I grew up idolising truckies. Now it's my turn to give them a lift
"Breaker one-nine, this is the Red Baron. Anyone got their ears on?"
That was me - a kid in Melbourne's west, sitting in my bedroom, talking into a CB radio pretending I was halfway across the Nullarbor. I had no idea why I picked "Red Baron" as my handle. It just sounded cool. And when you're a kid in the '80s, that's all that mattered.
Back then, I'd sit in mates' cars or at home on my radio, just hoping to catch a truckie's voice coming through the static.
To me, they were the kings of the road. And if I ever got one to blast their airhorn after I did the arm pump? That was like getting a high-five from a rock star.
That feeling - that admiration for the men and women who spend their lives out on the road - never left me.
Working in live entertainment was no picnic. Long hours. Tight turnarounds. Big pressure to bump in, bump out, and somehow be ready to do it all again the next night. I was part of the crew setting up lights, fireworks - the whole show - for the biggest touring acts of the '90s. Guns N' Roses, Bon Jovi, U2. You name it.
Now and then, I'd get asked to jump in a truck and help move gear between cities - and I'll be honest, I loved it. Being behind the wheel, out on the road, part of something big. It scratched that itch I'd had since I was a kid.
But I wasn't doing it full time.
What hit me was seeing the drivers who were. Blokes rolling in from Perth or Brisbane, absolutely wrecked. I remember one guy so fried from the road, we practically had to peel him off the steering wheel. A few hours later, he was back in the cab, headed to the next gig.
That's when I realised - I was tired, sure. But these guys made me look like I'd been on smoko the whole time.
These days, I'm lucky enough to own a few trucks. I run a business that supplies trucks to film and TV sets, so I'm never far from a diesel engine.
And that means I've also become an employer of truck drivers who are the backbone of what we do.
They're part of a much bigger community: more than half a million Australians who work in transport, warehousing and logistics - many of them based in regional and remote areas where support services are scarce, but the pressure is just as heavy.
It's the biggest employer of men in the country. But it also ranks last for mental health.
That's not a coincidence.
The blokes and women I know who drive for a living work hard - often through the night, through long-haul stretches with barely a soul in sight.
You want to know what fatigue looks like? Watch someone roll in after 1200 kilometres and still have to unload, rest, and prep for the return leg. And somehow do it all again the next day.
The work doesn't just wear you out physically - it plays on your mind.
Drivers have told me that a small worry at home can become all-consuming after 10 hours alone in the cab.
With no one to talk to, your thoughts can spiral. That's the kind of pressure we're talking about here.
One bloke I know said he did an entire stretch between Brisbane and Dubbo without speaking a single word to another human. Just him and the road. That silence must be deafening.
I've heard stories that stick with you.
Like Eno - a truckie from Coffs Harbour who came frighteningly close to taking his life, only to be saved by a stranger he'd given his last possessions to.
Like many in the industry, it wasn't his first brush with suicide. Eno had lost two trucking mates in a matter of weeks.
After a close work friend took his life, Eno organised a convoy through town. He expected a handful of trucks to show up. He got 130. Drivers who hadn't spoken in years came together to remember a mate - and more importantly, to reconnect with each other.
READ MORE:
Or CJ - a young woman who's taken on the industry in her own way and a champion on the road.
She's built a community online, opened up about grief and isolation - all while clocking thousands of kilometres a week in a road train. Her honesty struck me. She wasn't trying to be inspirational. She just wanted to tell it how it is.
There's no shortage of stories like theirs. And, most drivers just get on with it. They don't complain. They take pride in the job. But that doesn't mean it's easy.
From all the experiences and conversations I've had there's one thing that just keeps coming back to me: if every driver and warehouse worker in Australia hit pause tomorrow because they were mentally or physically cooked ... this country would stop. Dead in its tracks. That's how essential this workforce is.
If you're a truckie or warehouse worker reading this, I just want to say this: we see you. The work you do matters. And so does your health, especially your mental health.
And if you're not in the industry, but you pass a truckie on the road, maybe remember: they're not in your way. They're carrying the way forward. So give 'em a nod. Or better yet - the old arm pump. You never know what that little moment might mean.
