I have had a good look round on this site and there seems to be quite a few people on here that have a bit of a thing for telling a good yarn. It has also been mentioned that some are in the process of writing it down. I haven’t been on here long enough to know every ones business and I hope I’m not stepping on any toes. As it has been mentioned on the Of to Almaty thread I have done my bit of writing and am now at the stage of finding a publisher
As I have found out finding a publisher is fairly easy, getting one to take any notice, answer emails or actually talk on the phone is a totally different matter.
My story like most on here is autobiographical ( telling my tales of when I was in a truck ). It took a long time to put together, and even when I was doing it I was constantly asking myself if it had merit or was it a self indulgence ramble. I would like to consider it factual and quite entertaining. I’ve been through the ups and downs of writing, and as I mentioned am now faced with trying to sell my product, which for me is totally new thing.
Is there any one on here that can shed any light on the process? does anyone want to say if they have the goods, but like me are hitting a brick wall.
I’m willing to say what I’ve done, who I’ve spoken to and what I have been told.
Before I go any farther I would like to make it perfectly clear that I’m not out to have gripe at the current publishing process, nor am I trying to put of any up and coming story tellers. In fact I would encourage anyone that has a tale to tell to get it written down, there are to many guys that have had incredible experiences that have gone to the grave taking there tales with them.
About half way into the writing process I contacted a few publishing houses and was given a fair bit of encouragement, so I got stuck into it and the end result is now 415,000 words with about 80 photos. And completely no interest so far from any of the publishing houses that I was in contact with earlier. However having been in many situations before where I was totally green, ( yes I have had many first trips through various customs/ border controls ) so I’ll just make it up as I go along, and working on the theory that so far I’ve go nowhere so I have nothing to loose, I’m willing to have a bumble along and make a total c^ch up of things if I have to.
At the moment I’m still being ignored by 3 publishing houses, but I have the option of E books or self publishing. I have found a couple of companies that offer both E books and self publishing as a package deal, and out of curiosity I ordered a printed book from them to see what it was like. Ordering from the land of uncle Sam to my mail box was 3 days, the paper and binding were a bit Chinese looking, but it didn’t look like it was going to fall to bits, however the main thing was that the story was good.
I noticed on that particular web site the company offered various options like cover design, editing, print lay out, promotional services and many other services, some of which I think weren’t taken up. Most of these kinds of companies offer similar deals, and of course there are charges for the services.
A publishing house was offering a partner ship deal where the writer paid up front for all the services of the house including the first run of printing, but to sweeten the deal the writer got %80 royalties as appose to %20 to %40 which would be normal for a first time writer. If you have a lot of faith in your product and a bit of cash to back up your dream then it could be an option. The lay out for this option started at 6000 quid per book.
Through a friend I actually got to speak to a bloke in publishing house, and he told it form his end:
They’re in the business of making money, the financial risk is they’re s, there is little chance of them taking on a new writer that isn’t proven, let alone a topic that hasn’t been covered. If they had proof that they were onto good thing then they might consider taking a punt, and that would be sales figures. Some of the big houses receive up to 600 manuscripts per month, everyone is encouraged to take some home a read them. With everyone doing it they can cover about 150 per month out of which about 10 to 14 get any farther. I was told that it wasn’t that most of the manuscripts aren’t any good, indeed most had merit. It just comes down to either what they are looking for at that particular moment, or they’re from proven writers with a good track record. Financial risk. I also asked about Cola Cowboys a to be told that as Mr Woods was an established writer there was only a small risk. Most of the other books written by drivers seem to be self published.
I’m still hanging out for a convention deal but I can see it being more likely to bee self publishing and stick as much cash into it as possible.
I’m not saying that’s how it is, all I can say is that’s what I’ve come across so far form my own personal stand point.
Well that’s enough ranting… put up or shut up. Here’s a bit of what I have so far, opinions and comment welcome.
This bit is from about page 95 of the 1st book onwards, and the Ford in an old D13 11 I used to drive for my dad which is why this thread is in the old time section.
Sunday I was off back down the road. Unusually, Neil was going down the road as well. I had a load to deliver to Whitney in Oxfordshire. I had heard that they were going to build a motorway down that way, but I doubted that they would have it finished by the time I got there today. I had to go in by Cheltenham, as the area round where I was going was littered with low railway bridges. Sunday morning on the radio was a bit average, and while the top thirty was good, that wasn’t until six o’clock at night. I had thought about putting a cassette deck in the Ford, but I reckoned that the sawdust would probably get in and stuff it up - although by now I had fitted the other light above the driver’s side. Dad didn’t like me fitting things to the Ford; he was always of the opinion that if it wasn’t there at the factory, then you probably didn’t need it - so I just forgot to mention it to him. The Ford had by now grown a barrel cage which made loading a lot easier; I could now carry twenty four large plastic tanks, and it was fifteen foot high when loaded. I often wondered if they were worth it. When they were empty, the wind resistance was enormous, and they really chewed through the fuel. In fact they did better on fuel when they were loaded, but they got an extra four tanks on a load and the load was a bit more secure. With my better speed I could hold the best part of sixty miles an hour as long as there wasn’t a head wind. I made Knutsford services for lunch break even if it was only half past ten in the morning. All morning I was passing the orange Scanias of Strathclyde, hauling steel slabs down from Ravens Craig steel works. I was getting past them going up Shap and round by Killington Lake, but after that they were gone. Hair Cut One Hundred, Rick Astley, Thompson Twins, and the Police on the radio, and even if it was a bit noisy to hear the lyrics properly, I just made them up if I was having a sing along. A bit of rain off and on, and a cool car at home - what could be better than that? Black Bob was now a distant memory; I couldn’t see myself going back to being covered in grease and grime, and steam cleaning. He had always said that truck drivers were a bunch of uneducated idiots, but by now I had met quite a few and all of them seemed to know a bit more about life than that bigoted half wit. I had my pie, chips and coke, a bit of a wander round the shop, and a read of the latest Trucking International, and it was time to head off again. The traffic was light and I was at the drop by two. It looked like an old air field. There was a padlock on the gate, and I had been advised it wasn’t locked. I opened the gate and went in, did the drop, closed the gate, snapped the lock, and was south bound by three. I made the services, had a shower, and the television was set up by half past five. It had been a long day; I’d done a full ten hour drive, and was quite chuffed with myself. The next day was loading at Poole again, but there was a problem at the factory the previous week and there were only eighteen tanks. I phoned the office and was told to collect more from Northampton. I didn’t want to risk going back by Oxford because of low bridges, as I needed fourteen foot three to clear them. I had heard from other drivers that there was a thirteen foot six one somewhere along the way, so it was back up the M3 and round the west side of London. It took me until three o clock to get there, and I hoped that the M25 would be good when it opened, as there was a hell of a mess of detours round there. The final six tanks were loaded and I was heading north at half past four. By the time I reached the first services I was almost out of time, which would do me for the day. A four o clock start on Tuesday saw me back to the yard for one in the afternoon after a bit of peddling through a headwind just after Carnforth. When I arrived at the yard, the Sed-Atki was parked up and still loaded, which was a bit odd, as Neil’s car was nowhere to be seen either.
