Next day, we drove past many Nevada gold mines along the interstate. Nevada gold mines are one of the largest sources of gold in the world. Seventy-nine percent of all the gold mined in the United States comes from the mines of Nevada.[19]
Having never been in this part of the country, I was basking in the beauty of the west. The California wine country was breathtakingly gorgeous, but the hills were slow and tedious in a truck hauling over 40,000 pounds. The downside of seeing all these beautiful sights was the lack of time to stop and enjoy them in all their glory. We were truckers—not tourists.
I had a near miss at our first stop-off location in Mountain View, California when I ran up on another vehicle too fast and had to slam the brakes. It was the first time I had caused Brian to scream, “Oh shit! Look out!” Fortunately, I avoided disaster and apologized to Brian as he checked his pulse, and I checked my pants.
By this time, I was convinced that Brian was the right trainer for me. Aside from the previous event, he was laid-back, calm, and offered constant encouragement. For instance, when I got tense in preparation for a tight backing maneuver, he stopped me for a moment and said something like: “Rick, you have the ability to do this; you just have to believe you can do it.”
Over the past few weeks, having witnessed other drivers struggle with backing in docks and at truck stops, I saw that I was actually better than some of them. However, I still could not seem to get past a foreboding sense of dread when I had to do it. Brian assured me that the fear would pass with time. I hoped he was right.
When we arrived at our customer in Mountain View, Brian wanted me to park behind the building for the night since the client would not accept delivery until the next morning. In order to point the trailer toward the dock, I had to pull out into the busy street, back up, and turn around while Brian placed cones on the road and played the role of faux traffic cop to deter traffic during the precarious maneuver. I managed to pull it off, but it was a nerve-wracking experience.
Mountain View is one of the major cities that make up Silicon Valley, [20] but I would not have known this by virtue of our spending the night in an alley there. When we were settled, Brian unveiled his travel stove to play the role of chef, and I got out of the truck to perform my Ten Dollar Workout. I had purchased a silly set of bungee cords, for ten dollars, which was laughingly called an "Ultimate Travel Gym." Despite feeling like an idiot for paying ten bucks for something that probably cost no more than fifty cents to manufacture, it was better than nothing. Staying fit on the road is a tall order for anyone, but I was determined to try.
Next morning, I backed into the dock when the receiving crew arrived and went inside to forage for a badly-needed cup of coffee. Our next stop-off was in Redwood City, California before going to our final destination in Foster City. I would dub this Hell Day because I had to perform two blindside backs along with three other backing maneuvers in very tight quarters. I was worn out by day’s end, and Brian said he was going to start calling me “Blindside.” I was happy to have seen the Bay area for the first time, but I was ready to get out of California and start heading home. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that Brian was also a cat lover who had three of his own. He invited me to bring Kitty along the next time we got to Scottsboro, so I was eager to get home and rescue my feline friend from her solitude.
As I lamented over my inconsistency in backing, Brian shared a story of when he accidentally turned into a residential area and was forced to attempt circling the block to get out. As he navigated the narrow street and fought to avoid tearing down stop signs and fire hydrants, he was unable to steer clear of a lilac bush in someone’s yard. As his drive tires mangled the lilac bush, a little old blue-haired lady toddled toward his truck with fire in her eyes, and a broom clutched firmly in her hands. With a fury that belied her age, she angrily swatted at Brian’s truck with the broom as she screamed, “No trucks allowed! No trucks allowed!” Despite Brian’s efforts to assure the lady that he was doing his best to exit the premises, she continued the relentless attack on his truck and maintained her insistence that there were “No trucks allowed!”
He told of another time when he awakened abruptly from the sleeper berth with an unsettling sensation that the truck was rolling. In the frenzy of his mad scramble to the cab, he did not realize it when he snagged his underwear on a protruding object. As the fog of slumber evaporated, he discovered that he was standing there wearing nothing but his birthday suit. His next discovery was that a woman with a poodle on a leash had witnessed the entire event, and stood frozen in front of his truck wearing a wanton smile.