And if you're ever out there, feeling the weight of the road, just know the Red Baron's still got his ears on.
"Breaker one-nine, this is the Red Baron. Anyone got their ears on?"
That was me - a kid in Melbourne's west, sitting in my bedroom, talking into a CB radio pretending I was halfway across the Nullarbor. I had no idea why I picked "Red Baron" as my handle. It just sounded cool. And when you're a kid in the '80s, that's all that mattered.
Back then, I'd sit in mates' cars or at home on my radio, just hoping to catch a truckie's voice coming through the static.
To me, they were the kings of the road. And if I ever got one to blast their airhorn after I did the arm pump? That was like getting a high-five from a rock star.
That feeling - that admiration for the men and women who spend their lives out on the road - never left me.
Working in live entertainment was no picnic. Long hours. Tight turnarounds. Big pressure to bump in, bump out, and somehow be ready to do it all again the next night. I was part of the crew setting up lights, fireworks - the whole show - for the biggest touring acts of the '90s. Guns N' Roses, Bon Jovi, U2. You name it.
Now and then, I'd get asked to jump in a truck and help move gear between cities - and I'll be honest, I loved it. Being behind the wheel, out on the road, part of something big. It scratched that itch I'd had since I was a kid.
But I wasn't doing it full time.
What hit me was seeing the drivers who were. Blokes rolling in from Perth or Brisbane, absolutely wrecked. I remember one guy so fried from the road, we practically had to peel him off the steering wheel. A few hours later, he was back in the cab, headed to the next gig.
That's when I realised - I was tired, sure. But these guys made me look like I'd been on smoko the whole time.
These days, I'm lucky enough to own a few trucks. I run a business that supplies trucks to film and TV sets, so I'm never far from a diesel engine.
And that means I've also become an employer of truck drivers who are the backbone of what we do.
They're part of a much bigger community: more than half a million Australians who work in transport, warehousing and logistics - many of them based in regional and remote areas where support services are scarce, but the pressure is just as heavy.
It's the biggest employer of men in the country. But it also ranks last for mental health.
That's not a coincidence.
The blokes and women I know who drive for a living work hard - often through the night, through long-haul stretches with barely a soul in sight.
You want to know what fatigue looks like? Watch someone roll in after 1200 kilometres and still have to unload, rest, and prep for the return leg. And somehow do it all again the next day.
The work doesn't just wear you out physically - it plays on your mind.
Drivers have told me that a small worry at home can become all-consuming after 10 hours alone in the cab.
With no one to talk to, your thoughts can spiral. That's the kind of pressure we're talking about here.
One bloke I know said he did an entire stretch between Brisbane and Dubbo without speaking a single word to another human. Just him and the road. That silence must be deafening.
I've heard stories that stick with you.
Like Eno - a truckie from Coffs Harbour who came frighteningly close to taking his life, only to be saved by a stranger he'd given his last possessions to.
Like many in the industry, it wasn't his first brush with suicide. Eno had lost two trucking mates in a matter of weeks.
After a close work friend took his life, Eno organised a convoy through town. He expected a handful of trucks to show up. He got 130. Drivers who hadn't spoken in years came together to remember a mate - and more importantly, to reconnect with each other.
READ MORE:
Or CJ - a young woman who's taken on the industry in her own way and a champion on the road.
She's built a community online, opened up about grief and isolation - all while clocking thousands of kilometres a week in a road train. Her honesty struck me. She wasn't trying to be inspirational. She just wanted to tell it how it is.
There's no shortage of stories like theirs. And, most drivers just get on with it. They don't complain. They take pride in the job. But that doesn't mean it's easy.
From all the experiences and conversations I've had there's one thing that just keeps coming back to me: if every driver and warehouse worker in Australia hit pause tomorrow because they were mentally or physically cooked ... this country would stop. Dead in its tracks. That's how essential this workforce is.
If you're a truckie or warehouse worker reading this, I just want to say this: we see you. The work you do matters. And so does your health, especially your mental health.
And if you're not in the industry, but you pass a truckie on the road, maybe remember: they're not in your way. They're carrying the way forward. So give 'em a nod. Or better yet - the old arm pump. You never know what that little moment might mean.
And if you're ever out there, feeling the weight of the road, just know the Red Baron's still got his ears on.