Before I got out the truck George and Dad told me to go and sit down in the office. I didn’t know what they were muttering to each other as they walked along behind me. Dad started, “Right. How much do you know about Neil? Do you know what he was up to? Are you in on it as well?” I didn’t have a chance to answer. George took over, “Do you know what Neil has been doing, are you in on it as well?” I was lost and I told them - I didn’t have a clue what they were talking about.
Neil and the forklift driver in Norfolk had tried a scam. When they were loading empty honey drums, they also loaded six full ones on the back. Neil had been doing most of the honey drum pickups, so he knew most of the honey packing houses in Britain, and he thought it would be a good earner to sell the nicked honey for cash and split it with the forklift driver. However, the first guy he tried to sell it to was Judges Honey, near Carlisle. Judges Honey was named that not because the guy running it was called Mr Judge, but because he was a High Court Judge. Neil’s venture had run into a bit of a hiccup before it really got started, as the judge had reported the matter to the police, who had collected both Neil and the forklift driver. Regardless of what the court outcome was, Neil was instantly dismissed. George advised me that if I knew anything about it I should tell him now, and he and Dad both glared at me, waiting for my answer. I assured them that that was the first I’d heard of it, and said that I thought Neil was a complete ■■■■■■■■■ I don’t know what happened to Neil, as I never saw or heard of him again.
There was a bit of a dilemma, because Neil’s next job was to have been a load of forty eight plastic tanks; twenty four to somewhere outside Swansea, and twenty four for County Kerry. This was a big thing for Dad, as it was his first venture into a foreign land. He had been working on it for months and was quite excited about it. I had been a bit envious of Neil, as I knew he would be doing the trip, but now he wasn’t, and the Sed-Atki was sitting in the yard waiting to be tipped. The police had removed the full drums of honey but the rest of the load was still on it. Davie and Tam the Bam were cleaning drums, and I was asked to help unload the Sed-Atki and drag. It was still raining, and everyone including me was flopping around in badly fitting wet gear. The rain always gathered on the tops of the drums, so it was a good idea to unload them as soon as the load arrived in the yard. It was the top ones you had to watch for, because that’s where most of the water gathered. They were quite awkward to get hold of as well, if like me, you weren’t six feet high. We had done the drag and were half way into the Sed-Atki when Dad asked me to come to the office. I was thinking about unloading the Ford next anyway, and was going to tell him to stop wasting my time. Even if it was only half past three, I’d already done a full day’s work, as I had started at four in the morning. George and Dad had a bit of a discussion while I was round unloading. They had weighed up all the options, and there was nothing else for it but to send me off with the load in the Sed-Atki and drag. They didn’t know if I was allowed to drive it, as it would have the drag. My licence was a class three, so I could drive the Sed-Atki, but as I was on the Young Driver Scheme, was it legal for me to tow the drag as well? The whole thing was still classed as a class three outfit, and no one had said that I couldn’t drive it. The option was mine; I could do the trip if I wanted to, knowing that there was a legal question mark over the whole thing. The other problem they did not know, was what the police in southern Ireland would think of it - but what they hadn’t thought of was that once there was the slightest hint that something like this would be offered, there was no way that I would let it slip away. I was going, and that was that - Pandora’s box had been opened.
I went to the Sed-Atki, put all Neil’s gear in boxes and took them to the office, then moved all my stuff over from the Ford (even the curtains, which almost fitted.) In the yard, Dad and Neil had always shunted the drag about with the forklift. I had tried reversing it a couple of times and at one stage I almost thought that I understood it, but for now it was still being towed with the forklift, as there was next to no room in the yard because it was full of tanks and drums. Davie and Tam gave me a hand to load and they both pumped me for information about Neil. I didn’t really know, but it didn’t’ stop them from speculating. When everything was loaded I filled it up with fuel, did the water and oil thing, and coupled it up to the trailer. I was chuffed to bits I was going to be driving the Sed-Atki and drag, all fifty nine feet and nine inches of it. The cab was a lot bigger than I had been used to (being a full width four hundred version), but I was of the opinion that if someone else had managed to drive one, then so could I. I went to the office and Dad went through the paper work with me. He wasn’t sure himself if he had it right, but said if I had any problems to phone him or George. He warned me about the cut of the trailer, and the gearbox, and everything else that he could think of; I almost thought that he was going to give me the birds and the bees talk as well. I got an envelope with money for fuel and the ferry, and that was about as much as he could do for me. When I went into the house, mum expressed her concern about the whole goings on.
