the motorway, think about it. A 16.5 metre artic attempts to pass another. The distance needed from the front of the overtaking vehicle passing the rear of the other, to its rear passing the front of the other, is 33 metres. This is an absolute minimum and takes no account of the extra distance required to turn back to the lane in front of the overtaken truck. You are averaging 56mph, he's averaging 55mph. The difference is about 0.5m/s. The time needed is 66 seconds, just over a minute. In that time you will have travelled over 1650 metres, a little more than a mile.

So, by overtaking, you gain just over 30 metres for every mile travelled, and it takes about a minute. At 56mph, a 200 mile journey will take 3 hours 34 minutes. Or, 3 hours and 38 minutes had you sat behind the other lorry. Four minutes: a motorcycle on an A road would cover 4 miles – at 60mph; a mile a minute. Roger Bannister could change position by a mile. A Grand Prix motorcycle, travelling at over 200mph would have overtaken your truck in just under a second. (As the comparison is between your truck and the motorcycle, the relative change in distance is 16.5 metres, plus 2 metres for the length of the bike.) And, at 200mph, the race bike would arrive at the end of the 200 mile journey no less than two and a half hours before your truck (had you both started in the same place and, of course, at the same time). That's enough time for a serious athlete to run a marathon. It's all a matter of time.         

Spotted

We're driving along a quiet coast road that's also bordered by a railway line. My good lady spots a group of men in anoraks, all fondling binoculars and notebooks. They're waiting for something; hoping that whatever it is will soon appear and make their lives just a little more complete, on this day at least. “Stop”, she yells. It's a command I cannot ignore. We pull over and she rushes back along the road to the group, not even remembering to close the car door such is her concentration, her devotion, her passion. My wife, you see, is a birder. Is this is a twitch she just can't ignore? Is it an unfortunate sea bird blown in from some far away shore; a poor creature who should by rights never touch English sand? No. In no time at all she slumps back into the passenger seat beside me. “Train spotters” she exclaims. “Train spotters”, she repeats, incredulously. “Train spotters”. There it is again, only now she's shaking her head in disbelief. “What is the point?” She says, as we drive off leaving the anoraks staring along the rails; happy, oblivious.

Meet Roger, he collects small pieces of paper no bigger than a postage stamps. Well, that's because they are postage stamps, if they weren't they would be just small pieces of paper no bigger than postage stamps, and who would collect those? Well, I bet someone would. But what would be the point, at least stamps represent something: far off places, travel, history, great people, important events from a particular time and place. Collecting small pieces of paper could be nice, though. You could divide them into different categories: colours and materials, for example, glossy, newsprint and so on. And put them into binders labelled, 'Small pieces of paper, waste bin, European, 2010 onwards'. Used stamps are themselves just old small pieces of paper, they're useless, they no longer serve any purpose. Except that it's nice to collect them.

Alan is obsessed with Eddie Stobart. He not only collects models of the famous fleet of trucks, he buys anything related to the company. Alan has a room in his home dedicated to Stobart, it's filled with posters, books and even toys bearing the 'Stobart' logo. He is particularly keen to acquire the names the company gives to each of its vehicles. He's often seen standing on motorway bridges close to where he lives, hoping to photograph a passing Stobart lorry; hoping to write down another name. Holidays are spent in part travelling the country's motorways from service station to service station, lorry park to lorry park in the heady anticipation of seeing and recording. Alan is so dedicated to the pursuit of all things Eddie Stobart, you would think his life depended on on it.

I think, over the years, I've accumulated tools for just about every conceivable job you could come across in a truck workshop. I've even got Whitworth sockets. There are quarter, three-eights, half inch, and three-quarter drive ratchets; and spanners of all sorts, too many to mention. They're good kit too, Smap-on and Britool, and I literally love them all. I keep them in tool chests that take up half a wall at one end of the shop; chests that cost an arm and a leg. And I know where every tool is, what shelf, in which drawer. They are all clean and oiled, and laid out neatly. I'm very particular about that: I don't like disorder and I don't like corrosion of any kind. With my tools I can deal with anything that comes along; complete any job; put food on the table.

