At the Salina shipper, I somehow managed to run the tractor’s fifth wheel past the trailer kingpin again. I corrected the problem this time, but I was annoyed at myself for making this dumb mistake again.
We got our first taste of snow this winter as we approached Topeka, and then we got a veritable mouthful. Snow, sleet, and ice hammered us with the hat trick of winter yuck. It took almost two hours to crawl through an icy Kansas City rush hour, but we made it to the terminal safely.
I was exhausted when we arrived and I had fallen woefully behind on my paperwork. As I prepared for the awaiting drudgery, Kitty jumped in the driver’s seat and promptly puked in the driver’s door storage pocket, all over my steel measuring tape and permit book. It took forever to fish paper towels in and out of the small pocket to absorb the massive amount of Kitty vomit. I just wanted this day to end!
We woke up to more ice and freezing rain, and the conditions remained unchanged for most of the morning. I almost got stuck on a sheet of ice as I exited the fuel island at a truck stop in Higginsville, Missouri. It makes me mad enough to chew nails when truck stops are too cheap and/or lazy to salt their lots in icy conditions.
The mercury in the thermometer began to rise a little when we got south of St. Louis, and the freezing rain became regular rain. We were then doomed to get "regularly" rained on for the remainder of the day. The damp weather exacerbated the pain in my ailing neck and shoulder, and I was in a foul mood by the time we reached Hayti, Missouri for the night. My malady gave rise to concern as it forced me to brace my right arm with my left in the shower in order to shave.
We delivered to Memphis the next morning with no problems. We traveled down Elvis Presley Boulevard to get to the shipper for our next load. I called Brian to tell him that I had (sort of) found Elvis.
Eveready Battery in Memphis was crowded and tight, and docking promised to be a barrel of laughs. At 1pm, some of the drivers who had been sitting in the dock since daybreak were getting downright irate. This is, usually, a bad idea because becoming indignant with a shipper often inspires them to make the driver wait even longer. In extreme cases, drivers are asked to leave without their load. I, typically, play a computer game, read, or just go to sleep when faced with the prospect of sitting in the dock for a long stretch.
We were loaded by 2pm and made it to Ozora, Missouri for the night. This load was headed to Fridley, Minnesota—a perfect winter destination! If I had known what was in store for me in Fridley, I might have never left Ozora.
The roads in Illinois were icy and terrible the next day. Big trucks and four-wheelers spilled along the median and shoulder like a demolition derby. To make matters worse, dispatch changed my delivery appointment from Monday morning to Sunday night. This meant that I would have to find a place to park in the Minneapolis/St. Paul area in the middle of the night—not an attractive prospect.
I called Dick to complain about my appointment time being changed, arguing that this was not the load I accepted. To my utter astonishment, Dick offered to change it back. Because of his uncharacteristic display of quasi humanity, I agreed to go ahead and deliver it on Sunday night. It went against my better judgment, but my system remained short-circuited by the shocking exhibit of understanding from Dick. I did not know if I’d awakened in an alternate universe, but I hoped I had a beach house, a new Ford pickup, and a fat bank account if that were the case.
When we stopped at the terminal in Ottawa, Illinois for fuel, the Ice Capades could have been held in the terminal parking lot. After fueling, I had to detour through the city because of a big truck stuck in the snow on my exit ramp. To add to the misery, the sun came out long enough to melt the condensation that had formed and frozen inside the truck. While desperately trying to avoid being stuck in icy Ottawa, I literally had to weather a rainstorm inside the truck.
We made it to the TA in Janesville, Wisconsin where I was relieved to get through the day intact. I considered a snowy trek across the road to the movie theater but decided I’d had enough drama for one day.
Week 51: Frigid in Fridley
We left Janesville at 11:30am and the road conditions improved as we made our way through Wisconsin toward Minnesota. It was already dark when we arrived at the Target in Fridley, and the shockingly cold weather made me gasp when I opened the door. I napped in the truck during the four hours it took to be unloaded.
It was approaching midnight as we left Target to search for a parking place in the Minneapolis/St. Paul area. The CVS store where I delivered on my prior trip to Fridley was not far from my current location, so I decided to give it a shot. There were Private Property signs all over the place, but there was a large alley behind the shopping center next to CVS.
