Back then it was a time when a group of like minded individuals were discovering the activities and friends which would accompany them through life. Over the years this small group varied slightly but there was one whose presence remained constant, and she was made of steel. This is a short story about times shared in a blue metal box, it is a story about a van, ol’ Blue.
Blue was a Renault Traffic high-top. 6 up with kit – and kit was something we were not short of – the one thing we needed above all else was space, and space was the one thing Blue was not short of. Ok, Blue was slow and thirsty but we were in no hurry. With just 1600 horses under the bonnet she was underpowered but it wasn’t the power that interested us. Blue had to transport us the 486 miles from Cambridge to Aviemore and back again, what difference does a couple of hours make? Our needs were more than taken care of.
The trips had started when we were still in sixth form college. We were already climbing on rock and decided that we wanted to broaden our experience onto snow and ice; the new year trips began. Blue certainly looked the part; she had blackened rear and side windows, she was fitted out with racking and a false floor you could sleep under. Jim had wired up a sound system with four outputs which curiously amplified the indicators and yes, she was blue. Blue was a true utility vehicle before MPV became fashionable, she was the key to living some dreams, a blank book in which we could write our own little piece of history. That first night Ol’ Blue rolled triumphantly out onto Grange Road, and the six pairs of eyes peering out through the giant window screen, turned to face the north star.
We usually made the journey over night because the roads were clear and it just seemed more magical that way. With four drivers we could split the journey into manageable shifts. Adam, who had somehow missed driving school found his space between one of several large duffle bags. With a book in one hand, a personal stereo in the other whilst sound asleep he quickly mastered long distance travel. Did Adam pass these journeys in suspended animation? we wouldn’t have put it past him. The rest of us took it in turns to drive, control the heating and change the stereo. Dad was the long distance driver, he would take over when the rest of us had run out of Pringles and joined Adam in the land of nod. It would happen just south of Perth, without fail, however hard we tried to resist. We would regain consciousness rolling past Blair Atholl. The sunrise always looked good, I swear it even gave ol’ Blue joy. Since watching Roland Polanskis Macbeth I have been convinced there are some strange spirits hanging out over these hills.
If the journey had been that smooth then ol’ Blue would have just been another blue van and there would have been nothing to write about. But Blue was not exactly a team player. Blue was stubborn, like she had mule blood flowing through her veins or something.
The first time she dug her shoes in was somewhere north of the Scotch Corner. It was a good winter and snow was already piled up high along the side of the road. It was cold, but we were half way to the mountains, happy and warm in blues belly. It wasn’t long after that we were on the side of the M6, cold with our heads craned under her bonnet. Blue had stopped. Fuel, check. Current, check. But we weren’t moving. Waiting, listening for a beat, some sign of life, six pairs of eyes peered towards the north star.
“I don’t know when I am coming back, it depends on how I am feeling.” We started to resent her. “Oh sad eyes, the night is long. Are you cold and tired now?” She did start again, but I doubt it had little to do with our interventions. We tried to fool her, we drove her slow, we drove her fast. We revved the accelerator, but all in vain. There was just no predicting when Blue would stop. No sense and no order. We didn’t know it then but the pattern had been set for the subsequent years. We were at the mercy of a machine and a long way from anywhere we wanted to be.
Little by little our relationship with Blues internals became more intimate. Over the years many skilled and not so skilled hands tried to locate her cancer. For a long time the finger of doubt was firmly pressed upon the alternator. I think it was the RAC who first suggested this shortly after the A74 fuel filter conspiracy.
I am sure Blue enjoyed being the centre of attention, the bigger the drama the better. Nick would get quite excited at times, like the time the police escorted us the wrong way up a fly over. We shot more minutes of video in ol’ Blue than we ever did on the hill. It was dark, smelly and moody. The sound track remained consistent from year to year. REM, Big Pig, Pink Floyd, Gary Moore and Midnight Oil all had a regular spot. On one occasion whilst waiting for the brave knights of the road it was Jim who chanced upon Blues own musical potential. The air duct, he discovered, formed an effective trumpet and her shell was a good tin drum. The accompaniments were provided by the other instruments we carried on the road, harmonica and castanets, and we would jam to raise spirits and to keep warm. It was part of the deal.
On one short lived trip we got as far as Huntingdon before ol’ Blue pulled up lame. With just 15 miles covered Scotland remained a distant dream. If the RAC had bought us a new van they could have saved themselves some dough. We were lost in time and riding on the back of a break down truck again. Doc Evans resolved to transplant ol’ Blues alternator with the one out of Nicks little Citroen AX. Standing side by side they looked like chalk and cheese but Jim didn’t waste an excuse to get his tools out and slide under the hood. He was there a long time but couldn’t swing it, we were house bound for another night.
98′ was one cold old winter and poor ol’ Blue actually froze. On this occasion we actually felt some sympathy for her. She had been sitting just outside Johns place freezing to death right under our noses; there must have been a solid block of ice running through her heart. Despite Adams sweet talking and repeated push start attempts to try and grind away the ice she wasn’t going anywhere. We pre-booked our rescue truck and got on with the holiday.
We thought that was the end of Blue, we really did. Blue was gutted, her flesh and bones lay in the yard. It looked pretty terminal, her chances a million to one. The trips came to an end, but not entirely attributed to Blues demise, we were just going our separate ways. Blue was still in the family and in fact she did get back on the road. I guess dad had more faith in her than we did, but her days were numbered, she took up space in the drive.
And so that was Blue.