Time to introduce myself on this site and probably best with where it started for me - though it will sound very familiar to many.
Yep, I too grew up on a farm - in my case the south of Ireland where it rains 160 days of the year. No shortage of mud
I was about 10 when the annual harvest reached its peak, end of August/early September and the local Farmers Coop trucks began to arrive to cart off the sacks of barley and wheat for storage and milling. Living in a remote area, not a lot going on, I couldn’t wait to see the line of trucks pouring through the farm gates. Nearly always old red Bedford diesels they were driven by guys in their 50’s, tough as nails with little time for youngsters like myself. But I was always fascinated by the big tyres, the growl of the noisy engines and the sweet smell of the exhaust pumping from their big, big exhausts and I followed their every move, dreaming that one day I might drive one of them.
Then one day, out of the blue, Rory, one of the drivers decided to bring his son along to help with the loading -I had never seen him before - a strapping 5-11 lad, 16-17 I guessed - with a big shock of curly red hair. As soon as they got off the road onto the farm lane way, Rory jumped down from the cabin, shouting to his son in the helper’s seat “take her away, Denis, its about time you learned to drive her”. Denis gave a broad smile and “are you sure, Dad?” a thumbs up, leapt across into the driver’s seat and started gunning the engine with his big, muddy hobnail boot. Soon there was loud grating from the gearbox, and more grating from the gearbox but and after a few stalls (with ever louder roars from the engine and smoke belching from the exhaust in front of the rear right wheel) the old Bedford lurched up the lane way into the field.
The field had by now, after several days of trucking, become badly dug up and, as luck would have it, Denis drove straight along the deepest rut making about 100 yards before he braked to check something with his father who was walking beside me, behind the truck. The rest you can guess - he couldn’t get it to move. The rear wheels began to spin, and spin, mud flying, grating gears, and Denis getting more and more frustrated, embarrassed to be stuck in front of an audience of 10 workers, other drivers and helpers. He began to gun the engine harder and harder - rocking back and forth in the rut. Infatuated with the scene, I ran up beside the drivers cab and as I got there, Denis opened the cab door to look behind at the rear wheel to see if there was anything blocking forward movement. “For fuck sake, Denis, will you give it some of your boot” the father roared, we can’t stay here all day. I thought i saw a smile forming on Dennis’ face and he got to work. My head was just at the height of his boot on the pedal and I stood mesmerised as he floored the shit outa it, fast, slow, harder and harder, playing with the clutch with his other boot. Thick white smoke from the spinning tyre now mixed with the swirling cloud of grey smoke belching from the exhaust. The engine roared and screamed and soon I began to feel the heat rising from it with wisps of steam coming out of the front grille. I became aware of my heart racing faster and faster, an anxious thrill enveloping my whole body and a strange exciting feeling in my groin which grew and grew as that gorgeous young hunk was blooded as a novice driver and spinner. God, how I would have loved to have been up there beside him, my foot on that gorgeous pedal, sharing our aggression towards the stubborn fucking truck, making it suffer until it surrendered to our will.
After about five minutes it came to an end. Rory, worried that his engine might explode, roared over the noise and squealing tyres “enough, enough, enough Denis; come down here and let me deal with this”, ordering one of the farmhands to go find two planks of wood and my father to bring the Massy Ferguson tractor to pull him out.
Denis, covered in sweat, his face as red as a tomato under his gorgeous red hair, jumped out of the cab, crestfallen. One of the younger farm workers, who seemed to know him came over and offered him a cigarette which he almost dragged back in one, single, relieving drag. I did all I could, walked over and gave him a few comforting friendly pats on the back. As he looked down on me with a big toothy smile little did he realise that he had given me a scene that I would play over night after night for the rest of my life, wanking myself off to sleep - a converted stuckman, revver and mechaphile. I miss those days on the farm