If you went hard from the yard and didn’t hang about in the Ford, the farthest you could go legally was just past Cardiff. Swansea was a bit further, and I knew I couldn’t do it in a day, but if I got a bit of an early start and finish by four, I could start early the next day after an eleven hour stop and be at the drop for seven o clock. I was to leave the drag there and go on for the ferry out of Fishguard to Rosslare that afternoon. Dad couldn’t get an exact time for the sailing, but thought that there was a sailing round about one or three o clock. It was holiday season, and I should allow time for getting stuck behind caravans, but even so I should still make it for three o clock if I left Swansea by half past eight. Wednesday morning at six o clock I fired up my new charge. The driving position was a lot higher than the Ford, and the first thing I noticed was the power steering. The last thing I had with that was the Dodge I had driven at my test. I looked at the map on top of the gear stick - it wasn’t a joke at all, the gears were all over the place, and as the Sed-Atki ticked over I filled out the taco to the sound of the twin speed switch vibrating round and round. I slipped it into second, let the brake off, and trundled out of the yard, still not knowing if what I was doing was legal or not. I looked in the mirror and saw Dad standing at the kitchen window. Out the drive, turned left, and started looking for gears. I had heard Neil saying something about second, third, fifth, sixth, then lift the split and do fourth then, fifth and sixth again, so I gave that a try, and with the minimal of crunching I was doing about forty five miles an hour in sixth, top split. I gave it a bit of a wiggle to have a look in the mirrors, and saw that the rear of the trailer was a long way back. There was another problem that a drag outfit had over an artic, and that was being restricted to thirty miles an hour by law, something that dated back to when they had to have a trailer man to operate the brakes. There was no way that I was going to drive all the way to West Wales at thirty miles an hour - and besides, in that neck of the woods at that time of the morning, there wasn’t usually anyone around, and it never said on the taco if I had the drag on the back or not.
I drove through town, round the sharp corner at the cinema, hard left at the town hall, and picked up speed towards the fire station. I liked seeing the drag in the mirrors as I went round corners. I was also getting used to the cut of it as well, and every opportunity I had, I spied an object at the side of the road in front of me, then tried to get the near side, rear wheels of the drag on it. The approach to the round-about was the first down change I had to do and it was a bit crunchy, but I soon got that under control. Selkirk was always twisty, and by now I mastered the down shifts; a bit of double clutching and the right revs, it would slip straight in. After Selkirk there were a couple of big dips and drags up the other side. I thought that the hand brake was on, so I stopped in a lay-by and checked there was enough slack in the cable - unfortunately there was. I was still convinced that the hand brake was on, because it just had no go about it. I freewheeled down one of the big dips towards Ashkirk. I was convinced that it would get slower and that would prove my point that the brakes were somehow coming on, but I was wrong. The Sed-Atki had all the power of a sleeping snail — however, I was pulling a drag. The good boy thing of not speeding went out the window very quickly; if you didn’t drive the pants off the thing there just wasn’t any type of performance, for lack of a better word. I got through Hawick and about three miles down the road I caught up with an old slow farmer’s truck. It was fully loaded with sheep, and that only meant one thing: Longtown market. There was only one passing place between here and there, and that was the long straight at Moss Paul, which was pretty narrow, something that was emphasised by the wide cab. We crawled along at forty, and thirty five, then twenty five. It took almost half an hour to do a fifteen minute drive, and the farmer showed no sign of courtesy by pulling off into one of the many lay-bys. By the time we got to Moss Paul there were four cars behind me. I let them past before I gave it a bit of a go. Even missing a gear I was past the farmer, who turned out to be a bit of a downhill racer. By the end of the straight I was doing fifty five and the farmer was right behind me; I must have woken him up. The Sed-Atki went round the corners well. There was only seventeen hundred kilos in the whole load so there was little roll, and the farmer was soon a fair way back. I was getting used to the cab roll, something that the Ford didn’t do at all, and it was quite a good ride. However, far off in the distance I spied another stock truck, and there was no chance of getting past it between here and Longtown, so I slowed a bit. By the time I got to the other side of Langholm I was up behind it. The road from there was narrow and twisty. We got to the good bit, but by that time there was traffic coming the other way, and as it was only a few minutes to Longtown, so there wasn’t any point of pushing my luck. Sure enough it was market day, and the sales yard was full of stock trucks. I pushed on to the motor way, headed south, and had my first break at Forton. There weren’t many trucks there, so I did a bit of reversing practice in the park, which I was now starting to understand: if I wanted to go right, then I started going right then chased the dolly round to the left, and tried not to let the angle between the truck and trailer get to much. Little and often was the way to go. By now the legal thing was far from my mind, as I was having too much fun. Nine teen years old with a wagon and drag - I was very, very chuffed. Not only that, but I had sorted out the nut case gear box. It was still all day breakfast in the drivers’ restaurant, so I had that with chips and a glass of coke. I look out the window and could see the Sed-Atki and drag sitting parked beside some artics and noticed how much longer it was. I felt like standing up and proudly telling everyone that I was driving it, but I didn’t; I just sat there quietly smug.
Some of the other local guys used to go to Pembroke to collect potatoes, and they said the best way was to go was over the Brecon Beacons; however, after being caught previously by the A49, I decided to go down the M5, cut through by Ross to the M4, and call it a day at the services at junction thirty three on the other side of Cardiff. Once the sawdust was cleared from the runners, the driver’s seat slid forwards and the bunk folded down. I wondered about the amount of sawdust in the runners. If Neil had slid the seat forward at all then there wouldn’t have been any sawdust in them, so what had he been doing?
