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The Advertiser
2 days ago
- Automotive
- The Advertiser
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.
Winnipeg Free Press
03-05-2025
- Winnipeg Free Press
Tails of exploration
Preparing to travel, I opened my luggage and swivelled for pyjamas. Turning back, the suitcase was packed — with Pirate, our Jack Russell Terrier. When taking out the luggage, Pirate stormed the door, the gate and, at the vehicle, just couldn't resist repeatedly bouncing up off the ground — boing-de-boing-de-boing. Whether they're born travellers or just stalking food-providers, eager mutts like Pirate exhilarate road trips. I offer some tales and tips. As a frenzied life force, Pirate increasingly insisted he serve as our co-pilot. Attentively perched on the vehicle's console, he nonetheless proved unreliable. Turn-signal clicks, changes to speed and road surface or roadside dogs and cats deranged him and he filled the car with himself. White hairs fused to our clothes so folks across the street could see we were dog people. Ensure those handy lint rollers are in handy places. Margaret Mackintosh / Free Press Gord Mackintosh and his trusted co-pilot Pirate cruise along a calm stretch of Highway 2 in southwestern Manitoba. We learned that Pirate's quiet stares meant quick stops. And we learned to put poo bags in cup holders, purses, pouches and pockets. Likewise, any empty bags. Tim Hortons' drive-thru lanes triggered Pirate's jitters, heightened after Steinbach's dog-loving servers handed him a free Timbit. It vanished in one gulp. He then thrust his nose into my face for my Timbit. And with that nose, Pirate regularly smeared vehicle windows with translucent swirls and swoops — relaying encoded messages to the aliens who sent him here. Left alone, Pirate often activated the four-way flashers. He once endlessly laid on the horn waiting outside a pet-food store, but considering his anticipation, we understood. And one afternoon we momentarily left him in the car with Bulk Barn jujubes Margie tied into a plastic bag, and then into another plastic bag. But Pirate chewed the plastic and gobbled each jujube (maybe 40) — and even the black ones, to really upset Margie. He was fine though, at least better than when he swallowed a darning needle, confirmed by X-rays, that he managed to poop out embedded in an earplug. Before a family road trip, I finished up a watermelon by generously feeding it to Pirate. With five in the vehicle, a dastardly smell later engulfed us. Seeing no emitters across the horizon, we blamed each other. No one confessed. (I never do.) The stench returned. Despite Pirate's ploy to appear innocent, I heard repeatedly from the kids, 'Ooohh, Pirate!' We deduced: excessive watermelon. I filled the car with gas, alright. Yes, we were the ones, swerving and shrieking with windows jolting up and down, heads intermittently poking out. Gord Mackintosh / Free Press It was Pirate versus the Red Baron at Arnes. Service animals aside, hotels post wildly varying canine policies. These require scrutiny. We once saw a sign saying, 'Pet free.' Margie exclaimed, 'Pets are free!' Another confusing sign for road-weary passing travellers, like me said, 'No pet fee.' Some pet-friendly hotels offer dog beds and treats, but allow only small dogs or just one pooch. Most require damage deposits from around $10, daily. We found a hotel charging $75 per stay up to seven days and a $250 'undisclosed pet fee.' Charging for hiding pets is not uncommon though. Front-desk staff must have stories, like hearing 'No, this is our son in the stroller. Needs a shave, eh? Droolie, leave your hat on!' Hotel policies may stipulate you are not allowed to leave dogs unattended. This restricts your freedom to roam when dogs can't remain in a vehicle on hot days or when the hotel pool beckons. Some hotels let dogs be left in a guest room only if kennelled. Housekeepers must have stories too, like 'I… I opened their door and, oh, it was awful — awful! Out of nowhere it sprung! I need another duster, eyeglass lens, fresh underwear.' When leaving rooms without Pirate, we diverted his attention by tossing treats. He apparently behaved. We found him napping on familiar scent — even a lone sock — or curled up in a suitcase. But Carman's Blue Crescent Hotel called us to say that Pirate was barking. We swiftly returned. Some of the treats we tossed him had rolled under low furniture. Borderline animal cruelty. Gord Mackintosh / Free Press Pirate enjoys a very stable canoe trip at Bakers Narrows. Some stores allow leashed dogs. Among them, many require they be carried. Restaurants increasingly offer pooch-friendly patios. Beausejour's Airliner Drive In offers a dog menu including The Hellcat which features bite-sized morsels of beef or chicken. And dog-friendly pubs are also becoming common. We discovered taprooms where quiet dogs peacefully mingle with growlers. Sightseeing with canines guarantees folks will chat you. That's lovely if you enjoy endless narratives about someone else's dog (and you do if you've read this far). Plus, energetic dogs compel you to exercise while hoofing it to unfamiliar places, like when we frantically pursued Pirate and his red leash as he chased a rabbit across a busy road into the bushes. Some dogs don't mix well with water. Pirate anxiously avoided lakes, but when family members swam, he leapt into action to 'save' them. When canoeing, he thankfully stood motionless. However, in a motorboat, Pirate whined with a strange sound — something like 'Don't wanna. Don't wanna.' After treats, he joined Canada's fishing community. Vacations mean ice cream. Shops might offer doggie delights — for free — and once the server is out of sight, you can enjoy the whole delicious scoop and Milk-Bone for yourself. Kidding! I don't care for Milk-Bones. The only thing that could take Pirate's place would be a monkey and a standup comedian. RIP, beloved co-pilot. Gord Mackintosh / Free Press Pinawa's Ice Cream Shop proves dogs know their ice cream. gordmackintosh9@ Margaret Mackintosh / Free Press Pirate surveys the hills… or is there a squirrel out there? Gord Mackintosh / Free Press Pirate enjoys a dog-day afternoon at Nestor Falls.
