“He was out of the truck and pounding towards me ….. “
Wednesday, November 5th, 2008
ONE of Steven Spielberg’s first films and still his best is Duel (1971). Hardly a word of dialogue interrupts a soundtrack of the roars and hissings of a giant diesel as the unseen driver of a filthy tanker does his best to kill a bloke driving a little red car across a desert highway.
I write these words still shaken by last night’s re-enactment of a favourite film on the New England Highway. It wasn’t so much fun in real life. And my duel was with a far bigger truck - one of those 36-wheelers with an extra trailer. Where Spielberg’s monster was dark and oil-stained, my nocturnal nemesis was bright and white with blue canvas along its sides but like the cinematic original it had no markings. I’d just passed a dozen Linfox semis in an orderly convoy, a couple of Woolies’ brand-named behemoths and a clearly addressed Australia Post. But my roaring, trumpeting, headlight-beaming bully was ominously anonymous.
Nor did I ever see its licence plates. Despite an hour in dangerous proximity as the truck tailgated me at 20, 30, 40ks over the limit. Horns blaring, lights flashing, often inches behind me. The script departed from Duel’s in that I finally got a close-up view - far too close - of the driver. I could pick him out in a line-up.
Sydney to the bush. I’ve made the trip at least once a week for 25 years. Close to a million kilometres up and down a road I know too well. I leave Sydney just before midnight, hit the cot around 3am. Much later if slowed by bad weather - fog’s a recurrent problem - or the endless highway repairs. The only competition for the road is the interstate haulers heading for Brisbane.
In the bad old days when the roads were far worse, that competition could get intense - even murderous. This was the era of the pill-popping cowboys using US-style radio call-signs when warning each other of cops ahead. On a few occasions a doped-up driver would signal that it was safe to pass - and I’d pull out to see a semi hurtling towards me. You learned to drive suspiciously and defensively.
But with the steady extension of the freeway and some industry clean-ups it became much safer. I’ve got to know a few of the drivers when getting food or fuel at the truck stops. We discuss their tyrannies of distance, the pressures of soaring diesel prices and demanding employers. Those pressures clearly got to the bloke last night.
It started between Singleton and Muswellbrook on the stretch between the coalmines and the power stations. My mistake? To observe the speed limits. (I don’t want to lose more points.) Suddenly he was inches behind me, road-raging at 110kmh. I couldn’t escape him. No hope of pulling off the highway and no matter how fast I drove he’d up the ante. Despite any number of four-lane stretches and passing lanes he didn’t pass. He wanted to crush me - or send me careering off the road. This went on for over 30 minutes - and it wasn’t until we hurtled into Muswellbrook that I managed to do a wheelie into a street leading to a shopping centre. Not just in hope of escape but with the intention of returning to the highway, getting behind him, reading his number plate and calling the cops.
But after a few seconds calming down I saw that he, too, had stopped. Blocking both lanes of the side road with his monster. And he was out of the truck and pounding towards me, a monster in his own right. And what was that he was brandishing?
I threw another u-ey and did a slalom run back to the New England where I was forced to drive on the wrong side of a divided highway, rocketing along in a 60kmh area. Hoping, just this once, to hear police sirens. I called out to some startled road-workers - get his number! - but I doubt they did.
The race resumed. Actually two races - the other against a coal train. This was pure Spielberg. My only hope of escape was to get across the railway line near home … but a coal train more than a kilometre in length was fast approaching. If it got to the crossing first, I’d be trapped. Remember the scene in the movie? The black truck pushing the helpless car onto the tracks? Skidding and sliding, I made it over the crossing with seconds to spare, the warning signals already flashing.
The truckie couldn’t have known the age, gender or skills of the car driver. He had to be high on amphetamines. Perhaps someone reading this will know who he is, or identify his truck. Can’t have been too many white 36-wheelers with blue canvas sides heading for Brisbane at 2 in the morning.
Thomas