"Breaker one-nine, this is the Red Baron. Anyone got their ears on?"
That was me - a kid in Melbourne's west, sitting in my bedroom, talking into a CB radio pretending I was halfway across the Nullarbor. I had no idea why I picked "Red Baron" as my handle. It just sounded cool. And when you're a kid in the '80s, that's all that mattered.
Back then, I'd sit in mates' cars or at home on my radio, just hoping to catch a truckie's voice coming through the static.
To me, they were the kings of the road. And if I ever got one to blast their airhorn after I did the arm pump? That was like getting a high-five from a rock star.
That feeling - that admiration for the men and women who spend their lives out on the road - never left me.
Working in live entertainment was no picnic. Long hours. Tight turnarounds. Big pressure to bump in, bump out, and somehow be ready to do it all again the next night. I was part of the crew setting up lights, fireworks - the whole show - for the biggest touring acts of the '90s. Guns N' Roses, Bon Jovi, U2. You name it.
Now and then, I'd get asked to jump in a truck and help move gear between cities - and I'll be honest, I loved it. Being behind the wheel, out on the road, part of something big. It scratched that itch I'd had since I was a kid.
But I wasn't doing it full time.
What hit me was seeing the drivers who were. Blokes rolling in from Perth or Brisbane, absolutely wrecked. I remember one guy so fried from the road, we practically had to peel him off the steering wheel. A few hours later, he was back in the cab, headed to the next gig.
That's when I realised - I was tired, sure. But these guys made me look like I'd been on smoko the whole time.
These days, I'm lucky enough to own a few trucks. I run a business that supplies trucks to film and TV sets, so I'm never far from a diesel engine.
And that means I've also become an employer of truck drivers who are the backbone of what we do.
They're part of a much bigger community: more than half a million Australians who work in transport, warehousing and logistics - many of them based in regional and remote areas where support services are scarce, but the pressure is just as heavy.
It's the biggest employer of men in the country. But it also ranks last for mental health.
That's not a coincidence.
The blokes and women I know who drive for a living work hard - often through the night, through long-haul stretches with barely a soul in sight.
You want to know what fatigue looks like? Watch someone roll in after 1200 kilometres and still have to unload, rest, and prep for the return leg. And somehow do it all again the next day.
The work doesn't just wear you out physically - it plays on your mind.
Drivers have told me that a small worry at home can become all-consuming after 10 hours alone in the cab.
With no one to talk to, your thoughts can spiral. That's the kind of pressure we're talking about here.
One bloke I know said he did an entire stretch between Brisbane and Dubbo without speaking a single word to another human. Just him and the road. That silence must be deafening.
I've heard stories that stick with you.
Like Eno - a truckie from Coffs Harbour who came frighteningly close to taking his life, only to be saved by a stranger he'd given his last possessions to.
Like many in the industry, it wasn't his first brush with suicide. Eno had lost two trucking mates in a matter of weeks.
After a close work friend took his life, Eno organised a convoy through town. He expected a handful of trucks to show up. He got 130. Drivers who hadn't spoken in years came together to remember a mate - and more importantly, to reconnect with each other.
READ MORE:
Or CJ - a young woman who's taken on the industry in her own way and a champion on the road.
She's built a community online, opened up about grief and isolation - all while clocking thousands of kilometres a week in a road train. Her honesty struck me. She wasn't trying to be inspirational. She just wanted to tell it how it is.
There's no shortage of stories like theirs. And, most drivers just get on with it. They don't complain. They take pride in the job. But that doesn't mean it's easy.
From all the experiences and conversations I've had there's one thing that just keeps coming back to me: if every driver and warehouse worker in Australia hit pause tomorrow because they were mentally or physically cooked ... this country would stop. Dead in its tracks. That's how essential this workforce is.
If you're a truckie or warehouse worker reading this, I just want to say this: we see you. The work you do matters. And so does your health, especially your mental health.
And if you're not in the industry, but you pass a truckie on the road, maybe remember: they're not in your way. They're carrying the way forward. So give 'em a nod. Or better yet - the old arm pump. You never know what that little moment might mean.
And if you're ever out there, feeling the weight of the road, just know the Red Baron's still got his ears on.
