The not so good old days; out and about kicking tyres

The not so good old days; out and about kicking tyres

Last week, as the autumn like weather gathered pace, I got a call from Dave, a one-man-band north of the border. He wanted me to go and have a look at his truck he was keen to sell.

I did the maths, a 400 mile round trip? Not likely. “Send some pictures,” is suggested.

“Can’t,” he replied.

“Why not?” I countered.

“Don’t have a camera on my phone…” he replied. “Come and have a look.”

What at the camera-less phone or the truck, I thought. “No, ta,” and I hung up. Now, is it me, or I have I missed a real opportunity?

Before phones with cameras, websites, emails and social media to go and see a lorry being sold by someone you didn’t know meant having to travel. A round trip that required filling up twice was not unheard of, which is why the used truck market had its territories. If someone from a different time zone, alright, lets say Essex, wanted to offload their truck to you, who might be based in Cheshire, the first question that sprang to mind was “what’s wrong with it?”

The truck that you could smell before you clapped eyes on it was a regular occurrence, and always gave rise to bit of bile before you made your excuses and departed. Increasingly used truck dealerships set up casual networks of people they could trust to pop by and have a look to save on the mileage. A process that was much cheaper than driving to Hell and back on a whim.

Before the M25 began construction in 1975 trips into London and beyond from the frozen north were invariably fruitless. When a builders merchant down in Sevenoaks wanted to get rid of seven Ford D-series flatbeds I called local used truck dealer Clive to pop by and have a look. He wandered in kicked the tyres and reported back.

“Unless you want to ship them I’d steer clear; old, full of mould, not likely to be sold,” he explained. “However, there is some ERF B-Series tractors parked up in Maidstone. For a song me old China.”

After weighing up the odds, you phone, set everything up and go down the following day, and then brief the current assistant  that everything with wheels requires a 20% margin, 15% minimum, otherwise he funds the difference…”and don’t buy anything”.

Then the following morning you’d be out the door bright and breezy, well at 5.30am it’s usually cold and dark, with Mrs Dealer words echoing in my ears, “there’s made up sandwiches in the fridge…”

The Ford Cortina MK1 hits the blacktop and the slog begins; 150 miles to the builder’s merchants. Down the M1, onto the North Circular then out on A21 into Kent. Invariably I’d discover that Mrs Dealer’s sandwiches consist of brown bread, humus, rocket leafs and my dripping sandwiches are in her lunchbox. That never went down well at the estate agents.

A greasy spoon near Dunstable adds a stone to my kerbweight and at 10am, once London and its commuters have been navigated, you arrive. Yards always had the gradient of a quarry than a bowling green and often the suspension would squeak its disapproval.

The transport manager and/or boss always emerged from a portacabin with an Alsatian around his heels when an unknown car arrives. I never got in the cabin, and after my disapproving glances at the trucks, a coffee would be out of the question. More often than not the wagons would be more likely to have a preservation order on them backed by the local council – another two weeks parked up and they would become a listed building. Common traits; decomposed tyres, holes and rust where there shouldn’t be holes or rust, and some green hue on the metalwork.

In this case something had taken root. After several minutes of sucking teeth, in an effort to bring him down gently, I offered £300 cash for all seven take it or leave it. I can’t print his reply but do remember how colourful it was.

Then its back into the Cortina and off to the next stop. I recall the yard in Maidstone had a blue-gray fog around it as a shunter moved trailers back and forth. In the corner three 4x2 ERF tractors, smart looking, something I knew I could move on. The boss had just gone international and wanted French or German products as its these countries he’ll be running to. We agreed a price and then stopped by another greasy spoon to add to the ballast. And that’s how it would go. Some you win…

Dave has sent an email with images of a nice looking Volvo FH, mileage seems a bit high, no mention of how much he wants, still…it all adds to Mrs Dealers retirement fund.