I went down the alley and made a tight U-turn at the end to point myself back in a more favorable direction. Unfortunately, it was so cold that my plastic air hoses had lost much of their elasticity. When I heard the familiar hiss of escaping air in mid-turn, I wasn’t sure which was deflating faster—the air pressure or my resolve. I got out into the assaulting cold to see my red air hose snapped in two. The truck was jackknifed in mid-turn behind the shopping center’s liquor store—this sucked!
I knew I’d have to call for someone to replace the hose, but I wanted to move the truck into a less embarrassing position before calling. With duct tape in hand, I embarked on the task of a temporary repair. Remembering a trick I’d heard another driver describe, I found a ballpoint pen inside the truck and unscrewed it. Taking the hollow front end of the pen, I cut off the tip with my knife to produce a sturdy, hollow plastic tube. The ends would fit perfectly into each side of the broken air hose, and then I’d wrap plenty of duct tape around the repair. A perfect temporary solution! Hopefully, the repair would last long enough to allow me to straighten up and get to the curb.
It did not take long to realize that my cumbersome gloves hindered my efforts. The thick, arctic Windstopper gloves would have been perfect if I’d been mushing Siberian huskies in the Iditarod, but not so much for trying to repair an air hose with duct tape. When I removed the gloves, it took about thirty seconds to lose sensation in my fingers. To add to the challenge, I had to do it quickly because the extreme cold caused the sticky side of the tape to freeze before I could wrap it around the hose. Somehow, I finally managed to get enough tape wrapped around the tubing to get me to the curb.
The road service truck was a welcome sight when it arrived. The thick-blooded Minnesota native braved the intense cold as he replaced the hose, effectively making me feel like a pantywaist. As I put the ordeal behind me and prepared to spend a bone-chilling night in an alley behind a liquor store, I was pretty sure this Southern boy was out of his element in a Minnesota winter.
I took a load offering the next morning to Hunt Valley, Maryland and we picked it up in New Ulm, Minnesota. Located in the triangle of land formed by the gathering of the Minnesota River and the Cottonwood River,[87] New Ulm once billed itself "Polka Capital of the Nation." For years, polka lovers enjoyed New Ulm’s annual Polka Days every July. Polka lovers still step and hop their way to New Ulm for the annual Oktoberfest in celebration of the town’s German heritage.
Salt, slush, and winter muck covered the truck as we left New Ulm. I got an unexpected call from Rita, Merlin’s wife, for the first time in a while. She said that Merlin was starting to act like himself again, but his foot was still bad. It remained unknown when he could return to work or, for that matter, whether he would ever drive a truck again. I wished her and Merlin all the best as we pulled into the Trucker’s Inn near Dakota, Minnesota for the night. My ailing neck and shoulder were finally showing signs of improvement. Regrettably, I seemed to have picked up a "Minnesota bug" that prompted me to buy some cold medicine before going to bed.
I had some unpleasant words with a four-wheeler in Ottawa, Illinois the next day for thoughtlessly blocking me in at a truck stop. He finally recognized the error of his ways and moved before I alerted management.
I had planned
to go to Ohio, but the Minnesota bug convinced me to call it a day at the last eastbound travel plaza on I-80 in Indiana. I hoped to sleep this nasty little bug out of my system.
We spent Wednesday night at a company terminal in New Kingstown, Pennsylvania and arrived at the customer in Hunt Valley, Maryland at 3am on Thursday. The customer sent me to a warehouse in a different part of town, which is always a pain in the ass. I turned around in the small lot to avoid blindsiding in the dark and nearly jackknifed because the yard was so tiny.
After delivery, the forklift driver gave me directions to a drop yard where I could park. I was grateful, because I had no idea where we’d park at 4am. I found the drop yard, crawled into the sleeper berth, and fell into a sleep of death. I had yet to shake the Minnesota bug, and I felt terrible.
I awoke from my Lazarus sleep at 10am and got a load offering from Carlisle, Pennsylvania to Aiken, South Carolina. Carlisle is famous to many people for its car shows at the Carlisle Fairgrounds.[88] After loading in Carlisle, we made it to Tom’s Brook, Virginia for the night.