Some of Dad’s previous trucks from the time of Big Eric had been sleeper cabs, but for now this was as good as it was going to get, and it was a lot better than crashing across the seats in the Ford A and D series. When the bed was sorted I set the television up and the only clear channel was S Four C. It was so clear that it was on five or six different frequencies at the same time. B.B.C. and I.T.V weren’t to be had at all. For a change I went for shepherd’s pie with a big helping of peas and a glass of coke, had a wash, and then returned to the truck very happy to watch the television. There was a program on about Welsh farmers doing rallying. It was in Welsh with subtitles, and I found out that Welsh didn’t have words for gear box or windscreen. I put the television away around nine and got some sleep. Next day I was gone by seven o’clock and I didn’t even crunch a gear. It was still raining off and on, and I found that the Sed-Atki not only had a two speed wiper set up but also an intermediate wipe as well.
Even though I was still a bit worried about getting lost and having to reverse for miles I managed to find the drop quite easily. When the drop was done the guy asked me to reverse the drag back into the corner. He said if I couldn’t then he could do it with his tractor. I decided to give it a go, and with a couple of shunts I got it near enough to where he wanted it. I didn’t think that it was too bad, certainly not as bad as some drivers had made out. Uncoupled, I headed off to Fishguard and the ferry. Just as I was getting near the end of the motorway at Swansea, I noticed up ahead four caravans going the same way. There were at least ten cars between me and them, and as I expected they didn’t get above thirty miles an hour until they got to the duel carriage way, where they managed over fifty then slowed down to thirty at the end of it.
Luckily for me and everyone else concerned, they stopped at Carmarthen for cucumber sandwiches and a cup of tea. I continued on over the hills to Fishguard, meeting quite a few Irish trucks coming the other way, I did a right at Haverford West and finally arrived at Fishguard ferry terminal. I had no idea what to do, so I sat just inside the gates for a bit until another truck came in. I gave him a bit of time then followed him over the weigh bridge, parked up and went into the office. The next sailing was at one o’clock, so there was about an hour and a half to wait. I did all the paper work and phoned the office to tell them that everything was going fine. Dad reminded me to check the oil, which I already had, because I knew he would.
At quarter past twelve they loaded the solo trailers and by half past they were done, so the rest of us were called: cars first, then the caravans, then the trucks. I parked up very close to the truck in front as I was instructed to do by the ferry hand, then it was off to find the drivers’ restaurant and see what else the boat had to offer. The pie and chips were a lot better going down than they were coming back up an hour later. I hadn’t been sick on the school cruise, but I was now. It didn’t look that rough, but it was rough enough to make me throw up, and it seemed like a lifetime and a half until we got to the other side. I could still see land from the way we had come - maybe we could go back, I wasn’t meant to be a sailor. I spent the rest of the crossing in the toilet, no exploring the boat for me - and then it dawned on me that I would have to come back as well. The droning throb of the ship engines weren’t helping either. Surely I had thrown up everything by now, there couldn’t be anything left - but still I managed to find something to donate to the toilet bowl. Eventually land came in sight. It felt like a month since we had left Wales. I didn’t go to the shop, or see anything that the boat had to offer other than the toilet. The other drivers were heading back down to the trucks, so I followed and was glad to see the Sed-Atki still there. It was parked outside on the top deck as it was too high to go inside, and it was now white, covered in salt water spray. The ferry bucked its way into the docking point. I heard lots of noises like chains being dragged and things being pulled about, and eventually I was called off.
I could see a line of trucks snaking their way up ahead, and thought the best plan was to follow them. They were all parking up and going to a building, so I got all my paper work and went in as well. I stood in line and eventually made my way to a window, handed over my papers and was told that I was at the wrong window. He directed me to the right one and I stood in line again.
My thoughts were with the Middle East drivers that had done this type of thing thousands of times before. I couldn’t see Black Bob doing this, and he thought that truck drivers were all idiots. I worked my way to the window and handed over my papers. It didn’t take long to be processed and sent on my way. I was free to go, and there was nothing to worry about - but now I was hungry. I had my land legs back and I was in need of food. Spying a café just outside the docks, I parked up and headed for that. The pie was a bit dry and the chips were under cooked, everything was soaked in gravy, and it was Pepsi rather than coke, but it was food and I was now full. With a Mars bar in my pocket, I was off to explore new lands, to bravely go where no nineteen year old with a Sed-Atki had probably gone before. (Of course, I could have been wrong.) I headed for Waterford, then Clommel, Cork and west towards Kilarney. But I was out of time just after Waterford, so I found a place to park and called it a night. There was only one channel on the television, but by now I was stuffed, so it didn’t last long before it was put away. On the road again by half past five the next morning, and had found the drop just before nine, even stoping for a bacon and egg roll on the way. I was running out of supermarket coke and only had one left. I stopped at a local shop on the way back to the boat to buy some stuff for the trip back home, and the woman wasn’t too happy when I wanted to pay with Scottish notes. I hadn’t even thought of that. I had some strange looks when trying to pay with them in England and Wales, especially in shops. Motorway services didn’t seem to mind, but the farther I got from Scotland, the stranger the look. She took the money, did an exchange rate thing and gave me some old tatty Irish money back; I expect she had been saving it for just such an occasion.