The Bounty of Mutiny

I look forward to Sundays, the relaxation and reflection, a big family meal; a sort of regrouping after the corporate life that otherwise dominates. It's really all about revolution and rebellion against those that dictate outside that important union we call Home. On Sundays I like to rewrite history. With those close to me always willing to listen, accepting my preferred view, I give a wholly prejudiced version of the life I lead during the week. The boss, colleagues: my accounts of their actions are all skewed to the way I wish them to be seen. And not only do my loved ones absorb these tales without question, no others will actually do for them. My story, it seems, is also their's. It's a mutiny that produces the bounty of enhanced self esteem and unity. Sunday is a day when all is made to appear right, and in this way the bit of land I call Home becomes the most right of all.

And on Sundays there are the papers, which, in line with my  own philosophy, as much as anything else, usually focus on family life and the home. There are gardens and beautiful properties to dream about, lifestyle articles and feelgood features to mull over. But this week's Sunday Times magazine also included a tale of rebellion - and some rewriting of history - in a piece that followed the last moments of a film prop, a full size replica of HMS Bounty, lost late in 2012 after being caught by hurricane Sandy. Built in the 1960s for a Hollywood account of the famous mutiny (starring Marlon Brando and Trevor Howard) the ship had since been used as some sort of tourist attraction. Her loss resulted in the tragic death of two people: the captain and a descendant of Fletcher Christian, the most remembered, and canonized mutineer.

The film, Mutiny on the Bounty, was pure fiction in the way it portrayed the ship's captain, William Bligh, and in doing so, capitalised on the myth that Bligh was a martinet. William Bligh suffered three rebellions in his life: the now famous Bounty mutiny; Spithead, when a whole fleet revolted; and an insurrection when he served as governor of New South Wales. Put into context, mutiny was not uncommon in Bligh's time and considering the attraction of life in the warm Pacific islands where everything seemed available and in abundance, including women, it's no wonder many of the Bounty's crew preferred to stay rather than return to England. In the film's rewritten history, a fictional Bligh has been created as a cruel and poor commander, and attributed with an arrogance that precluded proper leadership.  His conflict with Christian is made all the more fascinating, and profitable, by antics invented by the cinema. 

The truth is that Bligh, having served with Cook on his expeditions to the Pacific, understood men and the sea very well. Like Cook he used a three watch system, unlike many other captains in the Royal Navy, which gave his men more rest. He even understood the need for exercise on such a long voyage and ordered the crew to dance. He used corporal punishment sparingly by comparison with many of his contemporaries. Bligh's seamanship and judgement were proven by his navigation of the Bounty in her attempt to round Cape Horn, through storm force winds, and finally by his voyage of over 3,000 miles in an open boat after being removed from Bounty by Christian and his mutineers. Bligh lost one man on that incredible journey, the result of an attack by natives. Bligh and his achievements, both on the Bounty and afterwards in the open boat, are far more interesting than any American film-maker's portrayal of the mutiny.

History is rewritten time after time but the motive is sometimes more than to simply provide an entertaining story. There's the home audience to consider. American film directors, it would appear, spend a lot of time at home on Sundays. Ever since the United States won the Second World War single handed the achievements of other nations, and in particular the British, have been ignored. (Recently Hollywood implied to the world it was the US Navy and not the Royal Navy, as history has it, that captured the first German Enigma machine.) And now they've awarded themselves an Oscar for the film Argo, a cinematic untruth set in 1979 that claims that six escaping American hostages were turned away by the British in Tehran, before seeking refuge with the Canadians. In reality, and in a story far more exciting than the film tells, British embassy staff rescued the men, hiding them in several safe houses, until finally, they managed to leave the country. Once again, truth is far more entertaining than fiction. While the film has the CIA saving the day, the men were initially rescued by a few British embassy staff in an orange Austin Maxi motor car.

As an act of self inflation, on par with Idi Amin declaring himself King of Scotland, the Americans seem to have lost the plot, literally. In the piece in the Sunday Times magazine, the one about the replica Bounty, there's a photograph of her sailing under full canvas. It's a magnificent sight, but maybe one that can only be appreciated at home. The ship, of course, is a fiction: HMS Bounty in all her glory, a Stars and Stripes ensign fluttering in the breeze.

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.

Total Control

I tried an experiment this week.  My old BSA motorcycle needed a new clutch – it had been playing up for a while and was getting so bad the old girl would soon have become unusable – so I took steps towards repairing it.  However, instead of simply disappearing with the motorcycle and my tool chest into some quiet corner of the workshop, I tried something new.  I sat down and created a spreadsheet.  And, once it was completed (and an outline and schedule of work was laid out before me, costing analysis included) I gathered a few like minded people around and we had a discussion.  All in all it took several hours. I slumped into my armchair that night tired, but although my eyes were sore from glaring at all those rows of figures, I was able to take comfort in the knowledge that my time that afternoon had been fully occupied.