We delivered in Aiken at 10am the next morning, and then dispatch informed me it would be at least three or four hours before the next load offering. I replied that I would be unable to legally pick up a load in three or four hours, so we went to a truck stop expecting to wait until the next morning for a load. I was shocked when dispatch offered me the option to deadhead three hundred miles to go home. Freight really must have been slow, because a 300-mile deadhead for home time is almost unheard of.
I accepted the home option and with my remaining time, went to Madison, Georgia for the night. In 2001, Holiday Travel magazine named Madison “The Prettiest Small Town in America”.[89] The Madison truck stop, however, looked just about like all the rest. We left Madison at 2am and arrived home in Scottsboro at 7am on Saturday.
Week 52: Reflections
I still was not feeling great after a few days at home, but the Minnesota bug was finally down to its last buzz. A couple more trips to the chiropractor offered my neck and shoulder continued improvement, but my right arm had yet to regain full strength.
On Wednesday, I reluctantly sent a message to dispatch that I was available for a load offering. We got one from Cherokee, Alabama to Fort Worth, Texas. I was grateful for a Texas run because I did not want to go back north right out of the starting gate.
The directions to the shipper in Cherokee were vague, and no one answered the phone when I attempted to call for more specific ones. We’d just have to wing it! Unlike the bone-rattling temperatures in Minnesota, it was unseasonably warm in Alabama—it felt almost like spring.
The directions to the Cherokee shipper were wrong, but we found the place anyway. The sun was already sinking beneath the horizon by the time we were loaded, so I pulled in front of an abandoned building in Cherokee to spend the night. While there are a few drivers who prefer to run at night, the increased difficulty in finding parking after dark usually deters me when I have a choice. I love to get up early and run before daybreak. Watching the world come to life in the morning has always been my favorite time of day.
The directions to the customer in Fort Worth were also wrong, but I got someone on the phone this time for verbal instructions. I never hesitate to call a customer or shipper for directions if need be, because engaging in a wild goose chase in a big truck is not my idea of fun.
We went to the company terminal in Wilmer, Texas before noon, and the beautiful Alabama weather had followed us to Texas. It remained in the low to mid-70’s all day.
The delivery to Fort Worth went perfectly, but the next load offering was a choice between New York City and Newark, New Jersey with a stop-off. That is like a choice between getting your hand slammed in the door of a Plymouth Duster and getting it slammed in the door of a Dodge Dart. Despite the stop-off, I took the New Jersey run—I wanted no part of New York City.
We picked up the New Jersey load in Ennis, Texas. Ennis has the widest main street in America because it is actually two separate streets, each on opposite sides of the railroad track that runs through town.[90] Not to be outdone by New Ulm, Minnesota, Ennis holds the annual National Polka Festival featuring food, music, dancing, and a parade through downtown. We polkaed our way out of Ennis to the Flying J in Texarkana, Arkansas for the night.
We left Texarkana at 3am Saturday morning and drove to a small truck stop in Crab Orchard, Tennessee. This small town is named for its abundance of wild crab apple trees. Crab Orchard has also given its name to a rare type of durable sandstone found in the area. Numerous buildings, including the Cumberland County Courthouse, are constructed with Crab Orchard stone.[91]
The first full year of my solo-driving career drew to its conclusion in the tiny Tennessee town of Crab Orchard. The small truck stop where we sat offered a dirt lot filled with potholes, but we parked on level ground with a clear view of the city. The dirty and pothole-filled yard of the truck stop was in stark contrast to the beauty of the landscape of this small rural town on the horizon.
Crab Orchard was a perfect metaphor for my first year on the road: potholes and level ground, ugliness and beauty, suffocating and refreshing. Over the past year, I ferried back and forth regarding my decision to change careers. On one day, it was the best decision I ever made; on the next, it was the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.
As I sat in the truck reflecting on the past year, I realized that the potholes and level ground of Crab Orchard are in the path of everyone, no matter what profession they choose. We all must endure the potholes to marvel at the beauty of the horizon. After a year of being on the road, I was still undecided as to whether I loved or hated trucking, but one thing was for certain—it’s one hell of a ride!