I think that everyone who has done this job has had a share of sticky and embarrassing moments. I have already had a few of my own.
Mercifully, Brian took over driving after Foster City because he knew I had been through the wringer. We picked up a load in West Sacramento and dropped it in Stockton. Then, we were off to Santa Clara and Fontana. I thought we would never get out of California, but we then got a load going to Menomonee Falls, Wisconsin. This would not take us past Scottsboro but, at least, it would get us headed back east.
We spent the next two days driving in the mountains and on the winding roads of Nevada, Arizona, and Colorado. We shut down at the Lincoln terminal on the third night where I called Rita again to check on Merlin. He had regained consciousness, but the fate of his mutilated ankle was still undetermined. The blow to his head had also prompted some memory loss. Rita told me that Merlin didn’t even remember who I was.
We made it to Menomonee Falls on the fourth night and the docking maneuver, once again, would require a blindside approach. With Brian’s help, old "Blindside" got the job done once again. After making the delivery the next morning, we got a load going to Fairburn, Georgia. This would finally allow me to stop by the house and get Kitty. I had a new lease on life now!
When I got home, Kitty’s food dishes were empty and her water bowl was dry. I was none too happy with the twelve-year-old caretaker to whom I had entrusted this duty. I still paid the boy what I had promised, but his excuse that he’d lost the key did little to assuage my annoyance. I resolved that if I ever needed another cat-sitter, it would be a responsible adult.
None of that mattered now as Kitty was on board with us as we headed out for Fairburn, then Indianapolis and North Carolina. From there, we got a load going back to Ogden, Utah where Brian would take home time again. I would not be going that far though. The company sent word that my truck was waiting for me at the terminal in Cheyenne, Wyoming. My time with Brian was almost over. It was time to go solo again.
Week 22: Tastes Like Chicken!
Brian and I got to the terminal in Cheyenne on Wednesday. Brian assisted me in making the transition into my bright red Freightliner, and then it was time to part ways. I thanked him for being a good trainer and promised to stay in touch, and then he was off. Before leaving, he suggested I stay at the terminal overnight and postpone telling dispatch that I was ready for a load until the next morning. This seemed like a good idea. I needed to get a shower and pick up a few supplies from the nearby truck stop anyway. The only supplies I had were what I had brought along in a sea bag. I had no CB radio, no food…no anything. I needed to get home in order to outfit my truck properly.
After my shower, I had dinner at a truck stop restaurant and returned to the terminal in anticipation of enjoying the book I had been reading. I was irked to discover that I had left my only source of entertainment in Brian’s truck. I went back to the truck stop and bought another book. Truck stops aren’t known for stocking diverse selections of literature, but a Gunsmoke paperback about Marshall Dillon and Festus is better than nothing.
Next morning, I sent in a call that I was ready for my first load and, as it turned out, my load was already sitting in the terminal yard. All I had to do is hook up and go. This load would be going to Hermiston, Oregon.
Shit! I thought. They’re sending me the wrong way!
I was assigned to the southe
ast regional Coca-Cola/Minute Maid fleet so, I assumed they would send me back east. However, this was a good run, so I did not offer any resistance. There was, nonetheless, another bug in the mix. The company wanted me to pick up a new trainee in Cheyenne and take him to the Salt Lake City terminal to meet his trainer. I was not thrilled with the idea of having a passenger when I had yet to familiarize myself with the truck, but I had no choice. The trainee’s name was Jericho, who was a nice enough fellow, but I was anxious to get him to Salt Lake so I could be on my own.
I had a heavy load, so the going was slow on the mountain grades of Wyoming heading into Utah. At about the point where US 189 splits, I-80 offers up a triple helping of the main hills. This area is, collectively, known as "The Three Sisters."[21]
As fate would have it, I missed my exit to the terminal in Salt Lake and, thanks to Jericho’s self-proclaimed knowledge of Salt Lake City, we took an unplanned tour that was long and painful. Fortunately, Jericho’s trainer was already at the terminal when we arrived so, I helped him unload his gear from my truck, wished him well, and sent him on his way. My first assignment had been laden with a few potholes, but it was now complete. I spent the night at the terminal and got up early the next morning to continue the journey to Hermiston.
