The Life of an American Trucker: The First Year

Orientation, Merlin, and a Plumbing Misfortune: Part 2

2011-02-21T11:32:00.000-07:00

I shook Bill’s hand and thanked him, and then returned to the terminal to wait, fill out additional paperwork, wait some more… wait even more, and finally, go to the doctor for my physical.

The next two days would be comprised of the standard orientation rhetoric—some of it useful, some of it sleep-inducing. The dark-haired girl, whom I’d gotten to know on the shuttle ride, sat at the table behind me throughout orientation and had a habit of constantly crunching ice cubes. Regardless of this annoying routine, I got to know her during the breaks, and she turned out to be one of the nicest people I would meet there. Her name was Mona, and once she found out who my trainer was going to be, we had a lot to talk about.

My new trainer was a good friend to Mona, and to her husband, Calvin. Calvin was also a trainer, and he would be training his wife after orientation. On the final day of orientation, Calvin and my new trainer, Merlin arrived. The four of us all went out to dinner together.

At first glance, Merlin looked as if he might have jumped right out of the pages of Easy Rider magazine. He was 47, and of average height. His shaved head was adorned with a biker’s beanie, and a graying Fu Manchu moustache framed a frequent smile. A cherry-flavored Swisher Sweet could often be seen bouncing in his lips, as he was never at a loss for chatter. On the day we met, he was wearing a black sleeveless tee shirt and a faded pair of jeans, which held the dangling chain of a biker’s wallet. As truckers go, Merlin looked to be in pretty good physical condition. He had avoided falling victim to “trucker’s physique”. His gregarious and playful personality made it impossible not to like him on first impression. Since I also fashioned myself with a shaved head, this evoked immediate joking from Calvin and Mona.

“You guys are going to look like the Cue Ball Brothers going down the road!” they laughed.

Our first delivery would be to Helena, Montana, but Merlin’s truck required some repairs that would not be completed for 24 hours. In order to make Helena on time, we would have to drive as a team rather than trainer/trainee. This is not a practice that I, personally, endorse but, since I had a whopping 5 months of experience under my belt, at least I had more confidence than I would have as a wide-eyed rookie fresh out of CDL school. We slept in the truck that night and I was glad that I had savored my final night in the motel. Although the Freightliner was much roomier than my old Mack, it still didn’t compare to a real bed.

Merlin and I ate breakfast in the cafeteria the next morning where we watched the rain pelt down in violent torrents. He asked if I would prefer the day or night shift, and I opted for the night shift since I had no desire to familiarize myself with a new truck in the midst of a mad rainstorm. I did not know whether I’d be able to sleep in a moving truck, but I discovered that fatigue, in the proper amount, could inspire me to sleep anywhere. We drove through Nebraska and Wyoming and made it to Helena on time.

Helena was originally called “Crabtown” after John Crab, one of the “Four Georgians” who discovered gold along Last Chance Creek. Helena’s main street is named Last Chance Gulch, and follows the path of the original creek through the historic downtown district.

I was exhausted when we arrived at the customer; so, Merlin took mercy on me and did all of the backing. I didn’t know it at the time, but Merlin would continue to run us as a team. By week’s end, we had logged over 7000 miles. Merlin became excited and challenged me to “break the record” next week. I told him that I would probably be more enthusiastic about all this mileage if I weren’t doing it for trainee’s pay while I was making him rich. After that, he frequently offered to buy my dinner.

In fairness, however, Merlin had been spending a lot of time up front with me while I was driving. He seemed to require little sleep, and he would always remain up front for 3 or 4 hours after his shift to offer training and to “shoot the breeze”. Merlin had been on the road for 25 years, and I was confident that he could help me to polish the skills that I had, and learn the ones that I didn’t.

Orientation, Merlin, and a Plumbing Misfortune: Part 1

2011-02-15T07:09:00.001-07:00

Ringo gave me a ride to the Huntsville airport on Saturday to pick up my rental car. He may have been a little disappointed that I had quit, but he was being very supportive. One of his sons would be feeding Kitty while I was gone, and Ringo would check in on her on the weekends. I hated to leave the little critter alone, but I couldn’t bring her with me, and it would have cost a fortune to board her for an unspecified amount of time. I did not know how long it would be before I got back home. After orientation, I would be immediately going on the road with my trainer.

I thanked Ringo, picked up my rental car, and I was on my way. I stopped for fuel somewhere in Illinois and discovered that my credit card had reached its maximum limit. I would have to rely on my dwindling cash from here on out. I spent the night in an unsightly motel in a small Missouri town about 80 miles east of Kansas City, even though I had been tempted to sleep in the car to save money. Despite my worries, I slept well, and headed out early on Sunday morning.

I arrived at the Day’s Inn in Lincoln, where I would be staying for the duration of orientation, and was greeted by a friendly desk clerk named Chelsea. Before I arrived in Lincoln, I’m certain that I had never seen such an abundant landscape of cornfields. It was obvious why Nebraska was nicknamed, “The Cornhusker State”.

After getting settled into my room, I returned the rental car to the airport and, since it was only a mile from the motel, I decided to walk back. The walk would have been enjoyable if it hadn’t been so darned windy. There were still remnants of snow splotched about from a storm that had passed through last week. As I observed the aftermath of the storm melting away, I hoped that it would serve as a symbolic representation for what lay ahead of me.

The shuttle bus arrived at 6:30am on Monday to take all of the new Crete employees to the terminal for physicals. At least 20 people crammed into the small shuttle, and I thought that it might be appropriate to add a little mustard—we were packed in like sardines. A petite, dark-haired girl was practically sitting in my lap.

When we arrived at the Lincoln terminal, it was not what I had been expecting. It was an absolute palace compared to any of my former company’s terminals. The huge three-story building was kept impeccably clean, and the maze of corridors seemed to invite the newcomer to become disoriented and lost. The building contained a large cafeteria, and even a gym. I was taken aback at the contrast between this, and the small, dusty terminals to which I had grown accustomed.

My first moment of horror came when I discovered that we would have to take our road test before orientation, and before going out with our trainer. The Century Class S/T Freightliner had a 10-speed manual transmission, and I had been driving an automatic before. I had not driven a shifter since riding with Ringo, and I had expected the road test to happen after getting some practice with my trainer. I was already sprouting nervous beads of sweat.

The man who would administer my road test was an old fellow named Bill. Bill was 79 years old, and still did a dedicated run from Lincoln to Canada and back every week. Bill’s calm and friendly manner set me at ease immediately.

“If you don’t wreck it, you pass!” he croaked.

My road test went surprisingly well. The Meritor gear-shifter in the Freightliner operated more smoothly than the one I had worked with in Ringo’s truck. I even managed to back into a small hole when we returned to the terminal yard. The first thing I noticed was that the closely positioned dual axles on the dry van trailer caused it to react more quickly than the split axles on the flatbed trailers. This was going to take some getting used to.

Week 14 and 15: Greener Pastures

2011-02-12T20:49:00.001-07:00

After I quit on Monday, I did nothing for the rest of the week except sit around the house and gain about 10 pounds. My money was starting to run dangerously low, so I knew that I’d better get on the fast track to becoming gainfully employed again.

I went online and put in a single application to multiple companies on a trucking website. Within 15 minutes of submitting the application, my phone rang. Over the next week, I would be bombarded with phone calls and e-mails from no less than two-dozen trucking companies. Despite my limited experience, I was beginning to believe that my worries might have been unwarranted. Not only did it appear that getting another job wouldn’t be much of a problem, I’d even get to pick and choose a little. This was showing me that the demand for truck drivers is real. I would learn that if a driver gets a little experience under his belt and, most importantly, keeps a clean record, the ability to locate employment would be the least of his worries.

I researched some of the companies that had contacted me and narrowed it down to four. I had intended to stay with flatbed, but the flatbed company that I was most interested in could not give me a specific date on which a trainer would be available. Since I had less than 6 months experience, they would require me to spend 2 weeks with a trainer. However, my financial situation was becoming dire, and I didn’t have time for the uncertainty of a waiting list. Upon further research, I discovered that the other flatbed company on my short list had a poor reputation among many drivers, so now, there were two companies remaining on my list.

I spoke with representatives from both companies and ultimately decided on a company based in Lincoln, Nebraska. I would be switching from flatbed to dry van, so my new company would require me to spend 6 weeks with a trainer. I wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of riding with a stranger for 6 weeks again, but I was excited to be going back to work. This was a large company, but they had a good reputation in most trucking forums, and even a rival company had conceded that they had a good reputation. I had no illusion that any trucking company would be a walk in the park, but I felt that I had made the right choice… I certainly hoped so.

I encountered a few potholes during the application process, but everything was finally ironed out, and I was scheduled for orientation class. The company would supply me with a rental car on the following Saturday to drive to Lincoln for orientation. I had expected to go to their Marietta, Georgia terminal for orientation, but going to Lincoln was fine with me. I had never been to Nebraska, so this would be a new adventure. Unlike my experience at my former company, I would have the rental car all to myself, and I would not have to share my motel room with a stranger. So far, I already liked this company better.

I had signed on for a southeast regional Coca Cola/Minute Maid fleet, but I would be running nationally while I was with my trainer. I was about to be on the road again.

Week 13: Take this job and...

2011-02-04T11:44:00.000-07:00

-One of these days I'm gonna blow my top and that sucker, he's gonna pay
I can't wait to see their faces when I get the nerve to say...
-Johnny Paycheck

As I had planned, I had a serious conversation with Mr. Jack Daniels when I got home on Saturday. I was confused and depressed, and I questioned whether I was cut out for a trucking life. At this company, I felt like little more than a mooing piece of cattle. I had already cleaned out my truck when I’d gotten back to Bridgeport, so I think that I had already unconsciously made my decision. Be that as it may, I spent the weekend thinking that, perhaps, I’d just accept getting screwed out of my check and tough it out awhile longer. I had only been with this company for about 5 months, and I didn’t know how difficult it would be to find another job.

On Sunday, I decided not to invite Mr. Daniels over again because it felt like he’d hit me in the head with a sledgehammer the previous night. I spent the day pondering my options, and nursing my hangover. When I went to bed on Sunday night, I was still unsure as to what I would do when I went in to talk to my terminal manager on Monday.

When the alarm rang on Monday morning, my decision became crystal clear as soon as I got out of bed. There was no question in my mind that I had absolutely no desire to drive this week. My mind was made up.

I went to the terminal and quit. It was not an ugly scene; I even shook hands with my terminal manager as I left, and he said that he would give me a good reference. I had already learned a hard lesson in regard to “burning bridges” in my former career. Also, a trucking company can make it difficult to find new employment if they are so inclined. A vindictive terminal manager might put misleading or false information on a driver’s DAC report. A DAC report is somewhat like a credit report for truckers. Like a credit report, few drivers ever send in for a copy of it, and the employer does not provide one. It is necessary to jump through some hoops to get a copy of the DAC report but, like a savvy consumer, the savvy trucker will always know what is on his DAC report.

I was glad that my parting had been painless and friendly, but now, my future was uncertain again. As I drove back to Scottsboro from Bridgeport, my mind reflected on the positive aspects of trucking. I actually liked the smell of diesel as I walked into a truck stop after shutting down for the evening. The rumble of the powerful engines served as an odd lullaby for me. I often enjoyed sitting at the end of a long day and drinking in the aroma of the night, and watching the traffic pass by as it left only time in its wake. It was relaxing and cathartic to watch the nocturnal activity as the cool wind caressed my face. In rare times like those, no matter where I was, I had felt as if there was no place else I’d rather be, or nothing else I’d rather be doing. Like a “runner’s high”, this was a type of “trucker’s high”. The occurrence of it is rare but, when it happens, you just sort of feel at one with the universe. I realized that I already missed the crazy life that I had left behind only moments ago.

The stark reality of uncertainty interrupted my reminiscence, and the insecurity of being unemployed cast its shadow over me.

Detour: A View From the Cab: Part 3

2011-01-26T12:48:00.000-07:00

The trucking industry sheds a bright spotlight on the fact that there are often ethical conflicts between making money, and doing the right thing. A description on a trucker’s website paints the trucking industry as: “…basically a slave industry with truckers working on the average of over 70 hours per week, many of [whom] are not paid while sitting in shipper’s parking lots for, sometimes, 8 hours or more (a whole workday for average Americans!) Truckers are not paid overtime as others.”

I probably wouldn’t go so far as to call it a “slave industry”. Any driver is perfectly free to quit at any time, but the trucking industry certainly, in my estimation, lags behind in affording the basic amenities for drivers enjoyed by the majority of the American work force. Trucking, certainly, is an industry in which you have to stand up for yourself, or you’ll have footprints all over your face.

On a few occasions, I have been asked to offer an insight by people who are considering a career in trucking. The following is the advice I would give to any prospective new truck driver:

* Trucking is a lifestyle more than it is a job. If you are not prepared to make a MAJOR lifestyle change, save your CDL school money and forget about it.

* Research the companies. Check them out online, talk to experienced drivers, and do not be afraid to ask questions. Interview the company. Yes, you heard me right. Prepare a list of questions for a company that you are considering and do not be shy about asking them. Any recruiter worth his salt will be glad to indulge you. If he isn’t… run like the wind. Join a trucker’s forum to get straight answers and to separate the wheat from the chaff. However, be wary of excessive negative reports of a company from a handful of sources. Disgruntled drivers who were fired or denied employment often write negative reviews about their former employers as a tactic of revenge. Do your homework! A recruiter isn’t going to tell you that the company he is recruiting for has a 130% turnover rate among drivers. Research the companies!

