Diet Coke, The Truth behind the Lawnmowing Man

It was my turn.

I was the newbie amongst the Parks and Gardens Team and my apprenticeship, or rather endless series of stupid and childish initiations , had seemed to take forever. I had been sent to get a left handed bucket by colleagues who found that almost as hilarious as my fruitless quest for rocking horse manure.

My initial tasks had been mindlessly menial, sweeping out the yard at the Park Compound, washing the vans and pick-up trucks, bagging up the bark chippings and logs for public sale, fetching sandwiches and running every sort of errand you could dream up from collecting dry cleaning to placing a bet on a horse.

Then, gradually I assumed greater responsibilities. I was entrusted with some of the smaller, hand operated equipment including the leaf-blower, the backpack mounted strimmer,  large scarifiers and the secateurs for the pruning of the small to medium sized ornamental trees for which our City Park was renowned.

My path into horticulture had been long and tortuous and perhaps, I admit, a bit of a cop-out from my original intentions in the sciences but even with a good class degree and reasonable inter-personal skills I had not been able to find meaningful employment in that sector.

I had always enjoyed being outdoors and I just sort of drifted into the Landscape Gardening scene following some vacation jobs doing labouring for a few companies in my home area. The decision to make Parks and Gardens my career was relatively easy and I took on some night school courses to get relevant qualifications.

So, here I was.

My workplace; amongst the greenspaces of the big City, my work clothes; just jeans, T'shirt and work boots, my workload; everything and anything to do with grass, plants, mulch, trees. bushes and flowers.

For the first time in my life I was genuinely happy and fulfilled. I felt that it could not get better but then again I had not had the pleasure of operating the Dennis Centurion Mower.

This piece of equipment looked a bit dated, after all it was just a lawn mower but in the hierarchy of mowing machines it was the equivalent of a thoroughbred, a heavy duty aggressive beast that just ate up the acres of grass leaving behind it a perfect stripe, regular and impressively rolled under its bulky weight.

The day that I saw my name on the work roster under 'Grass Cutting' was and always will be special to me.

I rushed over to the compound workshop to collect the Dennis.

It had just been stripped down and fully serviced so to be as good as new, even though it was a veteran of the Department. The mechanic, a wild eyed, scruffy almost eccentric looking individual ran through the specification and what he had been empowered to do over the last few weeks.

The running gear had been replaced with new manufacturer supplied parts. This extended to the ball bearings, sprockets, chains, blade, grass box and cables. I stood back in awe of this engineered marvel. The casing and superstructure glistened after a wipe over with an oily rag and the smell of WD40 and clutch oil were heady and evocative of a summers day.

The Kohler engine was a proven workhorse. It was purpose made to just idle for hours and then roar into life when the car type clutches were engaged for that extra power and for the cutting unit to bite into the unruly grass. I had heard a few urban myths about the brutal strength of the engine and transmission which, giving the Dennis its self propelled characteristics, had almost ripped the arms from the sockets of many an unprepared operator.

The flexible drive coupling was durable and functional but infinitely smooth and refined. The distinctive razor sharp cutting unit was made of special steel running on a set of grease lubricated ball bearings  and with the slip-clutch was easily capable of exceeding 70 cuts per minute.

All of this raw power was nothing without the sophistication of the front and rear rollers. At the front, a removeable unit, 6 bladed cutting cylinder and at the rear in a 3 piece cast iron with machine cut gear differential running in an oil bath.

The designer knew what he was doing with this marvellous creation but still had a sense of humour by building in the trademark opposed spiral which with the mower in motion produced a mesmeric impression amongst the impressed onlookers. A fairground attraction in its own right.

I started up immediately from the workshop with the cutters retracted so that I did not churn and chew up the gravel dressed pathways leading to the lawned areas of the main public park.

It was about 1pm and a few couples were arranged like sardines on the grass, others were sat on the bench seating taking lunch and up on the crest of the slope I saw a group of female office workers enjoying the sunshine and a brief respite from commerce.

My audience blurred into the scenery as I was completely engrossed in my grass cutting with the pride, the flagship of Dennis Centurion Mowers. It was swift and seamless work but in the heat of the midday also quite tiring and sweat inducing.

The horizontally arranged lovers wisely moved away, lunchers munched on and I caught, in the corner of my eye, some animation amongst the cluster of ladies. They were, I was flattered to see, ogling me. I did flaunt and flirt a bit in overemphasising the sweeps and turns at the end of each rolled length of that stretch of the Civic space.

The machine became an extension of my body.

At my closest passing to the excited ladies I noticed that one of them, egged on by the others, had rolled a soft drink can down the hill towards me. This had happened to me before with lazy park users expecting me to deposit their litter in the bin for them. This always annoyed me but I always behaved as the model City employee and would duly collect up and dispose of the rubbish.

This time, however, the can was moving at some speed indicating that it was full.

I half feared an attempted assault and slowed my pace so as not to be physically struck by the projectile. With horror I realised that I had been selfish and the whirling spiral of the Dennis was under threat of being struck with the full force of the 330ml aluminium encased carbonated drink.

I intercepted it before it could do any damage but in picking it up the flimsy can exploded and showered me with the unpleasantly warm, sticky liquid. To onlookers it may have seemed like one of those dramatic, slow motion eruptions so favoured in film and television but it was actually just an unpleasant experience.

Fearing for my favourite daily use T shirt I hastily pulled it off and cautiously wrung the oozing solution out as best I could without affecting the 100% cotton fabric.

There was no sound from the previously rowdy group of ladies and I put this down to their embarrassment of disrupting the labours of an honest and hard working man.

I did not want to create a scene and so, with only the briefest of back glances in their direction I made my way to the Depot in anticipation of many more hours at the controls of the Dennis Centurion Mower.

It was , to me better than sex.