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.

The Most Important British Bike Ever

The Triumph Explorer is certainly an important bike for British manufacturing (The Most Important British Bike Ever, Bike Sept 2012) but long after the interest in adventure bikes has faded, the real `most important British bike ever` will still be remembered.  It`s a bike not yet available and one you will apparently be testing for the October issue: the new Triumph Trophy. 

If there`s been one consistent motorcycle type over the past few decades it`s the large capacity tourer. For the vast majority of riders, touring means long distances at high speeds on tarmac, and the best bikes are not adventure bikes (or cruisers) but those built specifically for that purpose.  The Triumph Trophy will enter this market and in doing so compete in the most significant of all motorcycle classes, not least because it`s the most visible - the average person`s idea of a big motorcycle, and one you see every day.

The bikes are everywhere.  The police ride them; they are used by a number of different groups to escort and marshal major sporting events on the road; and increasingly, city centre paramedics ride them. Although not done intentionally, these users are showcasing their bikes and more importantly, the bike`s manufacturer.  The machines are thought by most onlookers to be reliable because they are the choice of large public bodies or companies.  Public perception is that they must be comfortable, allowing hours to be spent in the saddle, and safe at high speed.  It`s here that Triumph need to better BMW: not competing with the GS, but with the RT.  When we see the majority of European police forces using Triumphs and the Gendarmerie leading the Tour de France on Trophys, then Triumph will have arrived at the top – on the most important British bike ever.

Fractals

My wife wanted a horse box at exactly the same time we were going through a busy period at work. As a result, on one of those rare occasions when I got a whole Saturday to myself, we, the wife and I, went out and without a second thought bought a trailer for two horses. Two horses because she wanted the capacity to either take a friend (and friend`s horse) to the regular weekend trials meetings she attends or, eventually, maybe, start her own riding stables and transport client`s horses about. 

With each horse weighing about a ton the box had a gross weight that proved too great for our family saloon, both legally and mechanically.  My wife had always liked the idea of a Land Rover, and a pick-up body, she said, would enable her to cart animal feed and straw around.  We found a reasonably new long wheel base Defender which seemed perfectly happy with the box trailing along behind.  All appeared to be well.

Well, except that as my wife had decided on her commercial venture, the gross train weight of 4500 kgs put the combination within the range of tachograph legislation. I had only ever seen one Land Rover with a tachograph, a utilities company with a trailer lugging a mini digger, if I remember correctly, and I had heard there were difficulties fitting them with digital tachograph sender units. Eventually I found somewhere to do the work and went along to have, at considerable expense, an instrument and all its workings wired in.  

She`s not as tall as me, my wife, and had a bit of trouble seeing what was going on behind through the mirrors.  I simply stretched and craned my neck until I could see round the trailer.  The answer came in the form of some bolt-on mirror extensions, a disposable type judging by how many times they were wiped out of gate posts up and down the country.  And with a comfier, aftermarket seat (long drives in a cramped driver`s cab made her back hurt) my wife enjoyed many trips out with her friends, clients and their animals.

Enjoyment being relative, it wasn`t long before comfort at the events became an issue.  Other people were able to brew tea and even rest between sessions on horseback, she said, in their camper vans.  I sourced a fibre glass demountable camper body for the Defender.  It wasn`t cheap, but according to those who would be using it, it was worth every penny.

Eventually things calmed down at work and I was able to go along to a horse jumping event with my wife.  It was there it hit me.  As I stood looking along the lines of horse transport which occupied one side of the field, I saw our much adapted, bolt-on, bitty Land Rover amongst the 7.5 tonne horse boxes - the trucks built to do everything we wanted.

The Weather - It`s all our Fault

We are obsessed with our environment.  I don`t mean the planet and melting ice caps, and the prospect of entire countries disappearing underwater, I`m referring to our immediate surroundings.  A change in a landscape often evokes comment, on the rare occasions we actually look close enough to notice something different, but it`s alterations in our personal `livingscape` that really get us going.  Changes from what we think of as the norm prompt endless comment that result in a kind of environment fixation.  It`s no surprise in many ways: what goes on within the range of our senses has an immediate effect on our lives, and it pays to take an interest in what`s happening close by.  But it`s the character of the surroundings in which we exist that is truly significant.  When you live in a truck for weeks on end, for example, the inside of the cab, its comfort, size and colour are important. If I get in any vehicle for the first time I look around and assess it for all these points.  If anything untoward happens to the inside of my cab I take steps to rectify the problem straight away. I don`t like a dirty floor, so I make sure I leave my work boots in a side locker, and I hate marks on the upholstery and dust.  As a result, I sweep out and clean it regularly.

We notice our close surroundings because they have an immediate influence on us as individuals. The surrounding weather, because it effects our everyday lives, is an important `livingscape` factor and as such gets a lot of attention. But there`s a big difference between the planet`s too hot and I`m too hot; it`s all about our weather, in other words, my bit of weather.  Every time the `immediate` weather is in the slightest way unusual – which is more often than not - we greet each other with a comment about it being too wet, too windy or too hot.  And by obsessing we create a problem; a problem with The Weather.  Unlike the inside of a truck, which can be changed, and a dust problem solved, the weather is unalterable.  We`d be better off ignoring it – remembering that for most of us, the weather, in all its forms, is just part of our surroundings.  You can`t change it, it`s just there, live with it.

A Simple Test

You are going on holiday to the South of France by coach.  There are two drivers as usual for this type of journey and both, of course, have category D on their driving licence. Driver A, known as Lucky, passed his test after a mid-morning, post rush-hour drive that threw up few challenges. In fact, the glorious sunshine and lack of traffic meant that he almost enjoyed the experience.  He was well rehearsed for the set pieces, pulling into bus stops etc, and accrued only a handful of faults on the examiners fault finding sheet.  None were considered serious.  Driver B, who every one called Second Time Lucky, took his test in the late afternoon, battling with the school run and some pretty foul weather.  He was presented with numerous challenges, all of which he dealt with but not after some furious pen work by his examiner.  During one of these he scored a serious fault and failed the test.  His second attempt was a totally different affair. The roads were quieter and the other drivers around him seemed far better behaved.  In the end, to his relief, he was indeed second time lucky.

The question is, which driver would you rather have behind the wheel, Lucky or Second Time Lucky?  They both have licences for the vehicle but has one been examined to a higher level than the other?  Has one proven himself a driver more able to deal with a wider range of challenges, and more importantly, has one not been tested sufficiently?  My own answer is that I wouldn`t, without sitting behind each one of them for a while, choose either.  Not that I would be fault finding, it`s just that I would want to assess how Lucky and Second Time Lucky actually drive.  Finding fault is easy - and, let`s be honest, it can be quite enjoyable - in fact you can become so engrossed in it that all common sense and reason goes out the window. Assessment is far more accurate if you look at what people do right and not what they do wrong, particularly when it comes to dealing with problems. A satisfactory driver is one that generally does everything they should while demonstrating genuine ability with the vehicle. It wouldn`t matter to me if one drove in a small town and the other in a large city: just by watching, I`d know if they were competent or not.

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.