Heading back towards the ship of doom now, and not bothering to eat much, as I thought I would be giving it up to the toilet when I got on board. I made the boat with ten minutes to spare, waved my boarding pass at every one that would take notice, and prepared to throw up for the next month. I wasn’t disappointed either, and before we had lost sight of land I was heading for the now familiar toilet - only this time, I hadn’t paid for a meal that wasn’t going to leave the ship. Yet again glad to see the other side and knowing that for now the Sea Crest Diet was over, I made it to the gates just in time to get stuck behind another line of caravans heading very leisurely in the same direction as I was. This time, however, I had half a dozen Irish Scania and Volvo’s with fridges behind me. After half an hour of tedious following, the happy campers pulled off, and the best part of a half mile long queue got peddling. Even empty, the Sed-Atki found it hard to keep up with the Irish fraternity. I traced my tracks back to the feed depot and coupled to the drag. A couple of miles down the road I stopped to check if the hand brake was on, but disappointingly there was loads of slack on the cable. The problem was, the truck was just gutless, and now I couldn’t even pretend that it was heavy, as everyone could clearly see it was quite empty except for the barrel cages. That night was spent at the last lay-by before the start of the M4. I’d grabbed a burger at a botulism van along the way, and had a wash at the ferry port before leaving. S four C was on the television again, but this time there was a hint of I.T.V., so I watched that until it was time to sleep. I thought I should have phoned Dad to let him know what was happening, but I hadn’t, and it was too late now.
Half past seven the next morning I was ready to load drums at the food factory just outside Cardiff, but being a Saturday they were short staffed. I managed to reverse the drag close enough to the stack of drums to look like I had done it on purpose. I was quietly chuffed about that. The fork lift driver told me to get on with it and there would be someone out to help me as soon as they were available. I put on my badly fitting wet suit, which was a heavy duty pair of plastic overalls that had a big plastic zipper down the front. The zipper always leaked at the bottom and made me look like I had wet myself. The other thing I had just found out was that my gum boots were still in the D series and all I had were my good boots. The drums were stacked upright, which meant that the tops were covered in water as it was still raining. Within a minute I was drenched: water was running down the inside of my sleeves and back up them as I reached up to get another drum. I didn’t need to look at my boots; I could already feel them squelching. I took drums off the stack and threw them as far as I could along the drag, and when there was enough, I climbed up and stacked them three high. I kept doing this until it was as full as I could get it. I couldn’t get the back row up, as I needed somewhere to stand.
I pulled the drag forward uncoupled, and started to load the truck - only another hundred and forty four to go. When I was about three quarters of the way through, the forky showed up and said that the other bloke that usually drove the truck normally had a bit of a kip until he showed up - but look at that, I was nearly done. He helped me finish and lifted the nets on top so I could roll them out. I don’t think that I would have been any wetter if I hadn’t been wearing the wet suit; if I wasn’t wet with water, I was soaked with sweat. I readily accepted the offer of a wash, and some food from the canteen which Neil said was very good: all day breakfast for fifty five pence. I often wondered why they did all day breakfast, and not all day pie and chips. I was back on the M4 for half past ten and had noticed the Sed-Atki when loaded three high with two hundred litre drums didn’t half roll on corners - a lot more than the D series did. If I thought that it was gutless before, then what was it like now with nearly four tons on? Well actually, it was about the same, and it seemed to hold on to hills a bit better as well. It couldn’t have gotten much worse.
Hilton Park took me about three and a half hours. So it was pie chips and glass of coke, and my boots and crotch were almost dry due to a good fan on the driver’s side of the Sed-Atki. The passenger’s side was a bit intermittent, and every time it was important to look in the near side mirror the window was always steamed up. My boots now had salt rings round them. I phoned Dad before I set off again, and told him that I was going to be out of time for the week by about Carlisle. He said he would meet me at Southwaite. It was a long, slow pod up the M6 on a Saturday afternoon. The head wind wasn’t helping much, and there wasn’t much transport about. I was near Sandbach and quite happy that I was doing the best part of sixty miles an hour, although it was a bit of a struggle. I heard a throaty roar coming up behind me. I looked in my mirrors and saw one of South Of Scotland’s R series Macks. It was blowing thick black smoke from its chrome stack, and the red and white projectile flashed past me in seconds. I wouldn’t have minded so much, but it was loaded with a heavy bit of plant, and the whole thing flexed with the rhythm of the road as it headed off into the future. Within a couple minutes it was a speck of smoke in the distance, making my effort of sixty miles an hour looked a bit pitiful. It must have stopped somewhere along the way, as it passed me again doing about the same speed as before.
I wonder if Convoy would have been so popular if Rubber Duck had driven an old roped and sheeted Atkinson Borderer with a Jennings sleeper box, loaded with paper reals from Aberdeen. When I arrived at Southwaite, to my surprise Dad was waiting. He came across and asked how it was going, and if I had done the oil and water thing, which I had done every morning. Dad climbed in the driver side and I was going to go to the car and drive that, but he asked me where I was going. He had no intention of driving it at all. He signed and dated the taco card and told me to drive easy, as I was on his card, then mentioned he was going to stop at the pub at Moss Paul on the way home - and he was off. I wasn’t expecting that; I thought that he was going to drive the Sed-Atki home. What if I got stopped, on his card and with a truck that perhaps I wasn’t meant to be driving either? I would go to jail! The other option wasn’t appealing either: spend the rest of the weekend at the services. I had already run out of cheap coke, clean clothes and was almost out of money, so I couldn’t even buy food. I went to the shop and spent the rest of my cash on a Mars bar, can of Coke, and a truck magazine. I couldn’t even sneak home under cover of darkness, as it wasn’t dark until nine o’clock at night - but it was raining again, and that would have to do. I drank the Coke, ate the Mars bar and had a look at the magazine, then headed off in the rain again. The first car I came across was the highway patrol sitting on one of their high spots at the side of the motorway, but he was reading his paper and didn’t take much notice of me, or anything else for that matter. I turned off at junction forty four and headed up the now very familiar A7, straight until Longtown. A few straights and bends, then as I got to the border it just got twister and narrower the further I went.