* Your first trucking job will probably not be with a blue chip company. The genuinely good companies only hire experienced drivers and few of them use recruiters… they don’t need to. All but the most fortunate have to pay their dues before they have a fighting chance to get hired by a really good company that will treat them with respect.

* Even the “good” startup companies are going to treat you like a piece of meat. They care about the freight being delivered… period. Your home time, your quality of life, and your job satisfaction are purely secondary concerns. Be prepared for it.

* If you are thinking of becoming an owner/operator, educate yourself as to what this entails. I’ve seen plenty of new owner/operators who were desperate to sell their truck after 6 months. I’d recommend that anyone start out as a company driver to ensure that trucking is actually what he or she wants to do for a living. I cannot stress it enough… Educate yourself!

* Even with this being said, trucking can still be what you make of it. It affords a freedom and autonomy that most other jobs cannot come close to. Trucking can be a rewarding career, but it doesn’t come without major sacrifices. If you aren’t prepared to make those sacrifices, don’t waste your time and money.

Right, wrong, or moot, this is just my humble view from the cab.

A Christmas Tale

2010-12-07T13:11:00.000-07:00

In keeping with the holiday spirit, we'll take a brief detour with a little Christmas poem from a few years ago. Merry Christmas!

A Christmas Tale

by Rick Huffman

On one foggy Christmas Eve

T’was just last year, I do believe

Santa Claus was growing quite annoyed.

For on his most important day

He faced a possible delay

Because of suff’ring with a hemorrhoid.

The elves were pacing with concern

And Mrs. Claus could not discern

Just how the big guy planned to fly away.

He’d tried ‘most every hemorroid cream

But all of them invoked a scream

This “roid” was surely on his butt to stay!

To add to Santa’s aggravation

This loathsome little inflammation

Had given him a bellyful of gas.

So every time he’d pace the floor

He’d cut a fart that shook the door

And rattled all the windowsills and glass.

The odor melted candy canes

And drove an elf or two insane

This flatulence could wilt a Christmas tree!

Mrs. Claus broke down and cried

And I’m told a reindeer damn-near died

This hemorrhoid was quite a tragedy.

So Santa went outside and wept

With little farts between each step

And then, perhaps, began the biggest folly

The northern wind began to shift

And Rudolph got a hearty whiff

Of an odor that was anything but jolly!

The red-nosed reindeer tumbled down

And as his antlers hit the ground

His bright red nose just crackled and went dim.

Then Rudolph’s nose fell off and spun

As Santa ripped another one

This joyous day was turning ghastly grim.

Thank goodness, Rudolph was okay

But now comes news that’s hard to say

Rudolph couldn’t get his nose back on!

He tried duct tape and Super Glue

He even tried a tack or two

It seemed that Rudolph’s bright red nose was gone.

Oh, how could Santa get the toys

To all the little girls and boys

Without a guiding light to forge the way?

Christmas might be null and void

Because of Santa’s hemorrhoid

This was the North Pole’s grimmest, darkest day.

The Elves all got hysterical

Until a Christmas miracle

Was witnessed by an elf named Vern, by chance.

The little elf saw something glowing

Indeed, it seemed that it was growing

And it’s brightness was contained in Santa’s pants!

The hemorrhoid that vexed him so

Had now begun to blink and glow

And Santa aptly smiled and then advanced,

“By George, we’ll have a Christmas Day!

My Yuletide “roid” will light the way!

But first, I’d better go and check my pants.”

So Santa jumped into his sleigh

And dropped his trousers all the way

Then pointed his fat rear erect and high.

And on this special Christmas Eve

There were not many who’d believe

That two full moons hung high within the sky!

The Yuletide “roid” performed just great

Serving aptly to illuminate

As Santa’s cheeks were flapping wide and free.

St. Nick issued a “Ho, ho, ho!”

As his bum lit up the snow

A hemorrhoid for all humanity!

Now, I hope I haven’t gone too far

For I know this story is bizarre

But the truth is something we should not avoid.

The Christmas sleigh got underway

And boys and girls saw Christmas Day

Because of Santa’s glowing hemorrhoid!

LATE BREAKING UPDATE:

I am happy to report that Rudolph’s nose was successfully re-attached by one of the world’s foremost reindeer surgeons. Thanks to his expertise in Rein-oplasty, the nose is, once again, fully functional.

Santa’s hemorrhoid is reputed to have frozen and fallen off somewhere over Washington D.C., where it is said to have thawed out and reproduced many times over.

Detour: A View From the Cab: Part 2

2010-11-16T13:10:00.000-07:00

It boggles my mind when I consider that most people would be prepared to come to blows over an issue of having their pet subjected to extreme heat or cold, but many trucking companies and lawmakers seem to pay no heed to a moral thermometer in regard to subjecting truck drivers to sub-standard conditions. This seems to lend support to my assertion that a trucking company appears only to care about the amount of revenue generated—not the welfare of the driver. Despite their sophist rhetoric to the contrary, the reality lies in their actions.

On this occasion, it was necessary to threaten to quit in order to afford myself a basic necessity. However, playing the “I’ll quit” card isn’t always the smart option. If a driver quits when he is a long way from home, and then expects the company to provide him with transportation, he is in for another wakeup call. As another driver points out on a popular trucker’s forum in regard to this:

“They will bend you over and give it to you with no Vaseline every time… guaranteed!”

The smart option is to suck it up and wait until you are routed home and all of your belongings are removed from the truck. A trucking company will not pay to have your belongings shipped either. At the very least, the truck should be turned in at a company terminal and the driver should have the financial forethought to provide his own transportation for himself and his belongings. Believe me, if you get mad and quit when you’re in Moose Turd, Ontario, you’d better have a heavy parka and a good pair of snowshoes!

When it comes to large trucking companies, there seems to be no way to get past the impersonal nature of it. One of the reasons is that dispatchers are assigned to zones. As a result, the drivers and the dispatchers never get to know one another on a personal level. To me, the dispatcher in whatever zone I happen to be in is a faceless “John”, and to him, I am merely a truck number. I have encountered a few exceptions to this rule, and I tip my hat to the precious handful that has attempted to insert their own personal touch. But in the end, the grinding cogs of the huge corporate machine tend to drown out their tiny voices, and the machine spews out a number.

I have often gotten the distinct impression that many managers and dispatchers actually think that they know what road life is like. Having resided on both sides of the fence, I’ll say that they can understand the trucking life by sitting behind a desk about the same way that I can understand what it’s like to be a cowboy by watching a rodeo. I may get a narrow snapshot of what it’s like to be a cowboy, but I still have no inkling of the cowboy life.

While sitting in an air-conditioned office, it is impossible to understand what it’s like to have the need to make nightly applications of Emu oil on your feet to keep your heels from cracking; or the necessity to urinate in a milk jug; or being forced to drive 600 miles with a toothache; or the need to spray Lotrimin in your crotch to prevent jock itch. Neither, can they understand the necessity to spend an entire day of precious home time making preparations to go on the road again.

I’ll be the first to admit that my “view from the cab” does not provide me with an insight to the inner workings of a trucking company or the stresses, responsibilities, and headaches contained therein. I also concede that successful management does not always coincide with the desires of employees. Despite my railing, I have a high degree of respect for strong, competent, and ethical business leaders. Like truckers, they do not live in a world where “just anyone” can thrive. My contempt is only for the business leaders who are greedy and unethical, and whose primary goal is to line their own pockets like a squirrel stuffing acorns into it’s cheeks, with no regard to the hardworking people who make their standard of living possible.

Detour: A View from the Cab: Part 1

2010-10-17T14:26:00.000-06:00

After I had gained more experience in trucking and made an adjustment to the trucking lifestyle, I came to realize that, as trucking companies go, there are many out there that are a lot worse than my first company. While I still consider my reasons for leaving to be valid, culture shock played a large role in the decision I made on that day. I had, after all, worked in an entirely different world for the past 20 years.

Trucking is not just a job; it is a lifestyle. For most, the transition to the trucking lifestyle is a difficult one. Once again, this is the reason why the vast majority of CDL school graduates are no longer in the trucking business after 3 months… or shorter. They are not prepared for the challenges that it presents, or for the days and weeks spent away from home and family.

Ultimately, I never regretted my decision to leave my first company because the next company would be an improvement. I would, however, discover that there are some universal truths about the trucking industry that are not always pretty.

One of the first, and most obvious, is that any company engaged in the trucking business is not going to offer the normal amenities that are taken for granted in most other jobs. For instance, sick leave is non-existent in most trucking jobs. If you don’t work, you don’t get paid… period.

When I worked a "normal" job, it never posed much of a problem if I needed to take half a day off for a doctor’s appointment. In trucking, keeping a medical or dental appointment can often be a roll of the dice. You never know if you are going to be home to keep it. I once lost a crown on one of my front teeth, and had to drive around for 2 weeks looking like a prizefighter that should consider alternative career options.

When I worked a "normal" job, no matter how stressful or harrowing the day had been, I always had the comfort of knowing that I would go home at the end of it and sleep in my own bed. In trucking, an OTR solo driver eats alone in his truck or at a truck stop at the end of a long day, and then retires to the "comfort" of a small sleeper berth. Then, he gets up after a few hours rest and does it all over again. I never thought that it would be possible to miss the company of some of my annoying former co-workers, but the loneliness of the road is very real.

One of the biggest issues that sticks in the craw of many, if not most, truckers are the anti-idling laws adopted by many states. These laws put limitations on the amount of time a truck is allowed to idle and offers stiff penalties to violators. For instance, in the city of Denver, a truck can legally idle for 10 minutes per hour. Well, if it is 8º in the Mile-High City, it takes 10 minutes or longer just to warm up a diesel engine. Do the lawmakers expect the driver to get up throughout the night every hour to idle for 10 minutes and then return to a freezing cocoon?

In Illinois, the law states that a driver must be present when idling. I wonder how law enforcement intends to discern this. Should they knock on the cab to wake us up? This seems like an equally brilliant method to assist a driver in developing a healthy sleep pattern.

The laws in other states are proportionately ingenious, but I think that the people who drafted these laws should attempt to rest in a 20º truck in the winter, or a 95º truck in the summer. Then, let’s drive 600 miles the next day and—think safety!

Unfortunately, this indifference to basic humanity does not stop with lawmakers. I have experienced it, firsthand, from a trucking company. The story goes like this:

Shortly after I had arrived in Odessa, Nebraska, my air-conditioning compressor died and it got well above 90º in the truck. I called the breakdown department to tell them that I needed to drop my load at a nearby terminal so that I could have it repaired. The initial reply that I got was, “The Company doesn’t consider air-conditioning to be a valid reason to T-call a load.”

My reply was, “That’s probably because ‘the company’ is not the one who is trying to get some rest in a ninety-five degree truck so that they can drive 600 miles tomorrow. If the roles were reversed I’ll bet the pointer on their ‘validity scale’ would have a dramatic reversal.”

I finally had to tell these morons that I would either drop my load at the terminal and get my A/C fixed, or I would turn in my truck at the terminal. Either way, I was going to take this load no farther than the terminal. Presented with these options, the company relented and gave me permission to get my A/C repaired.

Detour: White Picket Fences

2010-10-07T09:43:00.000-06:00

This little ditty of rhyme and meter was inspired when I was making a delivery in a small town in Kansas. I was backed into a dock at a business in the town square that was only a block or so from the courthouse. As I sat in the truck being unloaded, various townspeople passed by including well-dressed people on the way to work at the courthouse. The reaction I got from some of them opened my eyes to how some (not all) people regard the drivers sitting behind the wheel of a big rig. The result was this poem that, hopefully, prompts some to look beyond stereotypes.

White Picket Fences

As I sit in a dock, I wave and I grin

To a group, passing by, of well-dressed young men

In their suits and their ties, wielding leather brief cases

I'm offered cold looks from disparaging faces.

Does the grease on my shirt constitute a great sin?

Do you balk at the unshaven growth on my chin?

Does my road-weary face and my wind-tousled hair

Evoke, from you, unfettered looks of despair?

To you, am I copied from a crude archetype?

Aren't your preconceived notions just a bit over-ripe?

I'm an American trucker, and damned proud to be

But if you see just a trucker, then you're not seeing me.

I've laughed and I've cried, and I've loved and lost

Chased dreams without much regard to the cost

I've taken pride in the fact that I've seldom been lazy

Enjoyed life's lucid moments, but it's more often crazy.

I've left many miles, and years, far behind

But the hopes and the dreams still dance in my mind

I've pondered with Plato and mused Aristotle

And I've sailed 'round the world on a ship in a bottle.

So, take one short moment, and you just might see

A brief inner glimpse that reveals part of me

If this thought seems too sordid, or beyond comprehension

Then, take this proposal to your next convention.

Take your big office parties and your high-powered clout

Your promotion, which you simply cannot live without

Take your judgmental thinking, which is so asinine

Take it all, and stick it where the sun doesn't shine.

Though our backgrounds are different, we're still quite the same

Whether pawn, knight or king, life's still just one game

I'm an American trucker, and damned proud to be

But if you see just a trucker, then you're not seeing me.

I've been shocked by Hawthorne and frightened by Poe

Uplifted by Dickens and inspired by Thoreau

I've felt angst with Hamlet and grieved with King Lear

And when Old Yeller died, I'll admit to a tear.

