Mick Rennison - Keep on Truckin: 40 Years on the Road

Y OUVE got no fucking chance!

So spat my driving instructor as I sat waiting to take my HGV Class 1 test, on a cold wet day in Shrewsbury, 40 years ago.

It hadnt been an easy ten-day course. Me, long-haired and on the dole; my instructor, an ex-RAF drill sergeant, who didnt think it right that layabouts like me should get free training on a government-run scheme to help the unemployed. He never missed an opportunity to criticise me and my driving, while praising my fellow pupil to the point that he embarrassed him; his employers were paying hard cash to put him through.

Our breaks were spent listening to his tales of real men in the forces.

Bring back National Service, he declared. That would sort out wasters like me.

I have to admit, he did get to me. I can take criticism but I preferred it to be constructive. This was very personal. I was staying in digs, away from my home and loved ones, and more than once I vowed to quit and flee back home. But I knew that was just what he wanted, I also knew that Id never get this opportunity again.

Id qualified for the training course because, prior to my unemployment, Id been a van driver for a couple of years. As I punched on up the M1 in a Trannie van, sleeping bag and cooker in the back, I longed for the chance to drive one of the big boys.

My father was a truck driver. Hand-balling 7,000 bricks on and off his wagon for Sussex and Dorking Brick Company. I went out with him as a kid, and loved every minute of it.

But when my chance came, it wasnt easy. It was like being back at school, with your least favourite teacher. At times he convinced me I really was useless, and punching far above my weight. They were dark days, followed by long, lonely evenings in my digs, revising the Highway Code.

I struggled to master the art of reversing. Never once during the entire course did I ever manage to manoeuvre the Atkinson Borderer and its 40 trailer into the coned-off box correctly. A task made even harder by my nemesis walking alongside the cab loudly yelling out Left hand down you bloody idiot! Now right! Are you really this stupid?

Of course, my cab-mate did it perfectly with his first try on the first day of the course.

I sat in the waiting room waiting my turn. My stomach churned, the reversing manoeuvre playing in my head, over and over again. My instructor ignored me, no words of encouragement, no wishes of good luck.

When my cab-mate returned from his test victorious, he was greeted with handshakes and back-slapping. I left the room in silence with the examiner, shaking in my boots, sweaty hands clutching my provisional licence.

Alongside the Atki, the examiner explained the dreaded route of the manoeuvre. Drive forward, zigzag around a few cones, then reverse into the coned-off box. I felt as if I was in a trance.

Climbing up behind the huge steering wheel, I wiped my hands down my jeans and fired her up. My thumping heart was drowned out by the throbbing Gardener engine.

I slipped her into gear, took the handbrake off and moved forward, gingerly passing the first cone. My mind was racing, my nerves were shot. Am I going too slow? Does that matter? Perhaps I should up the pace a little. In the mirror I watched as the flatbed trailer narrowly missed the cone, then I turned, gently, not too much, then swung back on the opposite lock. Round she went, then another turn, left a bit, then I was clear! Yes! So far so good. Now all I had to do was reverse on a slow curve into the dreaded box!

I repeat, I had never, ever, on the whole ten-day course, completed this manoeuvre successfully. I hadnt even got close.

She crunched into reverse and, riding the clutch, I slowly began to follow the imaginary line imprinted on my brain. Was that OK? Maybe take it off a bit more, no I needed to put it on, didnt I? I froze but the Atki crept on. Slowly but surely she slipped right into the box. Perfectly. Yes! Did you see that sergeant major? Did you bloody well see that? I couldnt believe it myself. Was I dreaming? No I wasnt, Id done it! Id bloody well done it!

The rest of my test passed in a haze. The emergency stop, then out onto the road. Keep checking the mirrors, look ahead, indicate, mind that bike, watch those traffic lights. In next to no time I was back at the centre answering questions on the Highway Code. No problem. Then the examiner was shaking my hand and congratulating me on passing my test!

With my pink pass slip in my hand, I floated back to the waiting room. My cab-mate shook my hand; he was genuinely pleased for me.

Sergeant major held out his hand. Well done, he spluttered.

I ignored it, turning my back on him. I was buzzing, but my feelings for this man were so deep I didnt trust myself to speak to him. But then he said he wanted me to return to his office in the truck to pick up a certificate to say Id completed the course.

Ive got what I wanted, I sneered, waving the pass slip. Stick your bloody certificate!

The classroom bully was lost for words. Now I didnt need him anymore, I saw him for what he was. An arsehole!

I felt so bloody good. Ten days of frustration vanished into thin air. I got my gear out of the Atki and caught a bus back to my digs, then a train home.

The certificate arrived through the post a few days later. It took pride of place on our toilet wall.

A life of travel took off for me in 1967, when at the age of 17 I joined the Merchant Navy as a catering boy. Sailing the world on passenger ships, oil tankers and tramping cargo boats; taking in such wondrous sights as the Great Wall of China, the Panama Canal and some amazing riverside Buddhist temples in Thailand; and visiting Australia, America and Africa along the way.

As a teenager you really dont appreciate the fact that youre being paid to travel the world. Its not until youre much older that it hits you just how fortunate youve been. At that age you think you know everything, you really do. Youre the man!

Although the words nave and stupid come to mind when I recall a time in Dacca, French West Africa, now known as Senegal. My shipmate and I, suited and booted with flash watches and rings, were easily tempted one night by a taxi driver offering to find us some girls. But we began to get a bit nervous when he pulled off the road and headed off into the jungle. Bouncing over the rutted track, things got worse when he pulled up in what looked like a small shantytown. He stopped alongside a large fire and we were immediately surrounded by a group of locals. As he spoke to them we locked the doors and wound up the windows. We were crapping ourselves!

OK, he said, pointing to some women. Jiggy jiggy!

There was no way we were going to get out of that taxi, and we told him that in no uncertain terms. He just laughed. The women were beckoning us, one removed a breast from her dress and waved it at us. A couple of men began rocking the car. My, how the taxi driver laughed. We squirmed in fear.

Back to the ship! we demanded. He laughed even louder.

After a lot of arguing we struck a deal. We gave him all our money and our watches, and he took us back to the ship, laughing all the way.

Later, on the same trip, I had someone pull a gun on me in Bangkok. The blood that drained from my body, as we stood face to face in a bar room brawl, took several days to return. A few weeks later, in the China Sea, the ship went over on its side in a typhoon. She actually took water down the funnel and several portholes smashed, flooding cabins. On each of these occasions I really thought I was going to die. Very character building.

My first driving job, in the early 1970s, came about by accident. Living in my hometown of Horsham, in West Sussex, Id left the Merchant Navy and was working as a salesman for Currys, the electrical appliances shop. The van driver who delivered the few TVs and washing machines I sold had one accident too many and I took over his job. Temporary at first, but it was so much better being out and about all day, as opposed to being in the shop flogging fridges, that I leapt at the offer to become their full-time van driver.