There are a few horse based carnivals in the borders during the summer and that weekend it was the turn of Langholm. Riders from all over came to ride the Marches, which are the towns boundaries. Everyone and everything concerned is turned out in their fineries: people, horses, even the buildings. That meant that there was a whole lot of bunting hanging across the road from building to building. The Sed-Atki was loaded to fifteen feet six and after I had weaved my way through the staggering drunks littering the high street, it was also wearing quite a bit of low hanging bunting as well. I stopped in the car park at the north side of town and pulled it all off, as was the tradition of most of the truck drivers in our area at that time of year, so on Monday morning the council workers could easily collect it. After that, it was the usual drive back home. I saw Dad’s car parked at Moss Paul just where he said it would be, and I was in the yard reverse parked and on the wash bay by seven o’clock that evening. In the house Mum told me that Sally had phoned three times that week, and she had arranged for me to go out tonight in about an hour. I was stuffed; I knew that I was going to give the Sed-Atki a service tomorrow and had wanted to do some final work on the ■■■■■■ before next weekend run to Ayer. Mum said: “She is your girlfriend,” (and emphasised “is”), and said that I should treat her right and take the long suffering Sally out somewhere nice - and by the way, she (Mum) had bought me some new clothes, which she duly charged me for. I had a shower and got changed in to my new monkey suit (for want of a better word), and headed off to the local hop to have a night of jolliness with Sally (and as it turned out Dan, and the rest of the crowd.) I tried to explain to Sally that I was in Ireland and all the stuff that was going on, but it was just too loud and she didn’t really care; so much so, that she even asked me to dance on a few different occasions.
It was after nine when I got out of bed on Sunday morning. The kid from the other end of the old station yard came along for a chat and got roped into helping with the truck washing and servicing. He was being quite helpful now, as he was training to be an auto electrician, and already had a fair knowledge of trucks from helping his Dad and their mechanic. He thought I was winding him up about going to places foreign until Dad showed up asking for the receipt for the ferry crossings. I eventually got everything looked at including the forklift and the steam cleaner, and was just about to start on the car when Sally arrived, hinting at going out for the day. We went into the house so I could have a snack. Mum showed up, said Sally looked nice, and asked where we were going today. I hadn’t planned for that, but now the seed was sown, there was no going back. We ended up in Edinburgh. Sally didn’t seem to mind when we dropped in to see Roger for a bit. He was getting his Zodiac ready for Ayer. Sally and his wife got on quite well, and talked about sewing seat covers for cars. Roger’s wife gave Sally some tips about what to expect at Ayer the next weekend. It’s probably a good thing that we did go to Edinburgh, as Roger mentioned that we needed a tent and some camping equipment, something that I had overlooked - although I couldn’t really see Sally as the camping type of person, with the whole New Age Romantic thing going on. Come to think of it, I didn’t understand why she was hanging around with a t-shirt and jean wearing truck driver either. However, after buying the tent, she suggested going to buy some clothes for me - but as I couldn’t see myself driving the Sed-Atki wearing a pirate shirt, baggy trousers, and eyeliner, I bought a new pair of jeans and a black t-shirt with a rock band logo on it.
When we got back to the house, Dad was looking for me. He had forgot tell me that the following week was going to be busy, and it would be better if I got loaded now. I asked Sally if she wanted to give me a hand but she politely declined and said she would see me on Friday. The plan was to load The Ford with twenty plastic tanks for Fife, delivery at seven o’clock Monday morning. Davie and Tam the Bam would load the Sed-Atki with two hundred and forty four drums for Ripon, and I would then drive it, do the delivery, and on to Norfolk for whatever they had to make up a full load (taking preference for plastic tanks.) Both trucks were fuelled up, the Ford was loaded, and the Sed-Atki was put into position to be loaded by Tam and Davie. It would all work well if they both turned up and hadn’t been on a weekend bender; otherwise it was up to George and Dad to load the Sed-Atki.
Monday morning I was out the yard by five o’clock and unloaded in Fife just in time to catch the morning commuter traffic all the way back to Edinburgh, wishing the new by-pass was open. I can’t remember whose name was on the card. When I arrived at the yard the Sed-Atki was nearly loaded, but Tam the Bam was nowhere to be seen. He had fallen over some time at the weekend and broken something. Seemingly he wasn’t ■■■■■■ at the time. Dad and Davie were loading the truck mostly with the absence of Dad who was taking calls in the office. I jumped on the back, and with help from Davie, and sometimes Dad as well, was netted and ready to roll with the drag coupled up and pointing out the drive by eleven o’clock. I got my paper work and gubbings, had a shower, and was off by half past. George had already phoned Ripon and told them I would be a bit late. As it was, I was there by three o’clock, but no one else was to be seen. I started unloading over where they kept the empty drums and was about half way through by the time anyone else turned up. That night I pushed for Norfolk. It was fish and chips at the chippy near Swaffham, and a final park up at the last lay-by before Norwich. It had been a long day and there was no way that I was going into the factory to load on the night shift. If I had, then I would have been out of time before I was loaded - and besides, I was so stuffed that the television didn’t even get set up. Even after all that, it was still a far better option than crawling about under trucks in a damp shed, regardless of what Black Bob thought.