I've rode shotgun with Earnhardt, in my wildest dreams

Cheered for Ric Flair, Triple H and Mean Gene

I've line-danced in Texas, getting rowdy and wild

And I've laughed in the rain with the joy of a child.

So think hard, my friend, and you might discover

'Tis folly judging books by the grease on their cover

But if, in your mind, the biased fire is still stoking

Then put this advice in your pipe, and start smoking.

Take your white picket fences and overpriced house

Your cute little sports car and "arm-trophy" spouse

Take your Armani suits and imported French wine

Take it all, and stick it where the sun doesn't shine.

Rick Huffman

Week 12: A Smoke Tarp, The Broken Yolk, and Jack Daniels: Part 3

2010-09-19T19:38:00.000-06:00

When we got to our customer in Conway, I used my trusty roll of duct tape to repair my tarp. On the way to Holiday, the wind ripped a 3-foot gash in the seam. It had not, after all, been designed for use as a smoke tarp.

As it turned out, I had plenty of time to make the repair. I waited for over three hours to be unloaded. It was now 2pm on Friday, and I was 400 miles from home. Once again, it would be Saturday before I got home. I did not have the hours to drive 400 additional miles today. So, when dispatch sent me a load assignment that would send me even farther away, something just snapped!

I was dirty, tired, hungry, and furious when I called my terminal manager in Bridgeport.

“We’ll pay you $75 for a weekend layover”, he offered.

I can’t recall, specifically, if I told him where he could stick his 75 bucks, but I have no doubt that he discerned my meaning.

“If you go home, we’ll charge you for the fuel”, he threatened.

“If you want to screw me out of my last paycheck”, I replied, “go ahead… but this isn’t what I signed on for—I’m going home!”

With that, I hung up and set out for Bridgeport.

I had driven for about a hundred miles when my phone rang—it was my terminal manager again.

“There’s a load you can pick up in Bowman, South Carolina and bring it to Atlanta before you go home”, he said.

“I’m almost 200 miles east of there”, I replied. “I don’t have enough hours left to do that and, even if I did, I’ve already told you what I’m doing”.

“You’ll be charged for the fuel”, he repeated.

“I’ll talk to you on Monday”, I said… and hung up the phone.

I pulled into a truck stop shortly thereafter because I was too tired and too upset to keep going. When I’d had time to cool off, I reflected on the events that had just taken place, and wondered whether I had allowed my fatigue and emotions to produce a "knee-jerk" reaction that had led to a bad decision. I was torn about what I had done, and about what I was going to do next.

It had not sounded like I was going to be fired—just screwed out of my paycheck. My thoughts were tumbling viciously in my mind, and my world seemed surreal. I had serious reservations about quitting now, but I did not relish the thought of crawling back with my tail between my legs. I wasn’t sure of anything right now save for one thing: I was certain that I wanted to go home tomorrow and purchase a bottle of Jack Daniels

Week 12: A Smoke Tarp, the Broken Yolk, and Jack Daniels: Part 2

2010-08-30T15:18:00.000-06:00

We set out the next morning before any rooster had a passing thought of a “cock-a-doodle-doo”, and made it just shy of Gainesville before shutting down for the night. I wondered if I would get another display from a passing SUV similar to the one I’d gotten last time but, sadly, I didn’t.

We arrived in Holiday the next morning and, when I found out that the unloading process would be lengthy, I walked across the road and had breakfast at a little restaurant called The Broken Yolk. It had a nice, homey atmosphere and friendly service, but I think that I ordered the most artery-clogging dish that was available on the menu. My eating habits had begun to suffer since being on the road but, due to the physical nature of flatbed work, I had not gained any weight. In fact, I think that I had dropped a few pounds. I had begun to notice, at truck stops, that there were far fewer overweight flatbedders than non-flatbedders. There was a valid reason for that.

When we had ridded ourselves of the chain-link fence, we were off to Palatka, Florida again to pick up more Gypsum board. As I was pulling into the waiting line at the shipper, Ringo’s unmistakable baritone boomed over the CB, “Get it in there Rick!”

“Man”, I replied, “they’ll let anybody in here won’t they?”

“I guess so!” he shot back with a hearty laugh.

After loading, we went back to the Jacksonville terminal to spend the night. There is no lighting in the terminal yard there, so one almost requires the psychic talents of The Amazing Kreskin to park after dark. At this point in the week, I was still in pretty good spirits. I still had no idea that this would be my final week with this company.

When we set out for Conway, South Carolina on Friday morning, I gave myself an enormous scare on a U.S. Highway. I was fooling around with my sunglasses and, the next thing I knew, the truck had veered off onto the soft shoulder of the road. I’m not sure how close I came to mowing down some mailboxes, but I couldn’t have missed by much. This near-miss put the fear of God into me and, after that, I straightened up and got with the program. This had been a frightening reminder that it only takes a split second of inattention for disaster to strike.

Week 12: A Smoke Tarp, the Broken Yolk, and Jack Daniels: Part 1

2010-08-18T07:21:00.000-06:00

My final week with this company would start out with a bit of a scare. On the way to Anderson, South Carolina, I slowed for a traffic backup near the Atlanta bypass and saw a profound amount of white smoke billowing from beneath the hood. As it turned out, I had simply forgotten to replace the cap on the coolant reservoir after my pre-trip inspection earlier this morning. Some of the coolant had splashed out on the engine to cause the smoke. I was relieved to discover that the problem was a minor one, but this is not the way that I would have chosen to begin the week.

After Anderson, we went to Duluth, Georgia to get our next load. Duluth elected Georgia’s first female mayor in 1922 that promised to “clean up Duluth and get rid of demon rum”. I could have used a slug of "demon rum" when I saw that I would have to blindside into a small dock to be loaded. This would be my first attempt at blindsiding into a dock, but I actually pulled it off quite nicely. I was actually starting to get better at this.

This would be my first "stop-off" load. A stop-off is when the delivery is to multiple customers. In our case, we would be delivering to Charlotte, and Concord, North Carolina. I would come to detest stop-offs. They paid $35 extra but, in general, they were seldom worth the extra trouble.

Nonetheless, the stop-off deliveries went well, and then we were off to Statesville, NC to pick up a load of chain-link fence. This was another first for me. Due to the height of the load and the nature of the freight, a smoke tarp would be required. This would prevent the fence from being stained by the exhaust fumes. The only problem was that I had never been issued a smoke tarp.

I called my driver manager and he nonchalantly resolved, “Just use a regular tarp!” It quickly became obvious to me that he had probably never climbed atop a towering mass of unstable chain-link fence, and precariously wrestled with a 130-pound tarp in an effort to fashion it into a smoke tarp. By the time I had survived this perilous ordeal, I vowed that I would never take another unnecessary risk such as this. If the company wanted me to pick up another load that required a smoke tarp, they’d have to issue me the proper equipment! The company talked a big game about safety but, from my vantage point, it seemed like just that—talk. I had been with this company for less than 5 months, but I’d already heard of no less than four drivers who had fallen off their loads and injured themselves. I did not want to be the next statistic… they could kiss me where the sun doesn’t shine!

I was out of hours when my task was complete so, I started to walk toward the Shipping Office to ask if I could stay here overnight. The Shipping Clerk was already walking toward me. He was holding new pair of gloves, which he handed to me and said, “Here, take these. It looks like you wore yours out”.

I laughed and said, “I don’t think that’s all I wore out!”

He was happy to allow me to stay overnight, and Kitty was already snoozing when I crawled next to her in the sleeper. This load would be going to Holiday, Florida.

Week 11: Buckets of Mud

2010-07-17T17:53:00.000-06:00

The load that we had picked up in Shoals was slated for delivery to Huntsville on Monday. Unfortunately, my truck needed repairs, and the delivery had to be rescheduled until Tuesday. When repairs were complete, we delivered to Huntsville and returned to Bridgeport to pick up a load of drywall to take to Hattiesburg, Mississippi. Upon arrival to Bridgeport, the load was not ready, and we had to wait almost 15 hours before we got it. This week was shaping up to be a week of delays, which would translate into a crappy paycheck. In theory, the company offered detention pay for delays such as this, but trying to get it out of my terminal manager was like trying to extract a wisdom tooth with a pair of tweezers.

We got our load at 3am and set out for Hattiesburg. When we arrived at the Sherwin Williams store there to deliver buckets of joint compound, the “delay” theme stayed in effect. The unloading process was painfully slow because the forklift being used looked like a battery-operated toy that should have had “Tonka” inscribed on the side of it. Also, the forklift driver was obviously a rookie, as he appeared more qualified to drive a bumper car. As I settled in for a long wait, I took little comfort in the fact that, this time, it was not me who looked like a “monkey screwing a football”.

About midway through unloading, the forklift driver had, apparently, failed to seat one of the palates correctly on the forklift. As he was taking it back to the warehouse, he hit a bump that caused the palate to break, and all of the buckets of joint compound went tumbling into a huge mud hole.

As he began the long and arduous task of fishing all of the buckets from the mud, I finally took pity on him and got out to assist. My good deed served as a stark reminder that I still had not purchased any waterproof boots. By the time we were unloaded, I was out of hours so, we spent the night behind the Sherwin Williams store.

It rained for most of the night, and it was still raining the next morning when we left for Meridian, MS to pick up lumber. In keeping with the theme of the week, I had to sit and wait on a stopped train for half an hour before I could get into the shipper.

Mid South Lumber in Meridian was nothing but an enormous mud pit. By the time I had strapped and tarped my load I, once again, looked like the Lizard Man from Scape Ore Swamp. To make matters worse, this load was designed for a 48-foot trailer, and I had a 45’. The lumber was sticking a little over 3 feet off the back of it. As per DOT regulations, I was required to tie a red flag on it, but I didn’t have one. Thankfully, the forklift driver saved my arse by finding an old red tee shirt for me. I thanked him, but spared him a muddy handshake.

This load would deliver to Morristown, Tennessee, the home of Davy Crockett. The cult-favorite horror movie, “Evil Dead” was filmed off of Kidwell’s Ridge Road in Morristown. Sadly, the cabin featured in the film has since burned down, but the chimney still stands, and continues to attract some of the most fanatical devotees of the film.

We arrived in Morristown before noon on Friday so; I fully expected to get a load assignment that would destroy my weekend again. I almost suffered a cardiac arrest when the Qual-Comm beeped and the message read, “Head to Bridgeport”. I would actually get home at a respectable hour this week. However, because of all the delays this week, my paycheck was going to be abysmal.

Nonetheless, I was still in a pretty good mood as I drove back toward Bridgeport. I had no idea that the next week would be the last one I’d spend with this company.

Week 10: Loafers and Burmese Chickens: Part 2

2010-07-08T18:17:00.000-06:00

The delivery to Ocala went fine, but the traffic was ridiculous in this tourist town. I was glad to get out of there and head toward Palatka, Florida to pick up a load of Gypsum board to take to Stallings, North Carolina. Kitty now enjoyed peering out the floor window on the passenger door as we rode along. She seemed to like being on the road now.

From Stallings, I was slated to pick up a load of steel in Columbia, South Carolina to deliver to the Mayo Clinic in Jacksonville. The only problem was that dispatch didn’t send me any directions or a valid contact number for the Jacksonville destination. I called my driver manager to request the information I needed.

“Sure man!” he eagerly replied.

Two hours later, I still had nothing. So, I called Ringo (the person) on his cell and asked his advice. He gave me a suggestion that I took.

I called my driver manager back and told him that I would go ahead and pick up the load, but if I didn’t have any directions or a contact number by the time I got it, I’d drop it off at the Savannah terminal and let them figure it out. He hesitated for a moment and reluctantly said, “Okay”. Ten minutes later, I had both my directions and contact number. Thanks, Ringo! After Jacksonville, we would be going to Fitzgerald, Georgia to pick up lumber.

On the way to Fitzgerald, I went right past the shipper because the log truck ahead of me blocked my view of the sign. I saw it only as I was zooming past. Herein was contained a valuable lesson about big trucks on rural roads: If you miss your turn, there may not be anywhere to turn around for miles. I had to go almost 20 miles before I found a place to turn around.

Fitzgerald, Georgia is a unique town because it is the only city, of which I am aware, where chickens can be seen running around in the downtown area. Not just any chickens, mind you, but wild Burmese chickens. Fitzgerald and surrounding Ben Hill County boasts Georgia’s only known wild Burmese chicken population.

In the 1960’s, wild Burmese chickens were stocked all over the state to be hunted like other game birds. For some reason, the chickens never took hold in other areas of the state, but prospered in the downtown area of Fitzgerald. The residents of Fitzgerald have a love/hate relationship with the wild birds. Some folks buy seed and feed them; others chase them out of their yards with a broomstick and a few expletives. But, love ‘em or hate ‘em, Burmese chickens are a familiar part of the Fitzgerald scene. Fitzgerald may, in fact, be the only city in America where chickens have the right of way.

We delivered our Fitzgerald load to Millwood, Kentucky on Friday, and then went back to Shoals, Indiana for another load. This guaranteed that I would not get home until Saturday. My patience with this trucking company was starting to wear thin. I had not, yet, adapted to the lifestyle of an over-the-road trucker.

Week 10: Loafers and Burmese Chickens: Part 1

2010-07-04T19:26:00.000-06:00

We set out for Ocala, Florida on Sunday, and spent the night at the Florida Welcome Center on I-75. This would be the first time that I’d been back to Ocala since my family had vacationed there when I was a young boy. We had visited Silver Springs, just east of Ocala. Silver Springs is a 350-acre nature theme park that surrounds the headwaters of the Silver River, the largest artesian spring formation in the world.

