The Steaming Rants of Ernie Wight

The Last Rides of Ernie Wight

I had grown used to the decrepit Transit, had learned how to get the best from it no matter what the conditions, and was sorry when I learned I was to switch to the much-vaunted Sprinter that morning. But, I thought, no more damp windscreens. The van was fully closed, so no more tremulous waits on the exits from corners to see if the load would try and hurl itself over the two-inch high ledge onto the waiting thirsty road. And, bliss, it had a working stereo cassette in the cab. I grabbed a handful of tapes from the scimitar, and learned the knack of loading up a closed van. I gave the job of entertaining me to Moby and set off into the dark.

The first thing I had to come to terms with was the complete lack of power. I floored the throttle to pull up the hump-backed railway bridge immediately outside the Dairy turning, and barely made it to the top. I thought that things would improve as I became more familiar with my new office, and started trying to learn the peak torque and peak power bands in the engine. Sadly, an hour later, I had to concede that I could find no peaks, just mushy swamps where something seemed to be happening, but with the maddening and deliberate pace of treacle oozing off the spoon. I had been suckered, sold a fairy story of the magic cure to all the delivery problems. I mentioned this to the lads back at the dairy, and waited until their hysterical laughter had calmed down. "You must stop believing everything he tells you", one of them said.

After a few days I felt I had understood how I had been played like a fat trout in a pool. The Sprinter, worn out, would have hampered my early efforts to learn the round and given the game away, so they sent me out in the transit, their backup and recovery vehicle. It was powerful enough to go out and tow back any broken down vehicle they owned, and that was what it was mostly used for. I was now trying to get the sorry sprinter to soar like an eagle over the hills, but all it could do was waddle like a duck. Once again I began to run too late to keep out of the early morning rush hour, and once again I began returning to the station in time to be swamped by a rush of calls for parts.

Ten days after my first introduction to this pitiful excuse for a van, I was rolling through the streets of Chippenham, only about twenty minutes down on time, being jarred and jolted by the road's rough surface which had been scalped ready for new tarmac. I was puzzled by a chuffing noise I could hear above the rest of the din, and turned off the tape. We lurched up the ramp onto the smooth unbroken tarmac, and the rough jolting continued. The chuffing noise was still there, but seemed to be diminishing rapidly. As I entered the single lane one-way street I realised I had a puncture. Worse than that, there was no lay-by in which to stop. I had to let the sprinter limp slowly down the slope until I could pull into the garage forecourt.

As if I hadn't suffered enough, I then discovered that, although I had a good spare stowed beneath the van floor, the jack and wheel brace that should have been beneath the driver's seat weren't there. I phoned up the dairy and told them of my predicament. It took one and a half hours for someone to finally get to me with their landrover, the large trolley jack from the maintenance depot, and a socket set. When I finally made it back to the dairy, the mystery of the missing jack and tools became clear. The driver who had been using the sprinter for a couple of days had transferred them into the second sprinter that he had taken over for the Bath run, because he wasn't sure where the proper tool set for that vehicle was. Curiously, he wasn't rebuked for this, I was. I should have checked to make sure I had a tool set before using the van. And I was in further trouble for driving nearly 400 yards on the deflated tyre. It had been newly fitted only two weeks ago, and now it was ruined. For the first time I saw the manager's face look disturbed.

Two days later, out beside a garden centre where I had to climb the locked security fence and fetch a barrow to trundle four large pergals of milk down to the kitchens for the tea-rooms, I returned to the van to find a slow hissing noise. I checked all around with the torch, and found a nail in the rear tyre. This time, I had the jack and wheel brace. What a pity it was that I didn't have a spare wheel. It was still away at the garage having a new tyre fitted to replace the one I had trashed in Chippenham. I sighed, and phoned in the ominous news. This time, they had the goodness to get to me in thirty minutes. The old familiar Transit loomed out of the darkness, and for another twenty minutes we huffed and puffed like walruses as we transhipped the remaining third of the round onto my old faithful friend, and then I was away again, late as usual.

"We'll have to let you go", the manager said, at the end of the week, "You don't seem to be able to manage as well as we had hoped."

I had just begun to get used to the half-life of being a barrow-wight, but I found I had no desire to fight for the right to carry on as the unreal Ernie Wight. I left quietly.