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Notes From The Highway
With Steve Lane - the trucker with soft
hands
In this, our first investigation into the
heart of modern British road culture, Poke columnist Jeff
Horton hitches a lift with celebrity driver, Steve
Lane, zen master of the inner ring road.
Steve makes me wait while he wipes down the
truck with Easyclean. His Rocky Horror Tour ‘87 bomber
jacket, black stone-washed jeans and white, Hi-Tec sports
boots are all pristine. He and his tribe live like electric
gypsies, pulsing along the synaptic network of British distribution.
This is Steve Lane, and we’re about to go for a ride.
”You can get in now,” he growls,
“let’s go to work.” There’s bitumen in
his lungs and gravel in his voice. I ask him about the nature
of his delivery, he says “Both barrels, right up it.”
I try; “No, What have you got in the truck?” His
clean knuckles go white on the wheel. He must have misheard
me. The ambient noise of the rig coupled with the incessant
Genesis mean I’ll have to sit closer, and his sideways
glances aren’t making me feel comfortable either.
“'Course the other day I was pulling
into Welcome Break Carlisle and this caravan” - he pauses
- “He’s only gone and used a truck bay. I told him
‘Fuckin’ move or I’ll stick something sharp
in your eye.’ I’m not a violent man but it’s
the...” “Principle?” I suggest, “Yeah,
I mean, everything’s clearly delineated - you don’t
see me parking in his wife.” This is Steve. A man of
boundaries and traditions.
“‘Course, back in the 70’s
it was all magazines and merkins, you could hardly see the
page for the bush. The 80’s was sharp tits, oil and chuff
mullets. Now it’s all DVD, photo-quality pause and you’re
lucky if you get any beard.” Steve pulls deeply on his
ninth Lambert & Butler which he holds James Dean-style.
“And I’ve got one slut of a system!” He gesticulates
toward the curtains at the back of the cab whilst flipping
a cursory bird at a passing Mondeo.
His habitat is indeed impressive; tidy, without
being clean. A wall mounted DVD with mini widescreen and built
in surround. A collection containing mostly titles like Rambut
III - Adventures In Arseganistan makes perfect sense racked
above blankets that crackle with mandruff, and a coke can
holder modified to accommodate a family size tub of Nivea.
I ask him if he has a girlfriend. He looks
almost noble. “I’m married to the job, you can’t
hold anyone down on the road.” Suddenly the C.B. fizzes
to life “Pump Action to Cold Steel, Pump Action to Cold
Steel. What’s your 50?” Steve grabs a handset and
replies, “Steel to Pump, I’m about five clicks outside
the D.Z. and coming in hot to trot with a double drop.”
We take the exit marked Birmingham N.E.C. where
we are to deliver 8 tons of pampers and half a mile of suede.
This is as far as I go. “I’ll see you out there,
Bandit,” says Steve as he drops me off.
I shake his hand. It’s soft.
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