After exploring the park and taking a glass-bottom boat ride, my father, mother, sister and myself, returned to our motel room in Ocala. Our family pet was a grouchy toy poodle named, ironically, Ringo. My father put Ringo on a leash, and the whole family went out for an evening stroll. Dad had purchased a new pair of dark brown, suede loafers specifically for this trip. He had been bragging all day about how he felt as if he were “walking on air”.

“These are the most comfortable shoes I’ve ever worn,” he boasted.

My dad was in love with his new loafers.

As we walked, Dad stopped along the way to chat with some other tourists. As he talked, Ringo was incessantly tugging on his leash, as if he harbored a sense of urgency about something. My father was so engaged in his conversation that he seemed oblivious to the imploring yanks of the little dog—he just automatically reeled the animal back in. Even at eight years old, it was obvious to me that the tiny poodle required… something. Then, without pomp or fanfare, we all discovered what that “something” was.

Ringo politely lifted his hind leg, and urinated all over my dad’s dark brown, suede loafers. At first, everyone stood stunned and mute, while my father wore the shocked expression of a man who had just been told that he has 24 hours left to live. My mother was the first to emit a snicker. This provided the permission I needed to release the enormous guffaw, which would have caused me to explode had I held it in any longer. Soon, everyone was laughing… except my dad. He tossed the leash of the offending critter to my mother and stormed back to the motel room, wearing a sour frown, a set of bulging veins in his temples, and a beloved pair of dark brown, suede loafers that were soaked in poodle piss. To this day, the “loafer incident” remains a source of amusement to my family and me.

Week 9: Trucking, Fort Rucker and Einstein: Part 2

2010-06-20T17:56:00.000-06:00

Week 9: Trucking, Fort Rucker, and Einstein: Part 1

2010-06-06T13:32:00.000-06:00

"The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and all science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead: his eyes are closed."

-Albert Einstein

The beginning of the ninth week of my trucking career sent me to Swansea, South Carolina. Jesse James is said to have attended a church service at Sharon Crossroads Methodist Church near Swansea. Witnesses have attested that Jesse wore his sidearm in church and sat with his back to the wall during the service, fearing some type of ambush.

Like Jesse, I also felt backed into a corner when I got a first look at the load I'd be picking up. It was a massive array of steel girders, piled to the sky. The girders, being of different lengths and widths, made it appear that this "top-heavy" load might suffer some stability issues. To alleviate my concerns somewhat, I secured it using every single strap that I had on board. We spent the night at an abandoned store in Ulmer, South Carolina and then set out at 1am the next morning. This load was headed to the military base at Fort Rucker, Alabama.

Fort Rucker is the primary flight-training base for Army Aviation and is home to the U.S. Army Aviation Warfighting Center and the U.S. Army Aviation Museum. Fort Rucker is often referred to as "Mother Rucker", both as an insulting pseudo-homonym, and in deference to the birth of an Army Aviator's career and his or her constant return to the post for continued training. It is common knowledge in an Army Aviation career that "Everyone returns to Mother Rucker". My first visit here would certainly prove to be a "Mother Rucker" for me!

Upon arrival, the gate guard instructed me to "Keep straight and you can't miss it". There were two things wrong with these instructions: First, I didn't know what the heck "it" was. I assumed that the steel would be going to a hangar, but there were hangars all over the place! Second, he should have said, "Veer right", because when I "kept straight", I dead-ended into a road with no place to turn around.

I was sitting directly across from the Flight School building and since I had no idea where to go, I got out and started walking toward the school to ask someone for directions. Before I got to the door, a white pickup truck stopped alongside me and a hyperactive little old man, who looked to be at least 70, jumped out and raced toward me with his arms flailing wildly and expletives spewing from his mouth like a geyser.

"I've got to talk to that fucking guard!” he exclaimed.

"You're the second truck this morning to come down here, and there's no place for you to turn this son-of-a-bitch around".

'Tell me something I don't know', I thought.

He was the project manager for the new hangar that was under construction, and I couldn't help but to be a bit amused by his Einsteinian hairstyle, his twig-like frame, and his seemingly caffeine-induced demeanor, but I was not amused at taking another dive into the all-too-familiar "pickle-barrel" again.

"How are you at backing?" he shouted.

"Well", I said, "I'm not the best, but I always get the job done".

His ears, apparently, shut down after he'd heard "I'm not the best..." because from that point on, he began instructing me on how to drive my truck. He was shouting instructions in zealous blasts, and my initial amusement with this hyperactive Einstein look-alike had reverted to a desire to plant an E=MC square-toed boot up his rear end! To this point, however, I had humored him and held my tongue.

Finally, when I could endure no more of his verbal assaults, I politely asked him to get off of my truck, and I'd get it where it needed to go.

"You'll never get it through that gate with your trailer way over there", he submitted.

"You weren't listening to me!"

"I appreciate your trying to help", I answered, "but I think I can get it in there if you'll step out of the way".

"Well, I hope so!" he puffed, as he raised his hands in disgust.

It was a very tight turn, but when my trailer cleared the gate by a full three inches, I could not subdue a satisfied grin as I watched Little Einstein's hyperactivity wind down to a sour frown. He now bore the distinct look of a man who had just bitten into an oil rag.

Week 8: Mountain Man: Part 2

2010-06-02T14:06:00.000-06:00

I finally came upon a small guard shack, but the mountain appeared to continue its ascent beyond the shack. My heart sank to my shoe soles when the guard told me that the road dead-ended at the top, and there would be nowhere to turn around. What the hell was I going to do?

Fighting off the urge to start blubbering like a little girl, I began to study my immediate surroundings. There was a very small, grassy area behind the guard shack that was flanked by a double row of ditches. Under normal circumstances, I would have never, even remotely, considered taking a truck into a precarious area like this, but it appeared to be my one-and-only option.

I said a little prayer and the guard wished me good luck. To make matters worse, the automatic transmission on the Mack was starting to overheat, and I was having a hard time getting it to lock into gear. I would be glad that my next truck would not have an automatic transmission. As I warily entered the grassy area, I knew that there was no room for error. There were deep ditches on both sides of me and, if my trailer went too far into one of them, at best; I would be stuck, at worst; the truck could roll over! I don’t think that I had trembled and sweated this much since I’d gotten my first kiss from LeAnn Bickley when I was 14 years old.

There was some sort of a metal pole sticking out of the ground on my left, and I managed to completely destroy it as I rigidly maneuvered the truck between the two ditches. The guard, who was watching intently, and who also appeared quite nervous said, “Don’t worry about it man. Just do what you have to do.” I had probably made no less that a dozen vows to start attending church, and to never again forget Mother’s Day by the time I had negotiated the narrow course and had the truck back on the mountain trail. Even though I had knocked over most of the guard’s cones, he ran up to my window and let out a hearty “WHOOT!”

“Damn!” he panted, “I never thought you were going to make it!”

“I had my doubts too.” I conceded.

I attempted to get out and help him to set his cones upright, but he waved me off. He was probably just as glad to get rid of me as I was to get out of there. I decided that I would never do another “on the fly” route change in an unfamiliar area again.

I arrived in Vonore about an hour late for my appointment and had to sit for an additional two hours to be unloaded. The customer in Vonore had a “row of shame” for which tardy drivers were directed to go sit and wait. I didn’t even care. I was just happy to have survived my mountain adventure intact.

After Vonore, we delivered to Simpsonville, South Carolina and then, we went back to Camak, Georgia to pick up more lumber. In Camak, I would encounter my first peer who behaved like a bona-fide asshole.

The flatbed driver who was behind me in the loading line, apparently, took offense when I didn’t move to allow him into the loading area before I had secured my straps. I had waited for the guy ahead of me to get his straps on, so I didn’t see any reason why I should move before I had mine on. Obviously, this guy did not share the same sentiment, because he pulled ahead of me in the loading area in an attempt to block me in. He was as pissed off as a hornet with a blunted stinger and, I was getting pretty cranky myself. Nonetheless, I had no desire to go to jail today for planting my ratchet bar across his teeth so, I got back into my truck and eked past him despite his best effort to block my progress. I’ll admit that it gave me more than a little delight as I watched his eyes widen in horror as my trailer went past his tractor with a dime’s-width clearance. I offered him the bonus of a one-fingered salute as I left the yard with a devious smile on my face.

This load was supposed to be going to Bartow, Florida. I knew that this would run me over hours and eliminate my weekend so, I called my driver manager and told him that I was going to split it in Savannah. I didn’t ask him if I could—I told him that I would! I was beginning to lose the wide-eyed gape of a rookie, and I was getting fed up with the end-of-the-week antics of the company. My driver manager argued, but he finally relented.

I dropped my load in Savannah and picked up another one to take back to Bridgeport. Even so, it was after midnight on Saturday morning before I got back. This crap was starting to get old! It’s not what I’d signed on for, and it’s not what I’d been promised. I was, however, getting a valuable education as to how many trucking companies operate. I was already beginning to question my future with this company.

Week 8: Mountain Man: Part 1

2010-05-29T17:59:00.000-06:00

Our first delivery returned Kitty and me to the place we’d been before in Huntsville, Alabama. Although I lived in Huntsville for almost 20 years after I got out of the Navy, it was only recently that I finally visited the facility that Huntsville is most famous for—the Space and Rocket Center. Huntsville’s Space and Rocket Center is home to the world-famous Space Camp. I recall, as a little boy, being mesmerized by watching the sky over Huntsville transform into an array of kaleidoscope colors as engineers tested rocket fuels. Although I would never prove to have the mathematical chops to be a rocket scientist, this dazzling display set the wheels of imagination and dreaming into motion in a young boy’s mind.

As a middle-aged man, I still harbor hopes and dreams with the firm belief that we are never too old to pursue our dreams. As age progresses, many tend to write off dreams as “silly” or “inconsequential” because the odds are stacked against us. However, if dreams had favorable odds, they would probably be called “likelihood’s” or “favorable chances”. I, for one, don’t think that I have ever felt a magical surge of hope and anticipation over a “likelihood” or a “favorable chance” that compares to the thrill of reaching for the stars. I believe that life’s richest moments are attained by reaching for an unlikely goal. The journey, in fact, may prove just as enlightening as the reward of reaching the destination. In taking this journey, we might even be lucky enough to catch a glimpse of Plato’s perfect “form” world. While it is true that we cannot make a crater every time we shoot for the moon, that doesn’t mean that we should stop trying… perhaps it’s just a sign to adjust our aim a little. With that, I’ll close the chapter on my “road-apple” philosophy for today.

Leo, the forklift driver in Huntsville, had a terrible cold today. He said that it was probably from working in the cold rain from when I’d been there two weeks prior. I can still feel my soaked gloves and socks from that day—Yuck!

After Huntsville, we were off to deliver to Stallings, North Carolina and then, we went to pick up in Prosperity, South Carolina.

Prosperity originally went under the name, Frog Level. The most popular legend of how the name originated states that there was a pond infested with innumerable frogs. A local man is said to have became intoxicated and fell asleep while lying at the end of the pond. When he awoke, the frogs were croaking and he, still being in a drunken stupor, imagined that they were crying “frog level”. The old name must still hold a bit of influence, because Prosperity now holds an annual “Hoppin’ Festival” in which a Hoppin’ Pageant Queen is elected.

Regardless of the distinct honor that it would have been to meet the reigning Hoppin’ Queen, I had to pick up my load to deliver to Vonore, Tennessee. This is where things got interesting.

On the way to Vonore, I missed the road that I had intended to take and, from looking at my map on the fly, I devised a brilliant plan to follow US431 through Pigeon Forge and Gatlinburg and then, cut across on Highway 73 to get back to my road. If I had taken the time to study my map closely, I would have seen the folly of this decision. What I did not know, at the time, was that the path I had chosen would be taking me directly toward Clingman’s Dome, the highest point in Tennessee!

Suffice it to say that the Smokey Mountain trail I had chosen was not designed with 18-wheelers in mind. The truck was pulling its way up the mountain in second gear, and the hairpin curves were making my stomach churn. It was obvious that this had been a huge mistake, but there was absolutely nowhere to turn around; the only thing that I could do was to keep crawling skyward. Kitty also sensed the tension of our predicament because she had hidden beneath the seat. Like the protagonist in Cormac McCarthy’s novel, “Sutree”, who took a bus to Gatlinburg to ring in a new disillusionment with nature, I had taken an 18-wheeler to Gatlinburg and I was beyond disillusionment—I was downright scared shitless! I would have liked nothing better than to crawl beneath the seat with Kitty, but I knew that I had to get us out of this mess somehow.

Week 7: Bear Creek, Egypt, and Kitty

2010-05-16T15:02:00.002-06:00

We began this week early as we left on Sunday morning to return to Jackson, Tennessee; the home of the world’s most famous railroad engineer, Casey Jones. We would be picking up another load of steel to deliver to Baldwin, Florida, a small town about 19 miles west of Jacksonville.

The delivery to Baldwin would have went fine if anyone had told me that I was supposed to back out of the unloading area to exit the plant. I drove straight through, expecting that there would be an exit in back of the plant—there wasn’t! I had to perform a series of “Cirque du Soleil” maneuvers to get back to where I had entered. Many customers and shippers will post signs to direct the driver or, the guard will provide verbal instructions to accommodate the driver. Others, simply could not care less. I was in a foul mood when I arrived at the Jacksonville terminal to spend the night.