Hermiston is a small town located on the northeastern edge of Oregon in Umatilla County. The large watermelon slice painted on the Welcome to Hermiston sign indicates that the city is well known for the watermelons grown there.
The delivery to the Wal-Mart distribution center in Hermiston went smoothly. Afterward, I even managed to park like a pro at the crowded Pilot truck stop. For the next assignment, we would pick up a load in Auburn, Washington and deliver to Topeka, Kansas. Finally, we’d be pointed in the right direction.
Kitty was adjusting well to the roominess of the Freightliner. There was more space to move around than in the smaller cab of the Mack. She sometimes rode on the floor and in the sleeper berth but, usually, she planted herself beside me in the passenger’s seat. Whenever I stopped and got up from the driver’s seat, Kitty often usurped my throne and argued relentlessly about having to relinquish it back to me. This particular behavior had amused Brian when Kitty was riding in his truck.
The mountains and crystal clear lakes of Washington State were breathtaking, and we passed by many cyclists that were out for a brisk mountain ride. After picking up our load in Auburn, we spent the night at a truck stop/casino in Montana. I ordered a one-pound hamburger at a restaurant across the street but, despite my best effort to pack it away, I wasn’t quite able to get the job done.
As we drove through Montana the next day, I saw a billboard advertising the Testicle Festival. This is an annual September event held at the Rock Creek Lodge, which is 20 miles east of Missoula along I-90. Merlin and I had passed this way when I was riding with him, and he touted the virtues of Rocky Mountain Oysters.
“They taste like chicken and shrimp,” he revealed.
“If I get a craving for chicken and shrimp,” I countered, “I’ll have chicken and shrimp. You can have all the cojones you want!”
The motto of the festival is: I had a ball at the Testicle Festival. The delectable nuggets are billed as Montana Tendergroin. The annual celebration includes such festive events as a wet tee shirt contest for women, a hairy chest contest for men, and Bullshit Bingo, which offers a grand prize to the person who correctly predicts where a cow will empty its bowels.[22] It sounded like a lot of fun, well…except for eating the "oysters."
We passed through South Dakota, Iowa, and the corner of Nebraska to get to Kansas. Fortunately, the Payless distribution center was a place I’d already been when I was with Merlin, so I knew where it was. The delivery went fine, and then we picked up a load of dog food from Hill’s Pet in Topeka. I had to back into a dock off the street while impatient four-wheelers waited on me, but I pulled it off nicely. This load would go to Lavergne, Tennessee and then, we would finally go home.
Along the way, the sun glared so badly in St. Louis that I could not see the signs. I considered myself lucky to get through there without being sidetracked. I had a bit of trouble finding the customer in Lavergne and, once I did, it proved to be an impossibly congested and compact area in which to maneuver. I had to back into a tiny slot just in order to turn around and back into a teeny one. When the task was complete, I went back to the TA where I had spent the previous night to debate my next action.
I was less than two hours from home, but I only had thirty minutes remaining on my logbook to legally drive. I was tempted to unplug the Qualcomm and go home, but I called Brian instead. He advised me to call the log department in Lincoln to see if they would authorize my trip home as personal vehicle usage. I did as he suggested, but they proved to be about as helpful as sandpaper on a hemorrhoid. I used my remaining thirty minutes to go to Love’s in Christiana, Tennessee to park. I decided that I did not want to run illegally after my first solo week, so I stayed there until I was legal to drive again.
We left for Scottsboro at the stroke of midnight, and I could tell that Kitty sensed we were homeward bound. The Coca-Cola/Minute Maid regional fleet awaited us. What adventures lay ahead?
Week 23: Avian Droppings
The first week of the new fleet began with a pickup in Atlanta. This was the first time I’d taken a big truck beyond the hallowed barrier of the I-285 bypass. Commercial vehicles are not allowed into the inner sanctum of Atlanta unless they are on business. Ringo had warned me that if I ever went into Atlanta in a big truck, I had better have paperwork to prove I had business there.