By nine o’clock the next day I was on the weigh bridge with forty eight drums on each of the floors and fourteen plastic tanks above each of the forty eight steel ones. It was so high that the ropes on the nets could hardly reach the hooks on the trailer. I was too high to go back by Kings Lyne, so I headed off for Wisbech and Peterborough, which meant that it was going to be tight on fuel, as Dad hadn’t given me any extra money this trip to allow for it. I was plodding up the A1into another headwind, and had just reached a coned off section when I noticed a whine in one of the lower gears. I switched the radio off and had a listen; it was only in one lower gear, fourth. I kept going, but I had a feeling that Neil running out of oil had returned to haunt the Sed-Atki. When I was downshifting for the roundabouts I heard it getting worse, and now it was doing it in two gears. As I accelerated away it was getting louder, and I’m sure it was in three gears. Top seemed to be alright, so I kept going a bit farther. I pulled into a transport café to have a look, half expecting to find the chassis covered in gear box oil, but it wasn’t. Everything looked OK, so the best thing to do was call the office. Dad wasn’t there, but George said I should get him on his mobile before I went any farther. It was half an hour before he answered it. The answer was to get as far as I could taking it easy, and trying to avoid using those particular gears. That only left me with first, second, third, high and low, and sixth high and low. It wasn’t going to be easy on the hills — however, there weren’t many on that part of the A1. I found a good high rev in fourth high would almost get me to sixth low when getting off a roundabout. I also thought that I wouldn’t be driving the Sed-Atki later on in the week either. I was just about at the bottom end of the A1M when everything came to a halt. I was doing around fifty miles an hour when it all stopped, and I was nearly thrown through the window. The first thing I did was put my foot on the clutch, but the peddle went straight to the floor. I steered to the hard shoulder. There was smoke coming from the drive tyres; they were locked solid. The engine stalled so there was no steering, and the whole lot just stopped half off and half on the hard shoulder.
Luckily, there was no one close up the back of me. As I climbed down, I could see a puddle of oil getting bigger under the gearbox. A couple of other trucks had stopped behind me and put their hazard warning lights on. I looked round the back of the fuel tank at the gear box, and saw that the casing was split and some of the gears and shafts were hanging out. No wonder it had all come to a halt so quickly and the clutch hadn’t worked. It was all a bit of a mess - I’d never seen anything like it, and now there was traffic backing up. One of the other drivers came and had a look to see if he could do anything to help. I asked him if he had any spanners, especially nine sixteen. If I could get the prop shaft off I could at least let it free wheel on to the hard shoulder. The word went around and a few minutes later the spanners arrived. I made sure the hand brake was on, then removed the front flange of the prop. One of the other trucks came round the front, and put a strap through the tow eye and round the rear bar of his trailer. He said he would pull me to the services on the other side of the roundabout. Less than ten minutes after it all went bang, I was in the services and made sure that everyone involved had a cup of tea or coffee. One of the guys that was on a bulk tipper got his shovel and threw some dirt on the oil. I was very lucky that the police didn’t turn up. I phoned Dad to let him know the bad news, and then phoned B.R.S. rescue, who came out with a Scammell recovery truck. I had already removed the prop totally, and was near enough ready to go, but he insisted on looking underneath to see if could fix it. However, it became quite clear that it was beyond his roadside assistance abilities. The Sed-Atki was put on a bar, and we left the services in large clouds of slow moving blue smoke. Just before we got going, the recovery truck driver told me to follow him. I didn’t see that I had an option. When we arrived at the yard he drove in a large arc and stopped half way round. I was instructed to drop the drag, and we proceeded to the shed. The Sed-Atki was removed from the recovery truck, and the process of paperwork began.
Dad was doing something in Manchester, and decided that the best course of action was for him to come and pick me up so that he could have a look at the damage. All that I could do was sit around and wait for him - not what I had planned for that Tuesday afternoon. I got out a drawing pad and had a bit of a draw to pass the time of day. Dad showed up around three o’clock and assessed the damage with the shop foreman. We all agreed that it was most likely to have been caused by the lack of oil incident when Neil had it, and it was just brewing up inside it until it let go. The foreman had been doing a bit of phoning around, and located a reconditioned box in Northampton, but the shop was really busy and they couldn’t fit it until Thursday. Dad and I had a chat and thought the best plan was to let them get on with it, as it was already there and the part was available. He would give me a lift home and I would work the rest of the week with the Ford. I got my gear from the Sed-Atki, put it in the car, and found that Dad’s idea of giving me a lift was for me to drive all the way home as he slept, only waking up for toilet and coffee breaks. We were home for eight o’clock. I had a shower and went to bed. Seven o’clock the next morning I was loading the Ford for Ripon again. Both barrel cages were on the Sed-Atki, so I had to load one row, put a row of plywood down, then the next row of drums, another row of plywood, then the last row of drums, then net the lot and rope as well. It was a bit time consuming, but that was how it had to be done. Dad had arranged a load from Northampton, so I was to load the gearbox first, then the tanks after that, then drop the gearbox in at Doncaster on the way back up. It was going to be tight to get back for Friday night and go to Ayer with Sally and the car. It didn’t rain at all on the way to Ripon, and I was tipped and on my way by half past one. Back down the A1, and round all the round abouts. There was the usual heavy haulage outfit in the lay-by just north of Wetherby changing tyres, and the weigh bridge was open, so the only decision I had to make was whether to go M62 then M1, or A1 then M18 and M1. It looked like they were building a new services at the A1, M 62junction. I wished the road works would be finished soon. The right lane was moving pretty well, so I went straight down the A1, round the big loop, and on to the M18. I was just starting to catch the evening traffic as I went past Sheffield. I had ham, eggs, chips, and a glass of coke, a wash at Leicester Forest East, then headed as far towards Northampton as I could get, which was the lay-by across the road from the Red Lion on the A45. The television was still in the Sed-Atki, so I had a chat with some of the other drivers and went to the Red Lion with them for a few hours. One of the other drivers claimed to have done a fair bit of Middle East driving for Trans UK, and had been as far as Pakistan. I mentioned Coco’s truck to him, and he even confirmed the name of the driver. His stories were very entertaining. I managed to get good directions from one of the other drivers for the place to collect the gearbox in the morning. I wasn’t too comfortable sleeping over the seats in the Ford that night. It might only have been a day rest cab with a fold down bed in the Sed-Atki, but it was miles ahead of the Ford for creature comforts.