On Tuesday morning, we went to Savannah to pick up a load at Gold Bond, and we ran into Ringo for the first time since I’d gone solo. He had a new trainee in tow, and we would both be delivering to Bear Creek, Alabama the next morning. It hurt my pride a little when he chided me about why it had taken so long to get to Baldwin so, I was inwardly amused when I beat him to Bear Creek by almost an hour.

Bear Creek’s claim to fame is that their Phillips High School football stadium was the first in the state to be lighted. To an outsider looking in, this might seem trivial, but in Alabama, where football is a religion, anything pertaining to the pigskin is a big deal. After Bear Creek, Ringo and I met again at the Bridgeport terminal, but our ways then parted as his next delivery was to Jacksonville and mine was to Saltillo, Mississippi.

The delivery in Saltillo went fine except that there was a steep hill and a subsequent drop-off to get into the receiving area at the customer. Aside from being a little scary, it was a painless delivery. Then we were off to Macon, MS to pick up a load of lumber going to Millwood, Kentucky.

On the way out of Macon, I passed through a Mississippi community called Egypt. I recall bursting out in laughter with the knowledge that I had now, officially, arrived in Bumfuck, Egypt.

The remainder of the week was without incident, and we got back to Bridgeport late on Friday evening. Upon arriving home, Kitty had come to expect her weekend reward—a jar of baby food. I had begun a tradition, which still continues, of treating Kitty to a jar of Gerber as a homecoming bonus. I realized that I had begun to attach anthropomorphic characteristics to the animal, but it was difficult to do otherwise when I was spending far more time with my cat than with any other human. Besides, she often displayed human-like characteristics.

For example, I once made the mistake of buying a cheaper brand of baby food for Kitty’s reward. She sniffed it, turned her nose up, and met my eyes with a disgusted glare. She may be only a cat, but it was apparent that she was capable of discerning quality. From that point on, I purchased only Gerber.

Aside from having to fight with my driver manager again to get home, this week had gone pretty well. The next week, however, would provide me with the most frightening moments that I have experienced since I’ve been a truck driver.

Detour: Trucking in a Winter Blunderland: Part 4

2010-05-11T07:31:00.000-06:00

While going through South Dakota, the icy road conditions were comparable to what they had been in Pennsylvania on the day I’d gotten stuck on the off-ramp. Four-wheelers littered the shoulder and median of the interstate, and I saw no less than five jack-knifed big trucks keeping them company. I got behind a four-wheeler who was crawling through the icy slush at such an indescribably slow pace, I knew that I’d either have to try and pass him, or park alongside the road for a few minutes. I opted to pass him. I moved into the left lane and began my advancement. The two vehicles were side-by-side as we approached a curve. In the crux of the curve, as I clung to the steering wheel with a white-knuckled “Kung-fu” grip, Kitty did something that she almost never does when the truck is moving—she jumped up in my lap!

I shouted in surprise but, unfortunately, the shout also startled Kitty, who then sunk her claws deeply into the flesh of my thigh. With extreme difficulty, I harnessed my natural instinct to stand up and yell an expletive. I then got to the task of gently prying Kitty’s claws from my flesh while I navigated the icy curve with a fidgety four-wheeler beside me. Happily, we came out of this situation unscathed but, despite the reading of seven degrees on my outside thermometer, I realized that I had broken into a sweat.

Both Kitty and me have also had a few winter adventures that, in retrospect, seem comical. I once let Kitty out at a rest area in Montana to play in the snow. She didn’t seem to care for the ice that crackled beneath her paws and caused her to sink. She was, in fact, meowing in angst, and I couldn’t help but to be amused by her plight as I retrieved my camera to memorialize this event. After I’d snapped a couple of photos, I went and rescued the frightened feline from her icy imprisonment. As I held her in my arms, I thought that it was my imagination when Kitty shot a searing gaze at me, which, undeniably, could have been nothing other than a “screw you” look.

An occasion on which I was, literally, the butt of the joke happened in Ohio. It was snowing heavily when we arrived at our shipper, and when I asked the Shipping Clerk where he wanted me to put my empty trailer, he vaguely replied, “Down at the end”. Well, there was nowhere to put it “down at the end” so, I turned to circumnavigate the building in an attempt to find the “end” to which he might be referring. It didn’t take long to see that this had been a mistake—there was snow and ice everywhere! I, sadly, recognized this too late, and I was doomed to be stuck while attempting to back out. After a series of failed attempts to dislodge the truck from its mire, I had no choice but to call for a tow truck.

While waiting for help to arrive, I could no longer ignore the need to heed nature’s call, so I went into a wooded area to attend to business. The woods were not very dense, and there were railroad tracks very close to my chosen spot. It should not have surprised me to hear the rumble of a train as soon as my trousers were around my ankles.

I pondered the irony when I recalled that, not so long ago, I had complained to my landlord about a loose toilet seat in my upstate New York apartment and now, I was perfectly content to expose my backside to a passing train while squatting like a blue-tick hound.

My metamorphosis into a trucker was complete.

Detour: Trucking in a Winter Blunderland: Part 3

2010-04-20T12:28:00.000-06:00

We would be picking up our Grandview load from a shipper in Milton, PA. On the way to Milton, I had to make a sudden stop when a traffic backup appeared around the bend. Upon doing so, a three-inch chunk of ice slid off the top of the trailer and snapped my air hoses in two. I managed to pull alongside the road as the low-level air alarm bellowed its mournful timbre, and the sickening hiss of escaping air pressure filled my ears, and drained my resolve. We were stuck on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere.

Fortunately, it took only an hour for a road maintenance truck to arrive and replace my hoses. However, after going about a mile down the road, I saw that there was still a slow leak. I could not believe my run of luck, but I decided to go ahead and pick up my load before I took my truck to the Petro in Milton to have the hoses fitted correctly. This, luckily, did not prove to be a poor decision. Me, Kitty, and the Clagwell would make it to Washington without further incident but, after that, fate would flush a cherry bomb down my crapper once again.

After delivering in Grandview, we set out for Sumner, Washington to pick up our next load. The weather had been beautiful for the past two days, but this all changed on the way to Sumner. As we approached Snoqualmie Mountain, near Hyak, Washington on I-90, I saw the dreaded flashing sign that I hoped I’d never see… “Chains Required”.

Being a Southern boy, I had never put on a set of chains in my life, even though I’d lived in New York for three years. My trainer had given me a verbal explanation of the procedure, but he might as well have been explaining open-heart surgery—I didn’t have a clue as to how to chain up. As I paced in the snow, vainly searching for a Rosetta stone to guide me, a driver named Mike, who was pulling doubles, parked ahead of me and began to chain up. I approached him and asked if I could watch, explaining that I had never done it before. I knew that I had about the same chance of successfully putting on a set of chains as I had of building an Egyptian pyramid.

Not only did Mike allow me to watch, he came back and assisted me in putting on my first chain to make sure I got it right. I thanked him sincerely and assured him that I could get the rest on by myself now. It didn’t seem so hard now that I had actually watched someone who knew what they were doing. I managed to get the other two on and I felt better, even though I’d lost most of the sensation in my fingers and toes. We made it to Sumner to get our load and, happily, we did not have to put the chains on again when we went over the same mountain in the opposite direction. Our winter adventures, however, were not quite over yet.

Detour: Trucking in a Winter Blunderland: Part 2

2010-04-19T12:32:00.000-06:00

The process of moving into a different truck, when your supplies are outfitted to stay on the road from 3-6 weeks is, at least, a two to three-hour endeavor. On this day, when there was a foot of snow on the ground and it was still falling heavily, it took about four hours to complete the transition. By the time I was finished, I was worn out, my feet were wet, and even Kitty was meowing in irritable yowls. I wasn’t about to take another load today!

We slept in the new truck in the shop yard that night under an increasing blanket of snow. It snowed all night, and when I woke up the next morning, the truck was practically buried—the snow was all the way up to the doors. The shop personnel eventually came out and plowed the parking lot and, shortly thereafter, I accepted a load to Iowa. About the time I had completed my trip plan, my phone rang—it was Dick.

Apparently, “we” had made a mistake by moving into this truck. This truck was assigned to another driver. Dick kept using the personal pronoun “we” in reference to the error. I was tempted to ask him if he had a mouse in his pocket. I was going to have to take this truck to our terminal in New Kingstown, PA and then, move into another one! I was not happy!

When I finished cursing Dick under my breath, I set out on the arduous journey to New Kingstown. The road conditions were awful! Cars and trucks were scattered along the shoulder and the median as if they’d been involved in a demolition derby. It soon became apparent that leaving the yard in York Haven had been a huge mistake. Shortly after this epiphany had been revealed to me, I got stuck on an off-ramp.

I called the company’s number for breakdown services and they could not offer an estimate of how long I’d have to wait for assistance—they were being bombarded by calls from drivers in distress today. Fortunately, a local police officer stopped to check on me, and he had a tow truck on the scene in just a few minutes.

Under normal circumstances, the terminal in New Kingstown is somewhat of an eyesore, but nothing had ever looked so beautiful as I finally rolled into its icy lot. When I found my “new” truck, my heart sank. It was an old ramshackle piece-of-crap from the Mesozoic era. I shook my head and decided that I wasn’t going to do another thing today—I was going to take a 34-hour restart here.

I slipped and slid my belongings into the “new” truck the next morning. It was a Freightliner, but in honor of Eddie Albert’s tractor on “Green Acres”; I called it my Hoyt Clagwell. When I moved Kitty into her new home, her first reaction was to hiss at the Hoyt Clagwell—it would prove to be an appropriate reaction.

At long last, we settled into the Clagwell and got our first load assignment to Grandview, Washington. On top of everything else, one of my molars was beginning to abscess, and a cocktail of aspirin and Ora-Jel only served to dull the pain a fraction. Things couldn’t possibly get any worse—could they?

Detour: Trucking in a Winter Blunderland: Part 1

2010-04-07T14:18:00.000-06:00

Our first detour from the main story explores some of the later misadventures in winter weather on the road. Winters in the southeast can, occasionally, get nasty but, during my first year on the road, I never encountered conditions that presented much adversity. I was in for a rude awakening when I later began driving nationally for a new company. I had experienced harsh winters in Connecticut, when I was in the Navy, and during the three years I lived in upstate New York, but neither of them prepared me for the icy blasts of Minnesota, or the bone-chilling winds howling off Lake Michigan, which seemed to freeze the very marrow in my bones.

The tales of my winter woes are many, but one of the first that I recall occurred in Oklahoma City on the way to Tulsa. A furious ice storm pelted down as the traffic crawled through Oklahoma City. I noticed a four-wheeler beside me in which the passenger had rolled down his window, and was vainly shouting something at me while frantically pointing toward my trailer. I never discerned his message, but I figured that I’d better pull alongside the road to see if his frenzied appeal had any merit.

A profound ice buildup had collected on the hoses beneath my trailer to the point where they had broken loose and were dragging along the pavement. It required about fifteen minutes of pounding with my mini-sledge to remove all the ice from the hoses. Then, I was able to reattach the hoses using nylon tie wraps. Upon arrival to the shipper in Tulsa, it required another twenty minutes of whacking with my trusty mini-sledge to remove enough ice from the trailer doors to get them open. I had gotten my first taste of winter on the road in a big truck. This was just the preview of coming attractions.

Shortly after Tulsa, I was required to take my truck to a shop in York Haven, Pennsylvania for repairs. When it was determined that I would be in the shop for three to four days, my terminal manager instructed me to move into a new truck which was there on the yard. I’ll refrain from using my terminal manager’s real name, so I’ll just call him “Dick”.

Dick, apparently, was under the impression that moving into another truck is as simple as throwing a bag over your shoulder and picking up the new keys. He requested that I move into the new truck and then, pick up another load that day. To condense a lively exchange into one word—I told him “no”.

Week 6: French Lick and the Forest

2010-04-04T12:08:00.000-06:00

We set out for Vincennes, Indiana at 2am on Monday. Vincennes was originally established in 1732 as a French fur trading post and it stands as the oldest town in Indiana. It is also the birthplace of the legendary “Clown Prince of Comedy”, Red Skelton.

I made a wrong turn on the way to Vincennes and this costed me about half an hour. I was kicking myself for following the “route suggestion” of the company instead of a route that made sense. The company sometimes calculates routes “as the crow flies” or, to avoid toll roads. I learned to use a combination of the company’s route suggestion, the route suggested by my own software, and good old common horse sense to decide on a plausible route.

At any rate, we made it to Vincennes and the delivery went fine. A female forklift driver became enamored with Kitty as the cat had crawled into my lap and was curiously peering out the window. Kitty was overcoming her misgivings about being on the road, and she was becoming increasingly inquisitive about her ever-changing surroundings.

From there, we went to the Gypsum plant in Shoals, Indiana. We were delayed by a painfully long funeral procession on the way and, although I did not wish to be disrespectful, I could not help but to telepathically hurry them along… I was pretty sure the dead guy wouldn’t mind.

The Gypsum plant in Shoals was an unexpected respite, because there was a crew of workers who tarped and strapped the load for me—unlike Cumberland City, where they do nothing. By the time I was loaded, my legal working hours had almost expired so, we spent the night on the side of the road in Hoosier National Forest. As the sun set behind the 200,000 acres of thick, deep woods, we were covered by a blanket of darkness that was so absolute, I couldn’t help feeling a little spooked.

