A Tale of the Long Distant Truckie and Writer.
A Tale of the
Long Distant Truckie & Writer.
Outback Truckers is a terrific Australian television programme about rough and ready truckies trundling their behemoth Kenworth trucks through some of Australia’s most inhospitable territory.
These tough outback blokes are a bit more like us writers than we like to admit. Here is a fable of why.
Wimpish Writer
Bert, the grizzled long haul truckie, and William, the wimpish writer, accidentally meet on the Stuart Highway between Melbourne and Alice Springs. William’s Mini Minor has broken down. Seeing a man in distress, Bert interrupts listening to a podcast about how to ride a bicycle and stops his 50-tonne, 1000 horsepower, 18-wheeler Kenworth T908 to help.
While Bert fiddles with the carburettor, William, a part-time philosopher, observes that truckies and writers have more in common than they may think. Bert spits out his cigarette, closes the bonnet and asks William to try the engine. It restarts.
“Thank you, kind gentleman.” William offers a handshake, and Bert, the long distant driver, envelopes the soft fingers of the long distant writer in a giant, gnarled hand. Grease from hours of fixing engines, brake cables and changing tyres is ingrained in every crease.
Bert decides a little intellectual stimulation in 38-degree heat in the middle of Simpson Desert is just the break from the monotony of driving 2245 kilometres from Melbourne to Alice Springs he needs right then.
Pansy Writers
“Nah, mate! We are nothin’ in loik, you pansy writers. Can you fix a broken brake cable in this heat miles from anywhere surrounded by noth’in but red dirt and a few roos?”
“Well,” William says, “no, actually. But can you sit for countless hours at a computer creating fantastical characters, getting the spelling right, editing over and over, and hoping to become the next J.k. Rowling at the end of the day?”
Well, when you put it loik that mate, nah. But I can see youse and us are a bit like with that sitting on yar bum for bloody hours. Explain a bit more. Here’s a six-pack of Four X to pass the time. By the way, cobber, who is J.K. Rowling?
“Well, when you put it loik that mate, nah. But I can see youse and us are a bit like with that sitting on yar bum for bloody hours. Explain a bit more. Here’s a six-pack of Four X to pass the time. By the way, cobber, who is J.K. Rowling?”
“A writer who’s a billionaire. Quite successful, actually. Anyway, here’s what I think. By the way, do you have a nice New Zealand sauvignon blanc instead of that beer? More to my liking.”
Wheres The Wine Shop?
Bert throws his cigarette into the Simpson Desert red dirt, looks around for dingoes and a wine shop, but strangely, sees only endless kilometres of Australian nothingness punctuated by wattle and prickly Moses shrubs. William shrugs in defeat sips delicately from the can of beer, and begins his dissertation. Bert looks to the horizon and wonders if he can deliver the Caterpillar mining loader on his truck to Alice Springs before the pub closes.
You know how you guys drive long distances, have to stay awake and fix every problem you have along the way by yourself because there’s nobody around to help?
“You know how you guys drive long distances, have to stay awake and fix every problem you have along the way by yourself because there’s nobody around to help?” says William. Bert silently nods and picks his teeth.
“Well, that’s what writers do.”
“Yeah, mate. That’s about as believable as Carlton winning the footie championship.” William fails to see the comparison. Who are Carlton, and what is footie? He continues.
“You see, writers have to sit for countless hours concentrating on the job because if they don’t, it has consequences, just like you. If we make a mistake, we have to fix it. If you start listening to a podcast or AC/DC for too long while driving and lose concentration, you could drive off the road, hit a roo or a drunken Aborigine on a bicycle. Anything could happen.” Bert nods sagely and wonders that Aborigine idea is a new one. Never seen that in twenty-five years on the road.
Aborigine on a Bicycle
“So what do you do if you have a flat tire? You fix it there and then and move on, don’t you? Otherwise, you’ll never make your destination on time and, maybe, not get paid.” Bert lights another cigarette and wonders why an Aborigine would be riding a bicycle on a straight road 100-kilometres from the nearest billabong. He dismisses William’s observation as a hallucination caused by the heat.
William ploughs on. He wants to get inside the car and turn the air conditioning on. I knew mother making me wear a suit and tie for this trip was a mistake.
“Well, we have the same issue. If we veer off the plot too far or write a load of crap, we have to go back and fix it before it gets too late. If we don’t deliver the best possible product to the publisher, we can’t finish our journey either.”
“That’s a bugger, mate. My heart bleeds for you,” says Bert, picking his nose and getting the point.
Bloody Dingoes
“You are right, though, about sitting on our bums to complete our journey. And we do have to fix things ourselves because nobody else is around to help. Bloody dingoes and Aborigines on bicycles aren’t much chops. So, maybe you have something there; writers and truckies are the same.”
William smiles and thanks Bert again for his help and wise counsel. Bert swats away a battalion of dive-bombing flies and climbs into the cab. The Kenworth slowly rumbles off down the road toward Alice Springs. William starts his car and begins to follow him.
But not for long.
An Aborigine on a bicycle and wearing a Carlton footie jersey suddenly leaps from behind a wattle bush into his path.
Moral of the story: Keep on writing and watch out for Aborigines riding bicycles.