Afterword
After taking some time off driving to write this travelogue, I was utterly shocked when I realized that I missed being on the road. As the time rapidly approached to go back out there, another part of me dreaded it with a passion. This dichotomy is indicative of the trucking industry as a whole. As drivers, we have to decide whether the positives outweigh the negatives. For those who think so, trucking can be a rewarding, lifelong career. For those who do not, it will probably be a short career filled with frustration. Trucking certainly has its share of yin and yang.
The negatives of trucking are many: unglamorous and thankless work, being away from home and family, loneliness and high stress, wildly-varying paychecks, traffic, the endless spattering of No trucks allowed signs, and the list goes on and on. The trucking industry is ruthless and demanding with a high failure rate and merciless odds. Truck drivers remain among the only labor groups in America exempt from the Fair Labor Standards Act, and many trucking companies continue to treat their drivers as faceless truck numbers rather than human beings. Lawmakers in Washington continue to believe that piling on more and more rules and regulations will make the roads safer when, in reality, they are making the job so undesirable that veterans are leaving the industry in droves. Long weeks away from home, a general lack of respect and consideration from trucking companies and the motoring public and stagnant salaries are even making it difficult to retain rookies in the industry.
A negative image among the motoring public is another cross for the truck driver to bear. In the eyes of many automobile drivers, big trucks are just a nuisance. These are the same people who enjoy slicing into a Christmas ham, or buying a Nintendo for their kids, or just popping into a grocery store for something they want or need. I wonder if these people ever ask themselves, “Where did all this stuff come from?”
The answer is that a truck brought it. Without trucks and their drivers moving freight all over the country, from raw materials to finished products, there would be no Christmas ham, no Nintendo, no stocked grocery store shelves, no fuel at gas stations, no medical supplies at hospitals…or anything else. The standard of living enjoyed by all Americans would decline almost immediately if all truckers decided to unite and shut off their engines. Without the men and women who sacrif
ice so much to keep the American Dream alive for so many, it would not even be there as a goal to strive toward.
Trucking also has many positive aspects. The absence of a boss hanging over your shoulder is, by far, one of the most attractive features of trucking. The ever-changing scenery of driving across the country makes the prospect of sitting in an office cubicle eight hours a day almost unthinkable. I’ve heard some veteran drivers say, “Trucking gets in your blood.”
I believe that.
I often think about the freight I deliver and how it might make an impact on someone’s life. Perhaps the steel beams I delivered to the Mayo Clinic in Jacksonville will provide the foundation for the hospital where a doctor performs life-saving surgery for a child. Perhaps the lumber I delivered to Newnan, Georgia will make up a wall of the new home of a young couple that has worked and saved to realize their dream. As for the thousands of boxes of toilet paper I have delivered all over the country, well…that should darned near earn me a halo!
The negative moniker of truckers and trucking was chiefly bestowed by the uninformed. Trucking is the lifeblood of America, and truckers can take great pride in the service they provide. I can say, without reservation, that I am proud to have been an American Trucker!
Even in a world of satellite maps, GPS systems, Qualcomm messaging, and electronic logs, truckers maintain a bit of the rugged explorer’s lifestyle. They are usually far from home and uncertain what lies around the next bend. They are often dirty, tired, and cranky, but when they drive through a dusty rural town and see an eight-year-old boy pumping his arm vigorously and looking up into the cab with wonder and admiration, it seems to be worth it all. Trucking is a tough and rigorous lifestyle, but it is also an escape from the mundane. Despite everything, I’d do it all over again.
Following this first year on the road, Kitty and I would continue to roll across the nation for four more years. Kitty retired from the road at age 15, and I made a brief return to trucking in 2012, only to realize that this lifestyle wasn’t for me anymore. In 2008, I met a wonderful woman in El Paso, Texas who, as it turned out, was the love of my life. After enduring a sporadic, long-distance relationship for over a year, I finally moved to El Paso in late 2009. We both eventually decided that we desired a more stable relationship than the road could offer, so I made an eventual exit from trucking.
Spirit of the Road Page 21