The next morning, the narrow and winding US150 to Louisville, Kentucky seemed as if it would never end. I shuddered at the prospect of breaking down at 3am in a place called French Lick.

This delivery was going to my hometown—Huntsville, Alabama. I received a warm, “welcome home” greeting upon arrival when the driver of a pickup truck gave me the finger as I was turning into the customer’s parking lot. Apparently, he felt that either I had cut him off, or that his destination was much more crucial than mine. During my time on the road, I have received the salute of “the finger” a number of times, but I have gotten to the point where my reflex response is, purely, to wave back cheerfully. Another driver told me that he usually blows a loving kiss upon being paid this gesture.

The rain was pouring down in buckets as I got out to untarp my load. I had bought a rain slicker with a hood, but I had yet to invest in a good pair of waterproof boots. My shoes and socks were soaked by the time I was done, and my mood had become as foul as the weather. It got no better when I discovered that we’d be going back to Cumberland City to pick up our next load.

Cumberland City, however, went reasonably well this time and, as before, we delivered to Marietta, Georgia. My cooling system was running a little hot, so I informed my driver manager and he brought me back to Bridgeport to have it checked. After learning that I wouldn’t get my truck back until sometime the next day, I decided that I’d had enough for this week. I announced to my driver manager that I was going home for the weekend. This earned me a dirty look from him but, apparently, he wasn’t in the mood to be confrontational beyond that.

It was now mid-January. Since I was running southeast regional, I had yet to be introduced to the challenges offered by a northern winter. I would later drive nationally for another company, and it was here that I would identify my least favorite aspect of trucking—dealing with inclement winter weather.

Week 5: Slip sliding away

2010-03-25T13:55:00.000-06:00

With a few minor exceptions, the fifth week went rather well from start to finish. My first drop was in Evans, Georgia, an affluent suburb of Augusta. Despite having to squeeze in beside another company truck to untarp, the two guys, another trainer and his trainee, assisted me in my task. To this point, most of the other company drivers I had encountered were genuinely nice people.

After Evans, we (me and Kitty) picked up lumber at The Timbermen in Camak, Georgia, where I ran into the same two guys again. Camak is a small railroad town that serves as a junction to Savannah, Atlanta, Macon, and Augusta. The railroad, a rock quarry, and the lumberyard serve as the main industries there. In 1875, a tornado swept through Camak, and a freak incident occurred in which a shingle was embedded into a telegraph pole. A portion of that pole currently resides in the Smithsonian Institute in Washington, D.C.

We spent the night at the Bridgeport terminal and delivered, the next morning, in McMinnville, Tennessee. Next, we’d be picking up in Cumberland City, Tennessee.

Cumberland City is the site of a huge TVA power plant along the Cumberland River that provides power to much of the area. The plant’s massive towers are visible from up to 30 miles away, but I’d be surprised if the belching white smoke that coughs out of the towers has ever appeared on a post card. While the rolling hills and open space of this area are quite lovely, the unsightly smoke that spews forth from the colossal towers is akin to adorning Miss America with a potato sack.

Cumberland City would become one of my least favorite places to go for a number of reasons, not the least of which was that the small docks at the shipper were difficult for me to get in to with my still-imperfect backing skills. Today, I had the added obstacle of a slippery sheet of ice in front of my dock. I felt like throwing my ratchet bar at one of the yard dogs as he pointed and laughed as I sat there spinning—some people just have no class. After about fifteen minutes of anguish, I finally slipped and slithered my way into the dock.

This was only the beginning of the fun. Since it had rained the previous night and then dropped below freezing temperature, my rolled-up tarp was frozen solid. I had to pound on it with a mini-sledge for another fifteen minutes to get it unrolled. By the time I secured my load, all sensation in my hands and feet were gone.

We delivered to Marietta, Georgia the next morning and, after enduring a considerable traffic backup on the Atlanta bypass, we made it to Cottonton, Alabama in time to pick up another load that evening. Afterwards, I shut down for the night and I actually made it home early on Friday morning. Overall, this had been a blissfully uneventful week—maybe I was starting to get the hang of this.

Week 4: Hooterville: Part 2

2010-03-17T14:48:00.000-06:00

After Milton, we set out for Georgia Pacific in Louisville, Alabama. To say that Louisville is located in the boonies of Alabama is like saying that Bobby Knight was a passionate basketball coach—an understatement, to say the least. The journey to Louisville was not my idea of a good time. This load would be going back to Frostproof. I was pretty sure that this run would put me over my legal hours to work, but dispatch had pressured me into taking it, and I was still too new to put up much of a fight.

As I approached Gainesville on Friday morning, after spending the night at a Florida rest area, I noticed a dark SUV deliberately staying beside me on my left. I’m not sure how long it had been there because I was still shaking the morning cobwebs out of my head. I slowly peered that way and my mouth went agape as I saw two young females in the vehicle, and the one in the passenger seat had lifted her tee shirt to her neck to expose her breasts. James, from trucking school, would have been drooling like an alley cat at a fish fry.

The only reaction I initially mustered was a stoic look of shock, but I at last flashed a “thumbs up” sign and honked the horn. This prompted the driver to pull down the right side of her blouse and earn me a bonus peep before they zoomed on past. I wasn’t sure of the mile marker that I was currently at, but I was certain that I had just crossed into the city limits of “Hooterville”.

As they went past, I spotted a University of Florida sticker on the rear window so, there was a good chance they were college students. Although I’m a Crimson Tide fan, I did not feel like a traitor when I pumped my fist in the air and cheered, “Go Gators!” I was awake now.

In Frostproof, we sat for over two hours because the company had failed to make an appointment for the delivery. When I was unloaded, I went back to Apollo Beach to pick up another load of Gypsum board that the company wanted me to split in Atlanta. As expected, I had already exceeded my 14-hour clock by the time I arrived in Atlanta so; I had to spend the night at the terminal. I did not get home until noon on Saturday. My “weekends” at this company seemed to be getting shorter and shorter.

A trucking company pays plenty of lip service to the “we care about our drivers” theme, but the actions rarely reflect the rhetoric. In reality, they care about the freight being delivered… period. When, and how often, a driver gets home; the amount of rest that a driver has had; and whether a driver has an acceptable quality of life standard—these are all secondary concerns if, in fact, they are concerns at all.

I would later discover that if you allow a trucking company to push you around, they have little compunction about shoving you off a cliff. If they know they can take advantage of you—they will! I’m sure that dispatchers are pressured into treating drivers like cogs in a machine, but that doesn’t make it right.

I was beginning to learn a very valuable lesson: A driver has to actively guard his or her own best interests because, a trucking company only seeks to serve their own.

Week 4: Hooterville: Part 1

2010-03-10T12:37:00.000-07:00

I left for Frostproof on Sunday and this time, I brought Kitty with me. My loyal cat remains my road companion to this day. It took her a little while to acclimate to life on the road but now, she actually gets excited when it’s time to go—she knows she gets more treats out here!

Prior to being named Frostproof, the Florida city we were going to was called Keystone City. The name change was a marketing ploy to convince potential landowners that the town would never have a frost that could destroy the citrus-driven economy. About two years after the name change, a terrible frost killed most of the citrus there.

When we arrived in Frostproof, no one was working in the receiving department because today was a holiday. I simply dropped the load in the yard, and the guard signed for it—very easy.

Next, we picked up a load of drywall in Apollo Beach that delivered in Atlanta. At this early stage of my trucking career, I still hated going to Atlanta, but this time did not prove to be a problem. There was a trainer and his trainee in another company truck who had arrived at the customer before me, and they even provided assistance in untarping my load. After delivery, I shut down for the night and picked up the next morning in Opelika, Alabama to deliver to Milton, Florida.

The directions to the customer in Milton would bear out to be another botched offering from the company. My directions said to go west on US90 when they should have said to go east. When it became apparent I was going the wrong way, I stopped in front of a motorcycle shop to ask directions from three bikers. They were happy to help, and their directions were on the money. I turned around at a Walmart and finally found the customer—thanks to the bikers.

Week 3: Frostproof Ladders: Part 2

2010-03-05T10:21:00.000-07:00

When I got to Erlanger, I was instructed to drop my empty trailer in a dock and then get my pre-loaded one. My backing skills were slowly improving, but I totally fouled up my effort to get into the loading dock. I had not set up close enough to the dock and my tractor was too close to the opposing wall to do it properly. My nerves were too rattled to do the sensible thing and correct the setup so, I ferried back and forth in a vain struggle for what seemed like an eternity. Another flatbed driver witnessed my strife and came over to offer his assistance. By this time, I was so distressed that I was glad to accept his offer. He made it look easy and, after I thanked him, I made a vow that this would be the last time that another driver would have to bail me out of a pickle barrel.

When I took a first look at the towering mass of ladders that I was to haul all the way to Frostproof, Florida, I may have been as awe-stricken as the ancient Babylonians peering heavenward at the Tower of Babel. As a rookie, this was the first load of ladders I’d ever encountered and I was having trouble getting past my initial reaction: Damn they were stacked high!

After overcoming my shock and awe, I started throwing my straps across the mountainous heap. I got one of the straps lodged in a pile of ladders and had to climb up and perform a series of contortionist moves to remove it. Then, I missed a throw and the metal end of the strap fell and whacked me in the forehead. My knot from Savannah had healed, but this was going to give me a much more impressive one—hell, I was going to have a horn!

I finally secured the load and then I headed back toward Bridgeport. This load delivered to Frostproof on Monday so, I’d leave it at the terminal over the weekend. I made it back to Bridgeport and I had lived, barely, through my first three weeks.

Week 3: Frostproof Ladders: Part 1

2010-02-24T09:34:00.000-07:00

I left on Sunday night to take my load to Greenwood, Mississippi—the site of my very first delivery. Greenwood is known as the Cotton Capital of the world. It also boasts a rich history of the Delta Blues. The legendary Robert Johnson has three memorial gravestones in the Greenwood area and “The King of the Blues”, B.B. King, performed his first live broadcast on Greenwood’s WGRM radio station in 1940. Greenwood is also one of the few places in the world where you can stand between two rivers flowing in the opposite direction: the Yazoo River and the Tallahatchie River.

One of the recruiting pitches of some trucking companies is “Get paid to see America”. In truth, it is extremely rare to get an opportunity to behave like a tourist. You are performing a job and, if you want to make any money, you won’t be donning Mickey Mouse ears at Disney World. Even when the occasion presents itself, I usually prefer to relax, watch a movie, and catch up on my sleep. Yet, I occasionally seize the chance to experience the history, culture, or entertainment of a cool place.

The delivery in Greenwood went fine this time and, since I had driven the previous night, I went to the Pilot in Winona, Mississippi to shut down for the evening. I would be picking up at the Georgia Pacific plant in New Augusta, Mississippi in the morning.

When I arrived in New Augusta, the shipping department could not locate my pickup number. This was because dispatch had sent me to the wrong Georgia Pacific plant in the WRONG CITY! They should have sent me to Bay Springs.

Drivers and dispatchers usually do not share a loving relationship. To a degree, though, I share a sense of empathy for dispatchers. They endure a high level of stress, they are under a great deal of pressure from their supervisors to move freight, and they have to listen to drivers bitch and complain every day. However, the pressure they are under often makes them forget that the truck numbers on their computer screen represent real, live human beings.

At any rate, I was not happy with them for blundering my load assignment. At the time, the company paid less for deadheading (driving while empty) than they paid for running loaded. They have since amended that policy to remain competitive with other companies but on this day, dispatch had cost me money and aggravation. By the time I got to Baytown, I had probably expended almost every profanity and expletive in the English language.

I picked up a load of lumber in Baytown to deliver to Franklin, Tennessee. The trip went nicely and then I was off to Erlanger, Kentucky to pick up a load of ladders. When I got to the weigh station in Simpson County, Kentucky, I was privileged enough to be pulled aside for a full DOT inspection. The officer checked everything and, after almost an hour of probing, all he found was a minor defect with one of the trailer air hoses. Fortunately, he did not give me a citation for it and I was on my way again.

Week 2: Accident on I-85: Part 2

2010-02-16T15:35:00.000-07:00

After delivering to Greenville, I picked up a load in Kinards, South Carolina and delivered to Marianna, Florida. The next few days went smoothly and I was able to put the events of Sunday night behind me. Things went well until I went to Jacksonville at the end of the week. I was to pick up a “drop & hook” load from Celotex, which was right across from the Jacksonville terminal.

After I dropped my empty trailer and then hooked up to my pre-loaded one, I intended to return to the terminal to shut down for the night. When I started to pull out, I heard a sickening, crunching sound and looked in my mirror to see that my load was leaning precariously to the left. I immediately stopped and got out to see what had happened.

The yard dog, who had dropped the trailer there, had left the dollies up too high and, consequently, when I “thought” I had hooked up to the load, my fifth wheel had gone all the way past the kingpin and hooked to something on the underside of the trailer…but, it wasn’t actually “hooked” to anything. With more experience, I would have recognized that something was amiss from the “feel” but I was still a wide-eyed rookie who was, apparently, intent on compiling an impressive resume of mistakes. I could have dollied the landing gear to its full height and then, used my ratchet bar to manipulate the fifth wheel past the kingpin to get out of this mess, but I had not learned this trick yet and I was too upset to formulate a logical solution. I called the home office and they sent a tow truck.