I was at the door by quarter to eight on Thursday morning waiting for the gearbox. It looked like new, and it was in a crate. The cheque was handed over, the forklift slid it on, and I was loading tanks by nine o’clock. I needed to get them on and the paper work sorted before ten, because they went off for a half hour break then, and if I got caught with that, it would be nearly eleven by the time I got sorted. At five to ten, I legged it to the office with the cheque and just got the guy in time. Back to the truck, drop the net, rope, and go by twenty past ten. Just before two, I dropped the gearbox; they already had the old one out. They said that everything else including the clutch was good. With a bit of jiggery pokery I was back to the yard by seven o’clock. Dad had a plan - I was to tip and fuel up, then he would give me a lift to Doncaster in the morning in the Ford, then go to York for a load of roofing steel. I could then come back in the Sed-Atki. He wanted to leave at five for some reason. Half past four on Friday morning he was nowhere to be seen so I started to make breakfast, getting gradually louder. He eventually showed up at ten to five, had some coffee and toast and announced that he would have some more at Southwaite when we got there. As with the lift he had given me earlier on in the week, I ended up driving as he tried to sleep. He was insistent on going to Southwaite even if it was on the other side of the country, then we could cut over the A66. I knew some of the other drivers did that, but I always thought it a load of ■■■■■■■■. However, to keep the peace, I went his way. I was going to go straight down the 68, but he managed to stay awake until after Hawick so there was no turning back. I woke him just before Southwaite and he shouted me a full breakfast. Dad was never a big talker, and the conversation was kept short with the engine noise being a bit high; however he did notice the extra bit of power and said that he thought it was a good thing.
This was the most time we had ever spent together in a long time. The conversation was mostly centred around the oncoming trucks, who was running what, and who had gone to the wall. We arrived at Doncaster and went to see how the Sed-Atki was going, but it wasn’t as good as we had hoped for. The gearbox had been fitted before they found that the selector turret on top of the box was the wrong one. There wasn’t enough room between the box and the floor to change it in position, so they had to take it back out to do it. As we arrived they were just lining it back up again so there would be a bit of a wait. They said two hours, but I couldn’t see that happening. Dad went on his way, and I was left with the Sed-Atki. I asked if I could help to try to speed things up a bit, but I was resigned to the corner while they pushed, pulled, and levered the box back into position. It was one o’clock before the prop shaft was finally connected again, and then there was the test run. The selection was tight and precise (unlike it had been before), a bit like stirring lumpy porridge. The foreman was happy that I was happy with it, and I joked to him about fitting a bigger engine and sleeper cab. Paper work was done and I was off, but now it was closer to two o’clock than I would have liked. As I worked my way up the A1, I noticed a lot of trucks were coming the other way, and were flashing their lights. It could only mean one thing: the weighbridge was open for business. As I came up the climb to the A64, a police patrol bike came up behind me and slowly cruised past. I wasn’t surprised when he signalled me to pull into the weigh bridge. There was a bit of a queue, and it seemed that it wasn’t just the weighbridge that was doing business, as the wheel tappers were there as well. One of them came over and spoke to me. I was asked to show my cards first and he wasn’t happy about the lack of two days. I explained about the gearbox, and he went to have a look before he was satisfied, and said that I should have put a blank card in for each day. I told him that there was no way I was going to drive down from Scotland every day to put a card in just to satisfy him. He found a brake bulb out on the trailer and that was everything he could get. I replaced it, all the time expecting him to ask about my age, but he said nothing. All that was left was the weighbridge, and I had to wait ten minutes before it was my turn. All the time my stomach was churning whenever any of them looked at me; I was sure that someone was going through some book, looking for an amendment for the Young Drivers scheme. Eventually it was my turn, and a white coat stood beside the cab, “Right then Paddy, just go slow over the plate and stop when I tell you.” I wasn’t Irish, and I definitely wasn’t called Paddy. Granted, the address on the door looked like an Irish address, but I was Scottish. I was about tell him all about it, but I just grinned and muttered some utterances under my breath. I rolled the truck on to the plate and was told to stop and just wait a bit. They shouted to each other, and I was asked if I knew how to reverse the drag without coupling to the nose of the Sed-Atki. I just selected reverse and let it go backwards. The white coat looked impressed. I put it on the plate again and was asked to stop, but there was some kind of confusion. The head guy came out of the office and asked if I had a weigh ticket from where I had loaded, as their scales were only showing that I was eight ton four hundred on the front and five ton two hundred on the trailer. I told them that would be about right for a load of empty plastic tanks and drums. They weren’t very impressed, and I was waved on my way. I wasn’t impressed either, as it was now the wrong side of three o’clock, and I was meant to be picking Sally up at half past five to go to Ayer for the weekend. The Sed-Atki plodded along the A1 doing all the roundabouts. I was in two minds whether to go across the 66 or up to Newcastle and over the moor. The Carter Bar at that time of year was infested with caravans and there was no way of getting past them in the Sed-Atki unless they stopped for you, which they never did, so I took my chances with the 66. At least there was a bit of a dual carriage way to get past the worst offenders, and now that the gearbox was good, I found I liked changing gear. As I passed the pub at Scotch corner I noticed the D series sitting there. At least when I got home Dad wouldn’t be there to hold me up, and I knew that even with the drag on the back I could still outperform the D series loaded with roofing steel. The only stop I made was at Southwaite to phone and tell Sally that I was going to be late, probably around seven o’clock. I bought a coke and Mars bar and headed off up the M6, and A7. Luck was on my side for once, as the only caravan I saw was coming the other way. I made it to the yard from Southwaite in two hours and fifteen minutes, about the same time as the Ford.
Jeff
