My dad had a delivery to make about 5 hours away, I accompanied to help him stay awake. Here’s some stuff I wrote as we were coming home that may have been influenced by the Stephen King I was reading:
The sun comes out at intervals. The radio’s tuned to BBC2 but we can’t hear anything over the rattling and blowing of the old windows plus the shitty old air conditioning and the general buzz of the M5.
Up north we passed fields of cobs, pikey ponies my dad calls ’em. Now its cows, lying cudding or suckling with their eyes closed to the world.
We didn’t worry about forage last year and it looks to be the same this winter; so me and my dad discuss as we roar up and down the country in the Iveco that probably should be, but definitely isn’t being, limited to 60.
My dad ran haulage as a boy. He knows the motorways, not in the sense that he remembers every junction and wiggle-through necessary to cut across London’s arteries. Instead he knows the unwritten rules and, just has a sense of it I guess.
When you travel with a man like that across so much of such a varied country, even one day can tell you a lot about how it fares. How the forage is looking for this winter by the crops, how it was last winter by the condition of the cows and even how bad the recession is by the volume of staycationers coming down west.
All such things are discussed as we go, along with varied comments of the bikers we pass, their bikes, their size. My dads allowed to do that I guess, he rode a chopped up Triumph Bonneville back in the (his) day.
Nothing too interesting happening today. Though we did pass a car proper blazin’ as we came back past Bristol. Soon after we’d stopped to nap in a supermarket car park to ease the drowsiness of the warm, mal-ventilated cab.
A good day. Father-daughter bonding in a way most wouldn’t get. But we do, and that’s all t’matters.