During the two hours spent awaiting the arrival of the tow truck, I once again questioned whether I was cut out for this. For all I knew, this would mark the end of my brief trucking career. I had, however, learned another hard lesson. While most drivers go by the “feel” I, thereafter, began to get out and visually check the lineup of the kingpin to the fifth wheel before I hooked up to a trailer. I still adhere today to this practice… I don’t care what other drivers do.

When the tow truck corrected the problem, I took my truck to the terminal shop to ensure that there was no damage to the fifth wheel. The shop technician was a tall, crusty-tempered man named Jack. His face was plastered with the expression of a man who had just found half a cockroach in his breakfast biscuit. He looked to be around 60, but his leathery features appeared to be that of a former boxer who had suffered a broken nose at least a dozen times.

To be sure, Jack was being an asshole of colossal proportions, but instead of countering his verbal diatribe with an attack of my own; I just kept being nice to him. His unpleasantness slowly began to subside, and his manner approached a level that almost resembled compassion. The fifth wheel was fine but Jack found another problem. I would have to leave my truck in the shop overnight, but Jack called a nearby Econolodge and arranged a motel room for me. He was actually being nice now!

After enjoying the comfort of a real bed, I returned to the terminal the next morning to pick up my truck, but it wouldn’t be ready until after lunch. My load was due in Stockbridge, Georgia this evening but, due to the delays, I would not make it. I informed dispatch and they told me to leave (split) my load at the Atlanta terminal.

The delay was longer than expected and I didn’t get to Atlanta until midnight. I picked up another load at the terminal for a Monday delivery and started heading toward Bridgeport for my “weekend” off. I stopped at a rest area in Resaca, Georgia for a quick respite. When I sat down on the sleeper, I realized I was so exhausted that I didn’t want to get off it. I went to bed and rolled into Bridgeport on Saturday morning. This week of hellish misadventure was finally over.

Week 2: Accident on I-85: Part 1

2010-02-10T14:14:00.000-07:00

The beginning and the end of the second week truly made me question whether I wanted to be a truck driver. I left on Sunday evening to make a delivery in Greenville, South Carolina. I was driving on I-85 at 10pm, about 20 miles east of Carnesville, Georgia when I felt a huge BANG on the left side of my trailer. It was a surreal experience as I looked in my mirror to see an automobile falling away, at a 45 degree angle, into the distance as its headlights blinked away into lifelessness.

The thoughts that enter your mind during a time of shock are often ridiculous. When I lived in New York, I recall going into a skid in my Chevy Nova on an icy winter morning. As my car was sliding toward a log fence, I remember thinking, just before the moment of potential impact, “I wonder if my insurance covers this?”

After the car slammed into my trailer on I-85, I had two thoughts: the first was simply, “Holy Crap!” The second was, “Maybe no one noticed.” I was so shaken up that nowhere on the side of the road looked like a safe place to stop, so I rolled into the next truck stop. When I got out to look at my trailer, I saw that the landing gear was bent, a mud flap was torn off, the landing gear crank handle was bent, and there were a couple of pieces of the car that had hit me lodged in the trailer—yes, someone would notice!

I knew I had to call the authorities, but first, I walked into the truck stop in an effort to calm myself to the point where I’d stop shaking. I should have stopped immediately as soon as the accident happened, but I was in such a state of disarray that I had made a poor decision. I finally calmed myself and resolved to do the right thing. I went back to the truck and called the police and the company home office. After waiting for over an hour for two officers to arrive, they eventually instructed me to return to the scene of the accident.

When I arrived back at the scene, no one was there. I wondered whether I was in the right place until I saw some broken glass alongside the road. I called the police again and finally got in contact with the investigating officer. He told me that the investigation was over, and he didn’t need to see me unless I wanted to see him. I politely informed him that I did not. The home office seemed satisfied when I relayed this to them, and I never heard anything more of the matter.

I learned two things from this misadventure: first, that being safe out here requires being careful and being lucky and, second, that I needed to keep my head screwed on straight in a time of crisis. I had made the wrong initial decision, but I had gotten lucky—next time, I might not.

Even though there was nothing I could have done to prevent what happened, I hoped that no one was injured. I never found out what happened behind me to cause the accident because the officer didn’t tell me, and I didn’t want to risk getting his dander up by asking pesky questions. I returned to the truck stop and removed the two pieces of red fiberglass from my trailer. I didn’t know what kind of car had struck me; the only thing I knew for certain was… it was red.

Week 1: Coon Dogs & The Lizard Man: Part 2

2010-02-05T14:16:00.000-07:00

From Littleville I went to Jackson, Tennessee to load steel beams. The huge girders being ferried around by giant magnets appeared quite intimidating so, I was glad that I got to stay in the truck the whole time. Afterwards, having never tarped steel beams before, I wasn’t quite sure how to attack the problem. Fortunately, another company driver out of Savannah spotted my dilemma and was good enough to assist me.

“I remember what it was like.” he laughed.

I’ve heard many of the old-timers complain that trucking is not a fellowship as it once was. I’m sure that is true but, in my own experience, I’ve found that most drivers are willing to help one another out if the situation calls for it. On the other hand, I have encountered the “every man for himself” attitude as well. However, the majority of drivers are honest, hardworking men and women who are willing to lend a hand.

After the steel was tarped, I was worn out. I was asleep before my head hit the pillow. I would be taking this load to Jacksonville, Florida tomorrow.

Aside from having to wait for over two hours to be unloaded, Jacksonville went well. From there, I’d be going to Georgia Pacific in Savannah to pick up a load of drywall. This one would test my mettle because, not only would I have to back into a tiny dock with my still-limited backing skills, it was pouring down rain and the entire yard was a huge mud pit. By the time I had secured my load in this veritable pigpen, I probably looked like a creature that had emerged from Scape Ore Swamp in South Carolina. As I sloshed back to the cab covered in mud, for a brief instant, I missed my comfortable TV job. I was covered in mud and muck, my feet were wet, and I had sprouted a world-class blister on my right hand. One of the bungee cords had popped off and snapped me in the forehead so, I was wearing an impressive knot as well. As the rain continued to pound down, to my utter astonishment, I began to feel invigorated—even euphoric! I couldn’t wrap my mind around it but, for the first time in years, I felt… real.

I returned to the terminal for a much-needed shower. The muck and grime of the day’s labor washed away and, along with it, any inclination of returning to my former life. This was still extremely hard on me, but I realized that I was embracing the challenge. Knowing that, the blisters and bumps, along with my weary frame, didn’t hurt so much anymore.

My final delivery of the first week went to Alexandria, Alabama. My driver manager tried to give me another run after that, but I told him I was exhausted after my first week and needed to go home. Uncharacteristically, he didn’t put up much of a fight and, three hours later, I was back in Scottsboro having completed my first week. The second week, however, would once again cause me to question whether I had made the right decision in becoming a trucker.

Week 1: Coon Dogs & The Lizard Man: Part 1

2010-01-28T21:19:00.000-07:00

The first delivery of my first full solo week was to Simpsonville, South Carolina. This one, thankfully, went very smoothly; the directions were accurate, it was easy to get to, and they had me unloaded quickly. This trend, however, would prove to be of the one-in-a-row variety. My next pickup would be at International Paper in Newberry, SC.

Newberry, I learned, is home to a witness who reported a sighting of a reptilian monster in 2005 called “The Lizard Man of Scape Ore Swamp”. The Lizard Man is described as being seven feet tall with green, scaly skin and glowing red eyes. The woman in Newberry reported to the police that she had seen two creatures resembling the Lizard Man near her home. The responding officer, in an effort to calm the frightened woman, told her the creatures “just like to check on humans from time to time”. While I cannot claim a Lizard Man sighting in Newberry, I still had a bizarre experience of my own there.

My directions said to go 4 miles past the first light in Newberry and the shipper would be on the right. What they should have said was to go .4 miles after the light. I saw International Paper on the right, just as I zoomed past it.

Newberry is a town with narrow streets and many of them are one-way. It was probably not designed with a truck pulling a 48-foot trailer in mind. I finally spotted a street that (almost) appeared to have adequate width to make a left turn, so I gave it a shot. I had to back up a few times and go up on a grassy embankment to avoid taking out a stop sign, but I finally made it back to the interstate and re-entered Newberry to try again.

Déjà vu! I turned into the wrong gate again and the only way out would be to do a blindside backing maneuver out into the street. I could not believe this! I was starting to feel like God’s hacky sack!

I panicked for a while and looked around, in hopes of seeing another elderly white-haired man. I began to calm myself and then resolved to do what I had to. After a couple of failed attempts, I managed to get out of there no worse for the wear. While I was fuming at myself for making the same mistake twice, I was happy that I’d been able to clean up my own mess this time. Nevertheless, I was starting to see that a goal worth striving for might be to NOT get myself into these predicaments in the first place.

I picked up lumber in Newberry, which delivered to Littleville, Alabama. Littleville, mercifully, went very smoothly. On the way to Littleville, I saw a sign for the Coon Dog Cemetery on Highway 72ALT near Tuscumbia, Alabama. At first, I thought it was a joke, but it is a legitimate burial site exclusively for coon dogs.

A man named Key Underwood who, sadly, buried his faithful coon dog Troop, with whom he had hunted for 15 years, established the Coon Dog Cemetery in 1937. The burial spot chosen by Underwood was a popular hunting camp where coon hunters from miles around would gather to plot their hunting strategies. Soon, other hunters followed suit and chose this site as the final resting place for their beloved coon dogs.

Out of one hunter’s devotion to his faithful coon dog, the Key Underwood Coon Dog Memorial Graveyard was born. It is the only cemetery of its kind in the world. Today, more than 185 coon dogs from all across the United States rest in this northwest Alabama memorial.

While I may have had an initial chuckle, I learned that the memory of a loyal coonhound is no joke to an avid coon hunter. When a columnist interviewed Underwood in 1985 and asked why he didn’t allow other kinds of dogs to be buried there, his reply was:

“You must not know much about coon hunters and their dogs if you think we would contaminate this burial place with poodles and lap dogs.”

The following is an excerpt from an actual coon dog eulogy:

and the coons don’t go up no slick barked trees

and the carbide don’t run out

and there ain’t no bull nettle and saw briars

and old master always knocks the coon out

and lets Ole Red grab him and give him a good shake;

and then he gets a pat on the head

and climbs back into the kennel in the back of the pick-up truck.

The First Delivery: Part 2

2010-01-21T14:24:00.000-07:00

I was furious with myself for making such a stupid mistake, but I concentrated my efforts at the seemingly impossible task of getting myself out of this mess. My slapstick antics captured the attention of an elderly white-haired man who appeared to be in his seventies. As he ambled toward the site of my comical frolic, I could tell by his expression that my driving skills appeared about as natural to him as a supermodel who had just combed her hair with a rock.

“How long have you been driving?” he inquired with a gentle earnestness.

“This is my first delivery”, I admitted.

As it turned out, he was the Receiving supervisor at True Value and a 40-year trucking veteran.

“I don’t mean to tell you your business”, he humbly advanced, “but would you like me to help you out?”

I was embarrassed, but I knew I’d gotten myself in over my head. I politely allowed the nice old fellow to take over.

I’ll admit that it dashed my confidence when he maneuvered the truck out of the mess I’d made with precision and ease. Back at the receiving docks, he even had one of his guys to assist me in untarping and unstrapping my load. When the work was complete, I thanked him for his help and apologized for my rookie mistake. He just smiled and said, “Don’t worry, it’ll get better.”

“I hope so,” I answered with a sigh.

I didn’t know it at the time, but I would meet other kind and endearing people, like this man, in my travels and I would meet others, who were not. I did know, however, that a new adventure lay before me. Despite the blunders of today, my mood was upbeat again. I may have taken a couple of wrong turns and hit a few potholes along the way, but I had successfully made my first delivery. Today had offered the lesson that in trucking, as in life, the path to our destination is rarely a straight one.

The First Delivery: Part 1

2010-01-20T16:22:00.000-07:00

Ringo and I said our goodbyes after spending the night at the Mobile terminal and I was left to pick up my truck, a 2001 flattop Mack with over 600,000 miles on the odometer. It was missing almost all of the necessary equipment so, I spent the better part of the morning rounding up my gear.

Finally, I was off on my own. I was nervous, but I was excited too. I had evolved into a good driver on the road but my backing skills were still reprehensible. In general, flatbed drivers are required to do less precision backing than dry van drivers are because, more often than not, they are loaded and unloaded via forklift out in the open as opposed to in a dock. Precision backing is, nonetheless, required from a flatbed driver too. Ringo once equated my backing skills to “a monkey screwing a football”.

For my first load assignment, I’d be picking up a load of shingles in Mobile to deliver to Upchurch Building Supply in Greenwood, Mississippi on the following day. My message indicated that I had a pre-loaded trailer so, I bob-tailed to the shipper only to discover that my load was at the Mobile terminal. Unbeknownst to me, Ringo and I had spent the night sitting next to my load.

I made a wrong turn on my way back to the terminal and wound up taking an unscheduled tour of Mobile. Eventually, I found my way back and began the arduous task of hooking up to my load and securing it. In training, Ringo and I had worked together with the tarps, straps, and bungee cords but, alone, it seemed as if I were wading through molasses. I was painfully slow, but I wanted to make certain that my load was secure. When I was satisfied, I pulled out to embark on my first solo trip.