The customer was easy to find and well organized, so I was out in a little over an hour and on my way to Orlando. I had purchased a copy of Streets and Trips mapping software for my laptop computer, so I don’t know how I missed John Young Parkway when I got to Orlando. I turned around to get back on course, but my directions had given an incorrect street name for the entrance to the customer. By the time I realized the error, I had already passed by the gate. I’d have to go around the block to backtrack. The only problem was that the "block" I chose did not go all the way around; it was not a block at all. I found myself taking a scenic tour through one of Orlando’s residential areas while strategically weaving to avoid low-hanging branches. I kept looking for the little old blue-haired lady with a broom to run out and remind me that there were “No trucks allowed!” By the time I fumbled my way back to the customer, I was an hour late for my appointment. It was not an auspicious beginning.
After waiting in line for three hours, I received my dock assignment. I was faced with the task of backing in between a shiny new Kenworth and an empty trailer. The dirt road in front of the docks was narrow, and there was a fence to the right which prevented maneuverability. I did my best, but even my most supreme effort resulted in repeatedly banging into the empty trailer on my blind side. I was trying very hard not to slam into the shiny new Kenworth. The receiving personnel at last took mercy and assigned me to an easier dock a little farther down. By the time I got to the dock, I was soaked with sweat—partially from the unrelenting Florida heat, but mostly from the stress.
After Orlando, Kitty and I were off to Auburndale, Florida. I followed the company’s directions, which took me down Route 559 south, and right through the heart of Auburndale. The city offered narrow, serpentine streets that caused my two amigos to shrink to the size of raisins. I made a firm decision to find an alternate route the next time.
When I got to the shipper, there was a problem with my pickup number, so I had to sit for almost an hour before it got straightened out. Then, I saw that my load was on a reefer trailer. I shook my head in bewilderment, thinking that the hurdle of another mistake now blocked my path.
Brian had given me the phone number of one of his former trainees, Tony. Tony had been working in the Coca Cola/Minute Maid fleet for over a year, and Brian thought he would be an excellent source of information. I had called Tony earlier to introduce myself, and he seemed like an affable
fellow. On this day, I called him again to ask about the reefer trailer.
“Oh, that’s not unusual,” he said. “You’ll get a reefer trailer sometimes, but it’s not a reefer load.”
It was nice of dispatch to tell me! With that cleared up, I hooked up to my reefer trailer and went to the terminal in Deland, Florida to spend the night and get a badly needed shower.
Deland was the first city in Florida to have electricity, [23] but I did not feel particularly "charged" when I got a first look at the terminal there. It paled in comparison to the palatial edifice in Lincoln. Nonetheless, it would provide sanctuary for the night.
The hot water felt like heavenly beads caressing my body as I stood in the shower, washing away the grit and grime of this punishing day. Maintaining personal hygiene on the road often required, both literally and figuratively, going the extra mile. I did my best to get a shower every other day but, when that was not possible, I settled for a "bird bath." A plastic wash basin with Johnson’s baby wash and a bottle of No-Rinse shampoo was no substitute for a real shower, but it was certainly better than nothing. I quickly discovered that the expectation of a daily shower in OTR trucking is destined to meet with disappointment. This is not to say it is necessary to go around emanating body odor—it isn’t! But to make deliveries on time, maximize working hours, and get a bit of rest in between, it is sometimes necessary to settle for an imperfect solution.
Another taboo among many drivers is whether or not to keep a "pee-jug" in the truck. When I rode with Ringo, he refused to do this and had nothing but derogatory reviews for those drivers who did. At the time, I wholeheartedly agreed with him. Keeping a pee jug in the truck was disgusting! However, after literally peeing my pants on two separate occasions, my uncompromising opinion began to soften. Now, if I had a nickel for every time I’ve put my pecker to a milk jug spout, well—let’s just say I wouldn’t have to worry about toll roads for a while. While I am still not a cheerleader for storing bodily fluids in the truck, it beats the heck out of peeing my pants!
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