The following day I went to the old motorcycle and found the clutch as bad as it had been the day before.  In the cold light of day I wasn`t particularly surprised:  why should it have been any different?  No work had been done on the vehicle itself; no proper effort had been applied to the actual problem. I drew my conclusions and noted the result of my experiment, not on a spreadsheet or any other sheet for that matter - no, within my mind I understood. Administration should support action, not dictate it.  I should have made a decision about the best way to progress and then got on with the job.  An engineer`s approach: a physical solution to a physical problem, not an illusion created by administration.

The administrator’s language is unmistakable.  `I`m calling a meeting`, they will say, as if announcing the unveiling of something tangible, commercial, viable.   `Best Practice`, `Fit for Purpose`, their maxims are endless.  Their justification is the pursuit of the ideal; the result is purely imaginary apart from an all consuming paper chase. The administrator creates their own workload, gradually building, creeping over time, so that no one notices the extent of the change taking place.  They bolt bureaucratic layer upon bureaucratic layer, until the illusion is complete.  A system that is an entity of its own – one that`s far too busy being itself to actually support anything else.  A self serving sphere of delusion.   A sole occupation that`s convinced of its own usefulness and, because of the gradual nature of its infestation, one that deceives all – including the administrator. 

The worst thing is that we are all potential administrators at heart – we have an inbuilt gene that makes us want to order and organize.  But like all instinctive behaviour, the manifestations are not always logical and despite my experiment convincing me otherwise, I still love doing things that I know don`t really need doing.   I can`t help myself, they`re just there, begging for my attention.   I play around with my laptop`s systems instead of getting on with the job in hand, the tasks I bought the thing for in the first place.  All of us are susceptible to the draw of administration over practicality.  I once worked with a bloke who was a bit of a hi-fi nut; he read all the magazines and by all accounts had a pretty expensive system at home.  (He was also, significantly, a real hands-on engineer.)  But when I asked what sort of music he enjoyed, he looked at me as if I was some kind of idiot.  It was all about the system: a complex virtual world of perfect settings and specifications – in other words, administration.

It`s probably no surprise that we are governed by administrators: men and women who pour out legislation in the belief that some sort of order can be achieved.   In truck driving alone, requirement is being heaped upon requirement, each addition supposed to improve quality but in reality just adding unnecessary burden. And as my little experiment showed, we would be far better off with a balance tipped towards physical solutions rather than imaginary ideals.  But not everyone understands the real nature of pragmatism.  Most government ministers seem to have been raised in a hierarchy that instills self belief and confuses the retention of obscure facts with intelligence.  Many are barristers and when they see a system it`s not as a predictable or mechanical entity but as an abstract. Their misjudged conjecture, in my opinion, should be replaced by something far more certain.

Driver CPC is a typical example of the inappropriate application of abstract conjecture. Drivers don`t need to know the details of tachograph legislation, they simply need to understand the small part that applies to them.  A tipper driver in London doesn`t need to get his head around ferry journeys; a transcontinental haulage driver doesn`t need to know the extensive list of exemptions.  I don`t believe any driver needs patronizing for seven hours learning that if he drives on the throttle and brakes all the time it`s not good. In the long term, all that CPC is likely to do is create a shortage of drivers; experienced drivers and rookies alike put off by the irrelevant obstacles they need to negotiate in order to maintain a licence.

All legislation has the potential of becoming abstract in the end - because it relies on compliance, a blind deference to bureaucracy, good or bad - especially when it`s the good guys who suffer by bearing the cost of increasing administration.  You don`t need a driving licence or tachograph driver card to drive a 44t artic, you only need them to be legal.  Legislation gives the impression of control but it will never control all drivers, only those who participate in its scheme.  The engineer`s solution would be to shift the emphasis away from the driver and concentrate on controlling all vehicles; the logic of it is irrefutable, a quantum leap in thinking taking us from uncertain to certain. There will be paperwork to sort out, there always is, but that`s what administrators are for – to implement the decisions already made.

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.  

