I borrowed a mate’s ute. And it changed me.
It changed a lot of things for that few hours, because borrowing a mate’s ute is the quintessential thing for Australians to do.
I’m not normally overly parochial. Proud, definitely. But I’m not one to throw up the national flag and wear blue thongs on Australia Day.
At this point, I should clarify that the reason for taking the white trayback wasn’t to move house. I’ve been friends with this guy for some time, and I’m dead-set certain he’d have told me where to stick the keys if I asked him for a loan of the ute to move house.
We’ve played lawn bowls together, and he’s a technician on the green. Off it, he’s just blunt. And as anyone with a ute will tell you, they’re not about being taken advantage of.
My car was suffering a little heat stroke. The ignition wasn’t cooperating, so I had to take it to the doctor for an examination of sorts.
After Wanda dropped me at the club, my friend began to rib me about being a mummy’s boy. I told him the unfortunate story of the ignition, and finished with a tale of woe which would prevent me from picking up a key lock at Bunnings the following day.
He’s the type of guy who’ll empathise with that sort of thing.
“You know what?” he says.
“I’ve got a couple of hours on the couch in front of the footy tomorrow. You’re just around the corner, so come around and I’ll throw you the keys to my ute. You can pick up your key lock and … well … happy days, my friend.”
His generosity came as a welcome surprise, but it seemed genuine so I took him up on his offer.
Now, I’ve been to Bunnings before. In a sedan.
Nobody looks at you, unless you’re about to back into their tow bar. Those in the timber yard will carry stock within centimetres of your car, just to give you a fright.
Because, in a sedan, you’re not one of the crew. You’re just an old man on a shopping trip, venturing into someone else’s territory.
They’re like sharks, and I’m like the surfer taking refuge in their environment. And I can tell you now, I’m no Mick Fanning so at no point would I have even thought to start throwing punches.
I creep in, buy my bag of potting mix and a 300ml bottle of aphid killer. I’m can’t even lay claim to being a real gardener by buying one of those big spray machines you wear on your back and fill with over-concentrated concentrate.
On this occasion however, I’m parading the driveway with my mitts wrapped around the steering wheel of tradie wheels, complete with tool kit sitting just behind the rear window.
I wish I’d taken Wags with me to share the experience. But I didn’t, so here I was getting looks like we’d all been at a nightclub the night before. Everyone knew the story, but nobody was going to break their silence.
No waves or hollers. Just the odd eyebrow raised by my ute-driving peers. A scratch of the eye, a raise of the top left lip. Not a nod, but a raising of the head beyond 90 degrees in acknowledgement that I was one of them.
If they’d seen what I was buying, they’d have gone back to their miserable ways, but for now it was “Fight Club” and everyone knows the first rule of Fight Club.
Okay, maybe I’d painted this picture in my head which didn’t really exist. But I wanted so badly for it to be real.
For a brief moment in my life I felt tough. Like someone who sweated 40 hours a week for a living, drank chocolate milk for breakfast and ate sausage rolls for morning tea before whistling the blue heeler to the back of the tray and wandering home for an early shower.
And it felt good. All because I felt the part. A hard-working Australian, putting in a hard day’s work.
Wanda, when we trade in the sedan, do you think we could get a ute? Comfort, you say? Maybe my mate will let me borrow it more often.