"Breaker one-nine, this is the Red Baron. Anyone got their ears on?"
That was me - a kid in Melbourne's west, sitting in my bedroom, talking into a CB radio pretending I was halfway across the Nullarbor. I had no idea why I picked "Red Baron" as my handle. It just sounded cool. And when you're a kid in the '80s, that's all that mattered.
Back then, I'd sit in mates' cars or at home on my radio, just hoping to catch a truckie's voice coming through the static.
To me, they were the kings of the road. And if I ever got one to blast their airhorn after I did the arm pump? That was like getting a high-five from a rock star.
That feeling - that admiration for the men and women who spend their lives out on the road - never left me.
Working in live entertainment was no picnic. Long hours. Tight turnarounds. Big pressure to bump in, bump out, and somehow be ready to do it all again the next night. I was part of the crew setting up lights, fireworks - the whole show - for the biggest touring acts of the '90s. Guns N' Roses, Bon Jovi, U2. You name it.
Now and then, I'd get asked to jump in a truck and help move gear between cities - and I'll be honest, I loved it. Being behind the wheel, out on the road, part of something big. It scratched that itch I'd had since I was a kid.
But I wasn't doing it full time.
What hit me was seeing the drivers who were. Blokes rolling in from Perth or Brisbane, absolutely wrecked. I remember one guy so fried from the road, we practically had to peel him off the steering wheel. A few hours later, he was back in the cab, headed to the next gig.
That's when I realised - I was tired, sure. But these guys made me look like I'd been on smoko the whole time.
These days, I'm lucky enough to own a few trucks. I run a business that supplies trucks to film and TV sets, so I'm never far from a diesel engine.
And that means I've also become an employer of truck drivers who are the backbone of what we do.
They're part of a much bigger community: more than half a million Australians who work in transport, warehousing and logistics - many of them based in regional and remote areas where support services are scarce, but the pressure is just as heavy.
It's the biggest employer of men in the country. But it also ranks last for mental health.
That's not a coincidence.
The blokes and women I know who drive for a living work hard - often through the night, through long-haul stretches with barely a soul in sight.
You want to know what fatigue looks like? Watch someone roll in after 1200 kilometres and still have to unload, rest, and prep for the return leg. And somehow do it all again the next day.
The work doesn't just wear you out physically - it plays on your mind.
Drivers have told me that a small worry at home can become all-consuming after 10 hours alone in the cab.
With no one to talk to, your thoughts can spiral. That's the kind of pressure we're talking about here.
One bloke I know said he did an entire stretch between Brisbane and Dubbo without speaking a single word to another human. Just him and the road. That silence must be deafening.
I've heard stories that stick with you.
Like Eno - a truckie from Coffs Harbour who came frighteningly close to taking his life, only to be saved by a stranger he'd given his last possessions to.
Like many in the industry, it wasn't his first brush with suicide. Eno had lost two trucking mates in a matter of weeks.
After a close work friend took his life, Eno organised a convoy through town. He expected a handful of trucks to show up. He got 130. Drivers who hadn't spoken in years came together to remember a mate - and more importantly, to reconnect with each other.
READ MORE:
Or CJ - a young woman who's taken on the industry in her own way and a champion on the road.
She's built a community online, opened up about grief and isolation - all while clocking thousands of kilometres a week in a road train. Her honesty struck me. She wasn't trying to be inspirational. She just wanted to tell it how it is.
There's no shortage of stories like theirs. And, most drivers just get on with it. They don't complain. They take pride in the job. But that doesn't mean it's easy.
From all the experiences and conversations I've had there's one thing that just keeps coming back to me: if every driver and warehouse worker in Australia hit pause tomorrow because they were mentally or physically cooked ... this country would stop. Dead in its tracks. That's how essential this workforce is.
If you're a truckie or warehouse worker reading this, I just want to say this: we see you. The work you do matters. And so does your health, especially your mental health.
And if you're not in the industry, but you pass a truckie on the road, maybe remember: they're not in your way. They're carrying the way forward. So give 'em a nod. Or better yet - the old arm pump. You never know what that little moment might mean.
And if you're ever out there, feeling the weight of the road, just know the Red Baron's still got his ears on.
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