Wave Goodbye

If there`s one thing that should make even the most ardent atheist reconsider their position, it`s quantum physics.  How can something so remarkable and inconsistent with our every day experience not be the work of a higher being? Quantum physics is not some abstract theory  despite being concerned with particles so minute we can only observe them through special microscopes  - quantum physics is about everything.  What it says is that the very building blocks of our world, the atoms that all things are made of, are themselves constructed from particles that we are not allowed to fully understand.  And there is not a scientist living or dead that really knows or knew why this is the case.

Electrons are just one particle in the structure of an atom and a comparatively small part at that.  Apparently, they whizz around outside the atom`s nucleus in what is mainly empty space.  I read once that in a scaled up version, an electron would be a speck of dust in the dome St Pauls while the nucleus would be a pea suspended in the middle (well, it was something like that; I`m sure you get the picture). The important thing is that with electrons, as with other sub-atomic particles, you cannot know where they are at any instant in time if you also want to know their direction and speed. You can have either one or the other, but not both.  There are rules it seems about just how much we are allowed to know of our existence.

What we do know is that electrons can behave like both waves and particles but have the absolute properties of neither.  Experiments have shown that they can exhibit wave behaviour but then change to that of a particle when an attempt is made to observe them.  Waves create distribution patterns that show constructive and destructive lines.  Imagine two small openings in a harbour breakwater.  Waves crashing through them fan out in the harbour and the peaks and troughs from one set meet the peaks and troughs from the other.  The peaks that come together create very high peaks and the troughs that meet peaks cancel each other out, resulting in flat water. When this `interference` pattern reaches the harbour`s inner wall the super high peaks splash violently up against it, but at intervals and spacing along the wall dictated by the wavelength and amplitude that has been formed.  It would be the same with light waves passing through two slits cut in a piece of card and shining on a screen behind.       

Remarkably, sub atomic particles will behave in the same way but with a surprising result when any attempt is made to look at their movement in detail.  Scientists have fired electrons at the slits and found a wave pattern, but when they tried to discover through which slit each electron had passed, the behaviour reverted to what you would expect from particles – that similar to firing bullets through slits and where no interference pattern is formed.  Even single electrons, fired at the slits undetected, create interference wave patterns. The totally unintuitive conclusion is that, when we are not trying to peek at them, each particle must be considered to be passing through both slits at the same time, and only predictions based on statistical information can be used to estimate their position, direction and speed.  The material of the universe, it turns out, is not constructed in quite the way we once thought.  There are many theories emerging from this discovery, not least the uncertainty principle and its implications for probability.

Up until the discovery of the quantum nature of matter, physical systems were considered deterministic – everything could be predicted or retrodicted.  Probability was associated with error margin and precision; a normal consideration when accuracy was discussed. As we know it, any variation in precision is caused by the quality of the available data – error is often considered a manmade limiting factor.  Quantum theory, though, says that probability is a natural phenomenon and that there is no alternative to its implications.  With quantum physics a particle can be in more than one position until some effort is made to see it; then it becomes real, well in our interpretation of the word.  A famous thought experiment put forward the notion that a cat in a box with a phial of poison could be both alive and dead until the box was opened to reveal whether the phial had broken or not. 

The proposition of the multiverse has since emerged: multiple universes all existing together, each resulting from the many alternative paths suggested by quantum theory. As philosophy seeks to explain our experiences, so physics describes the world that shapes them.  Looking at the past and into the future there are many alternative possibilities of reality; personal consequences following on from physical effect. In the end, only this instant, `the now`, may be true and everything else merely a range of potential states of being. Isn`t it true that our memory is never as black and white as we imagine and history is merely a collection of recollections that together produce a likely account? The image of the past may seem clear but that doesn`t mean it`s accurate.  What is looming on the horizon can often be predicted with some level of certainty but it can never be guaranteed; the expected, sometimes obvious, is not always the result.  In what may seem like a wave of happenings, life flowing from one second to the next, there may be a number of alternatives to our individual perceptions.  Don`t be fooled by the apparent clarity of your assumptions or apply unwarranted colour to your expectations; in the mechanics of all things, certainty does not exist.

It`s Time

Why is it that a person who would never dream of stepping into the path of a 44 tonne truck travelling at 90kph, drives one in dense fog at a similar speed? Sitting behind that wafer thin sheet of glass and metal waiting for the rear of a semi-trailer to appear out of nowhere, seemingly content to go from normal day to death in just a few seconds.

