We were cruising just fine, until a problem came up.
The van’s engine,
until then our must trusted ally in the fight against Achieving
Nothing, was sputtering, groaning, and cutting out at random
intervals. Its glitchiness started just as we entered London—as if
the four wheeled veteran had made an effort to wait for the best time
to finally admit its frailty but, in a case of combustibilia
nervosa, was guilty of a gross miscalculation.
Sometimes on failure
the engine would burst into life, and roar, bringing us smiles of
relief. Sometimes it would crank and its tones would veer up and
down, like a hoover singing a Christina Aguilera song. Sometimes,
after the engine cut out, we found ourselves riding a large, yellow,
four-wheeled rock.
This blog entry
tells of the first time we drifted over to the side of the road.
We got everything
started again, and, making decisions on what to do, approached
Blackwall Tunnel. If you’re not familiar, Blackwall Tunnel is a
long...tunnel, with no place to pull over. Tons of traffic makes its
way through it every hour of every day.
There were stories
about people who had broken down in there, causing tailbacks for
miles and grinding half the city to a halt. These stories hit the
whole of London. Some wanker’s broken down in Blackwall
Tunnel...
It was rush hour,
and after numerous delays we were running late for our gig at OSLO. We had to risk
getting all the way through. Cars were piled up on either side of us,
trailing down into the dark entrance. The opening scrutinised us like
an eye. It scowled. It knew what we were up to.
‘That’s the
point of no return...are we sure we’re going to do this?’
To our left was the
final turn-off before all traffic was funnelled into the black by a
hundred signs.
‘We don’t want
to be the ****’s who break down in the tunnel.’
‘How long will it
take us to get around to another crossing?’
Phone’s were
whipped out. Sat-navs smashed with sweaty palms.
‘In this traffic?
About forty-five minutes to get there, and then we’ll have to get
to the venue from there aswell.’
‘Right. I
guess we don’t have a choice, then.’
And then the engine
died.
‘Oh no...’
We drifted forward a
few feet, restarted the engine, and scarpered off the main road on
the last turn-off, out of everybody’s way, to pull over, spend five
minutes on our lives, and make a decision.
Everybody had
something to say. Six people all trying to figure out whether they
themselves were stupid. Who was the most wrong person here? What’s
the gamble? What’s the here and there? How long to wait for a fix?
How long to take an alternative route? Do we run the same risk
whatever we do? How late can we afford to be? What’s sunk? What’s
up?
We are, when it
suits us, a democracy.
Four votes to two:
we go through the tunnel.
Ed’s arms are
folded.
I’m jumping around
the cabin.
‘You just have to
believe, Ed. We’re all on board. If you don’t
believe, then it falls apart. If we all do it, we’ll make it
through. Trust me. That’s how it works.’
‘It doesn’t
though, does it?’
‘No. But YES!
DO IT ANYWAY. FEEL IT. BELIEVE IT. COME ON!’
‘It’s an engine,
Tim. An engine that’s going to get us into trouble.’
I believed in that
engine, and I believed in my bandmates.
We turned onto the
main road again, ready for the great eye to take us in like a tiny
photon, indeterminate, of unknown status, either a particle of
success or a wave of unmitigated failure. Breakdown inside the eye
will mean the gig is off, and London stops.
We passed the point
of no return.
‘COME ON!’ We
all chanted. Ed rested his head on one arm.
‘She’s been fine
since we last started her,’ Trewin said. He revved the engine and
it purred.
The traffic slowed
as four lanes merged to two.
COME ON.
Once the lanes had
merged, there was space. The traffic kept moving at a steady pace.
The entrance to the tunnel moved over us like an eclipse, and from
then on it was all concrete, tiled artery and grim, artificial
roadside light.
Ed clenched his
fist. He was silent.
The rest of us
shouted.
‘COME ON! WOO!
WE CAN DO IT!’
And we all believed
into our bellies and we all starting singing football chants. There
were three things to the experience: the doors of the lorry in front
of us; the ochre warp of the tunnel walls passing on each side; and
the sound and sensation of song and will in that cabin, driving us
forward. We were already at the end, tasting victory. We had already
succeeded. We were over on the sweet otherside, in the sun, nowhere
to go but forwards in every direction. There was no questioning it.
We had the sheer volume of voices on our side. We had taken
our gamble, together, and we had won.
But we hadn’t.
Yet. The tunnel was a long, and soon my throat cracked. Nothing
changed. We saw no progress. After a few minutes, the white lorry,
moving at the same speed at us, appeared static—a square void
hovering in focus. The tunnel walls no longer passed in blurs but
were blurs, like paintings. It had all turned to simulation;
film set. Now our songs served not only to take us above the river
where we could breathe but also to make the inside of this cabin
real. We asserted not only our beliefs but the existence
of those beliefs. We made ourselves real and looked at each other
with doubts about our destination. We had fallen victim to bravado
and brain chemistry. What were we doing? We kept singing, up
and down. We should have called for help. The engine stayed
smooth, but we faltered. We're not going to make it, are we? We
were lost, on a path with only one road...
And then the pitch
of light changed, from pub-tooth yellow to pearlish white, around the
outside of the white lorry that now looked dirty and real.
‘YES!’
‘COME OON!’
‘VINDALOO...VINDALOO...’
The traffic stopped
and we could see the ridges of the tunnel’s round exit.
‘I can’t believe
we’ve done it.’
The traffic moved
again and we moved off.
And then, twenty
metres shy of the tunnel's exit, the van’s engine went dead.
‘NOOO!’
We cranked the thing
and pumped the gas as the white lorry sped away from us. We drifted
forwards shiftlessly, like a piece of debris lost and aimless in
space. We chanted and hollered at the engine, at the world…
‘There’s a big
guy behind us,’ said Trewin.
And the big guy
blew his horn as we slowed:
PPPHHHHPHRPRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRP.
Which echoed down
the tunnel.
‘...Christ.’
We were almost to a
standstill, losing all momentum. Cars were slipping by us on our
right, with ease.
COME ON.
We all shouted at
the top of our lungs, cajoling each other and ourselves.
Ed shifted forward
in his seat, an energetic smile on his face, completely in the throes
of a new emotion.
Other cars were
beeping around us.
The van stood still.
Trewin cranked the engine.
‘Alright! I
believe! I believe!' said Ed, 'We can do it! Come on, Buttercup!’
Our van is called
Buttercup.
And we all called
her name at the top of our lungs.
...
POWER.
And we roared out of
the tunnel, almost rearing on our back wheels, beeping our horn.
Trewin threw his arm out the window, clenching his fist, and the big
guy behind us, a huge metal tanker, blew his horn again, short and
repeating along with us. We caught up to the traffic and settled in
the London evening light, ten minutes away from OSLO.
We arrived on time,
and, as the venue had no lift, carried our gear up six flights of
stairs in silence.
Tim
P.S. The album
will be done. We have a date. What that date means, we do not
know. Whether we get there in time depends on whether we can will
ourselves across the river to the other side of the tunnel. Eh? Eh? Do you see?