A truck travelling at 90kph (56mph) is doing 25 metres (that`s 82 feet or 27 yards) every second.  Drivers, it is estimated, will have typical reaction times of between 0.6 seconds to 1.5 seconds.  The shorter time is considered pretty fast, an alert driver prepared for something to occur, maybe, so slower times within the range are considered more common - although this will depend on a number of factors. Times greater than 1.5 seconds may also occur as a characteristic of some driving conditions, motorway driving, for example, which tends to be monotonous. (Interestingly, The Highway Code relies on a time of about 0.7 seconds for its `typical` stopping distances.)  

At 56mph, times of 0.6 to 1.5 seconds represent distances travelled of between 15 metres and 38 metres (49 – 125 feet) as the driver reacts.  These are the distances the truck covers before any brakes are applied.  So, step out 125 feet in front of a driver with a 1.5 second reaction time and the front of his truck will strike you at 56 mph.  The same driver, travelling in fog where visibility is restricted to 125 feet would hit a stationary vehicle at a similar speed – and at exactly the same time their foot buries the brake pedal. 

Of course stopping completely takes longer.  If a truck under heavy braking achieved a deceleration of 0.7g, it would slow at a rate of about 7 metres per second (16mph) every second.  For our driver stopping from a speed of 90kph, it would take 1.5 seconds of reaction plus the time for the vehicle to brake to standstill.  At a deceleration rate of 7 metres per second, per second, this would mean a total time of about 5 seconds.  In distance that`s 125 feet of reaction plus about 150 feet of braking.  A total of 275 feet (92 yards or 83 metres) to stop from 56mph (90kph) – or 5 artic truck lengths.

Why does a driver travelling 1 kph faster than the truck in front attempt to overtake it, when it takes several kilometres to do so, and such a manoeuvre often has little effect on the total journey time? The same driver wouldn`t think twice about spending 15 minutes idly chatting before going home at the end of the day.

In terms of time, a truck travelling at 1kph (about 0.3 metres per second, or just under 1mph) faster than the vehicle in front will take whatever `relative` distance it needs to pass it, divided by this `relative` speed difference.  The absolute minimum relative distance for the overtaking vehicle is from when its front passes the rear of the other vehicle, to when its rear passes the front of the other vehicle.  Assuming that both vehicles are artics, that`s a relative distance of about 33 metres, which, at 1kph, takes 1 minute and 50 seconds. At 90 kph that`s an absolute distance of just over 1 mile (just under 3 km).

On a journey of 124 miles (200km), a 1 kph difference represents a time difference of 4 minutes.  That`s 8 minutes if the difference is 2kph, or the journey is about 250 miles.

Why do drivers race towards red traffic lights, braking sharply before coming to a halt, when every second they then have to wait seems to last a lifetime.

If a traffic light phase, including the red and amber phase, lasts, say, 30 seconds, then the less time spent sitting waiting, the less frustrating it seems.  Braking at a harsh rate of 0.7g, or 16mph every second, would mean coming to a halt from 56 mph (90kph) in 3.5 seconds, from 48 mph in 3 seconds and from 32 mph in 2 seconds.  But, by easing off and slowing at a much lower rate, an average of 0.2g, for example, which is about 4mph every second, would take 4 times as long as those times shown for 0.7g.  So, by taking 8 seconds instead of 2 to brake from 30 mph, that`s 6 seconds less of sitting, waiting time.

Of course it all depends on the distance available, how far the truck is from the lights when they change, but how often do you see vehicles, all types of vehicle, bowling towards lights that are changing to red.  They could ease off, relax, themselves and their vehicle, and take some time.

Why is it that when we are busy, time passes quickly, but when we are waiting, time passes slowly?

When a vehicle brakes hard, harsh enough to activate its ABS, the deceleration rate can be considered constant. At 0.7g, the vehicle will slow by 16mph every second.  Under these conditions speed and time have a linear relationship – one is directly proportionate to the other.  Work, the energy of a system, on the other hand, is not directly proportionate to either time or speed.  To do more work takes longer, so that speed loss at higher speeds needs greater distance.  To slow at 0.7g from 50 mph to 40 mph takes in the region of 12 metres. But from 20 mph to 10 mph it takes only something close to 4.5 metres.

Could it be the more we work, the more time passes? In our world, a world that seldom exceeds 90kph, time is constant and finite. Each second is the same as the next and time travels in one direction.  Time is not to be wasted by working unnecessarily. It`s time to slow down; It`s time to relax.  It`s time to appreciate time.