By the time I got to Hattiesburg, Mississippi, the heavens opened up and the rain was pelting down in torrents. It gave me a scare when I stopped at a red light and saw smoke billowing from beneath my trailer. I pulled alongside the road to investigate and decided that this was merely a heat exchange between the rain and the rear trailer tires. I, nonetheless, kept a wary eye behind me as I forged ahead but, as the rain subsided, the steam from the rear tires subsided also. I rolled into a rest area on I-55 near Winona, Mississippi and spent the night there.

The next morning, I drove into Greenwood and began looking for Upchurch as per my directions. After I passed through the entire city, I began to feel that something was amiss. I stopped at a convenience store, which, luckily, had room for me to turn around and asked a security guard for directions. Upchurch was supposed to be next to a Shoney’s and, while the guard was unfamiliar with Upchurch, he told me how to get back to Shoney’s.

I found Shoney’s but, still, saw no Upchurch. However, I saw a True Value hardware store so, I pulled in front of it and asked a man, who was going inside, if he knew where Upchurch was.

“This is it”, he replied, “The name has just changed”.

I had gotten my first taste of trucking company efficiency in providing directions. The difficulties notwithstanding, I had finally located my first customer. All I had to do now was pull around back to be unloaded.

It was with a combination of dismay and denial when a cartoonish image of a chimpanzee performing unspeakable acts to a football entered my mind, upon realizing that I had turned down a dead-end alley. The only way to get out would be to do a blindside backing maneuver into the street, with a ditch on both sides. I had promised myself to remain an optimist in my new job, but I suddenly felt that the glass half-full/glass half-empty axiom did not apply to me—I was convinced that life had served me up with a dribble glass!

Training with Ringo - Part 2

2010-01-19T15:12:00.002-07:00

The first couple of weeks were hard, because my body was not conditioned to this pace, this type of work, or these long hours. I lost most of the feeling in the tips of my fingers, and I had aches in places where I would have sworn I didn’t have muscles. My former sedentary job was a world away as I wrestled with 130-pound tarps, threw straps, climbed atop towering loads, and stretched bungee cords to secure the tarps. Sometimes, this had to be done in cold, wet, or muddy conditions but, gradually, my body began to adapt to the rigors of its new duties. My “road toughness” would not approach the level of Ringo’s during the six weeks I rode with him, but I would eventually get it to a level that I would have thought impossible.

Ringo also introduced me to some places on the map that make a new driver sweat. One such place was the Green River Gorge on I-40 in North Carolina. I had already heard some horror stories pertaining to “The Gorge” and I have, since, seen the aftermath of a rollover while driving through it. I came to realize, however, that The Gorge is nothing to fear so long as it is approached with respect and common sense. Accidents happen there because, quite simply, some drivers just go through it too fast.

I was, nonetheless, a bit tense the first time I descended Monteagle in Tennessee. I would later view Monteagle as little more than a bump in the road after traveling through the Rockies, but I attempt to never have a cavalier attitude toward descending a mountain in a big truck. I have never forgotten the words of Boom Boom in trucking school concerning this:

“You can come down a mountain too slow as many times as you want. You can come down a mountain too fast, once!”

We were taught to use a proper combination of using a lower gear, tapping the brakes, and the utilization of Jake brakes to minimize air brake usage but, if you are hauling a 40,000-pound load on a 6% or 7% downgrade, trust me, you’ll have to use the brakes some.

I have smelled the acrid odor of smoking brakes more than once while descending a mountain and, each time, I was praying that the smell wasn’t emanating from my truck. This is an olfactory experience that every driver fears. I rarely speak for others, but I feel secure in saying that any driver will admit he’d rather smell a Taco Bell “chalupa fart” than to smell his own brakes smoking while descending a mountain.

Ringo and I would sometimes enjoy one another’s company and, at other times, merely endure it. Overall, Ringo was a good trainer. He provided me with the basic tools I needed to fly solo and he often gave encouragement when I struggled with my confidence. We remained friends for a time after my training and, later circumstances would require me to ask some favors from him, to which he eagerly complied. I still think highly of Ringo and wish nothing but the best for him and his family.

Finally, the six weeks of training had drawn to their conclusion and it was time for me to be assigned my own truck. I’d be picking up my truck at the company terminal in Mobile, Alabama. To say that I had an inauspicious beginning would be to redefine the word “inauspicious”.

Training with Ringo - Part 1

2010-01-15T12:06:00.000-07:00

Ringo was an imposing, grizzly bear of a man with a beard like Dan Haggerty and, despite his thinning hair; he continued to grow graying, shoulder-length locks. He looked a bit like an oversized caricature of Hank Williams Jr. Ringo’s resounding baritone voice left the impression that it might have shattered a wine glass or two in its time.

When he arrived to pick me up in the red, white and blue Mack, I loaded my gear into the truck in anxious anticipation of my first week on the road. As I began to settle in, I observed, in horror, only one sleeper berth. Having recently seen the movie “Brokeback Mountain”, my perineum instinctively tightened. Ringo sensed my panic, and released a powerful belly laugh in amusement.

“The company’s gonna give us a condo next week”, he explained between chuckles. “We’re stuck with this flat top this week so, we’ll just have to do the best we can. You can have the sleeper the first couple of nights ‘till you get settled.”

I heaved a sigh of relief and Ringo continued to chortle for the next few miles.

Ringo had recently returned to the company after having spent the past year driving for a private owner. I was his first trainee. This would be a new experience for both of us.

Over the next six weeks, we traversed the southeast together and Ringo displayed a patience and understanding that belied his, sometimes, brash personality. Ringo could be described as many things, but boring is not among them. He regaled me with road stories and death-defying tales from his youth during our six weeks together. I never knew, with certainty, how much truth these tales contained but, oftentimes, an allegorical truth is just as enlightening as a literal one. Ringo was, without question, a bard of the open road. He also had a habit of bringing interrogative closure to many of his observations with the query, “You know what I mean?” I didn’t give it much thought to begin with but, after a time, I began to wonder if Ringo were channeling the ghost of the late Jim Varney. To his credit, however, he did find time to provide me with training between yarns.

Since we were running southeast regional, we would get to go home on weekends. I would soon discover, however, that the company’s idea of a “weekend” was often displayed by getting the driver home late on Friday evening and then, dispatching him on a load that required him to leave early on Sunday morning. The “trucker’s weekend” was not something I’d been prepared for.

Trucking School - Part 4

2010-01-14T18:11:00.000-07:00

Finally, the time to take the road test arrived. We would go, in small groups, to the testing facility in Hartselle, Alabama over the next five days. I would test on the second day, and Alan would test on the fourth. Everyone was nervous, so I guess Alan just needed a laugh when he approached Douchebag and asked, “Do you think you’re going to pass?”

“I KNOW I’m going to pass!” boasted Douchebag proudly.

Douchebag failed on his first two attempts.

The test consisted of four parts: first, the student would provide a verbal commentary of an inspection of the truck and trailer, next would be straight-line backing, then, 45° angle backing and, finally, driving on the road with the evaluating officer.

On my test day, the diminutive Ray and another student named Jerome accompanied me. Jerome was missing most of his front teeth, but that didn’t stop him from flashing an endearing smile. He had poignant circumstances for being here and I was in his corner rooting for him. The scuttlebutt among the instructors, however, didn’t give him a snowball’s chance in hell of passing. On this day, Jerome’s smile was missing and he was nervous, almost to the point of trembling. It helped to relieve some of my tension as I offered encouragement to him as best I could.

Ray was the first to test and despite being barely big enough to reach the pedals, he passed on the first attempt. Next was Jerome. Pat was the instructor who had accompanied us and she didn’t seem optimistic. Jerome, however, rose to the occasion and shocked everyone. He got what held up to be the highest score of anyone in the class.

“I didn’t see that coming,” is all Pat could say.

Now it was my turn. We were two for two today, and I certainly wanted to keep the streak intact. I breezed through the inspection because Alan and I had unmercifully drilled each other on this until we had it down cold. Straight-line backing didn’t prove to be a problem either. Then, it was time for the dreaded 45° angle backing. After my heart skipped a few beats, I set up the way Pat had showed us, and I slowly maneuvered the trailer between the cones. It was perfection! I was dead center perfect! My confidence was soaring as I got out to see that my trailer was already across the first line, which was a passing grade. I thought, however, that I could back a little closer to the rear cone to improve my score. I climbed back into the truck and backed up a little. I got out to observe my mastery, knowing that I’d just sent my score into the stratosphere.

My life flashed before my eyes in horror as I observed the rearmost cone lying horizontal, as if it were a bowling pin toppled with a Brunswick from the hand of Walter Ray Williams Jr. I looked at the officer with an imploring appeal but, with the cone lying there like a fallen soldier, he had no choice but to fail me.

I was devastated. I moped to the curb and sat down with my head in my hands. Our roles reversed, Jerome came over to offer encouragement. I was pissed off at myself because my ego had caused me to fail. I’d just been trying to “run up the score”. I deserved to fail, and I knew it. Jerome didn’t allow me to feel sorry for myself for long though.

“Git up and go take that motherfucker again!” he insisted.

“I know you can do it an’ I’m gone kick yo’ motherfuckin’ ass if you don’t go take that motherfucker again!”

His words were blunt, simple, and to the point. I decided to go and take that motherfucker again.

This time, I collected myself and left my ego at the door. I backed the trailer between the cones and got out three or four times to assess my progress. When the rear of the trailer was across the first passing line, I looked at the officer and asked, “Is that passing?”

He could not conceal an amused grin when he said, “Yeah, that’s passing. Do you want to go for a higher score?”

“No, sir!” I stated with conviction.

The road test went well and, after the emotional roller coaster ride of today, I could rest easy now—I had passed.

  
The majority of the class did not pass on the first attempt. Even Alan had to take a second stab at it. Nevertheless, everyone eventually got a CDL—even Douchebag. I was going to miss many of these guys, especially Alan, but it was now time to decide on a first trucking job. We said our goodbyes and everyone went out into the world. Mike, never breaking character, left without saying a word to anyone. I heard, later, that Mike’s trainer at USA Truck abandoned him at a truck stop. I don’t know if it’s true, but it wouldn’t surprise me if it were. Steve went to work for CRST for a short time and then went back to driving a cement truck in Alabama. Ray decided that the nomadic life of an OTR trucker wasn’t for him and he found a job driving locally. I don’t know what happened to Douchebag—I just hope he hasn’t killed anyone.

Alan drove locally for about six months and then found another engineering job. I stayed in contact with him for a time, and he gave me updates on the other students that he knew about. According to him, I’m the only one out of our class who is still driving OTR. I don’t know what became of the rest of them but I hope they’re doing well.

I decided to take my first trucking job with a flatbed company out of Savannah, Georgia. I’d be running southeast regional and working out of their Bridgeport, Alabama terminal. After going through orientation in Savannah, taking a physical, and signing a ton of paperwork, I met my trainer—and Ringo was his name-o.

Trucking School - Part 3

2010-01-13T12:46:00.000-07:00

Almost everyone is abysmal at 45° angle backing to start with, and I was no exception. However, I was not the only one having difficulty. Alan even resorted to mathematical solutions to crack this puzzle, but it didn’t seem to help either of us.

The “guy who knew everything” was, amusingly, one of the worst in the class. I can’t recall his name, so I’ll just call him “Douchebag”. Douchebag blamed the equipment, blamed the instructor for teaching him bad habits, and blamed the setup of the course. It couldn’t have been his lack of ability, because he was God’s gift to trucking. Douchebag insisted that if he had designed the course, everyone would be a Super Trucker within a week. By this time, Douchebag was more comic relief than mentor.

In truth, backing a big truck is more art than science. The only way to improve is through sheer repetition. Unfortunately, there was a limited amount of time and opportunities to practice before our road test. Concern arose among some of the students. We didn’t see how we’d possibly be ready in time.

Enter Pat. Pat was another yard instructor, a petite middle-aged lady with closely cropped blonde hair and a forceful presence. Pat was a veteran of the road and traveled with her loyal companion, a terrier mixed-breed named Zip Code.

“I named him that because he’s been in every zip code,” explained Pat.

She said the course in the yard was set up exactly the same way it would be for the test. Then, she pulled a Joe Namath moment out of her hat:

“We’ve done this week in and week out with hundreds of students, and I guarantee I’ll have you ready for your test.”

She seemed so confident that I didn’t write her words off as bluster—I believed her. True to her word, she began showing us some tricks that yielded immediate results. The “tricks” that she showed us probably wouldn’t have helped a whit in a real world situation of attempting to back into a dock at a crowded shipper, but they helped immensely in learning to set up at the correct angle on this particular course and getting the trailer in between the cones.

This brings up a point. A three-week trucking school is, essentially, a boot camp toward getting a CDL. Given the short time frame, the student is crammed with the essential knowledge to pass the test… period. There is no time to perfect or hone any of the basic skills. Make no mistake; a student fresh out of CDL School is NOT prepared to be on the road in an 18-wheeler. That is why, upon being hired by his first company, a new driver will spend six to eight weeks with a certified trainer before going solo. The role of a CDL school is to whip a student into shape to pass a CDL test… that’s it.

In the meantime, we had been going out in groups of four with other instructors to drive on a low-traffic route in Decatur, Alabama to learn how to shift through the 10 gears.

Donny was the first instructor to endure the comedy of errors from my group. Donny was a laid-back country boy with rugged features, for whom sitting at the helm of an 18-wheeler seemed as natural to him as putting on his pants in the morning. Donny was as cool as a cucumber and remained supportive despite our beginner mistakes. For the first couple of days, there was more grinding taking place in those trucks than in a Starbucks.
Another instructor I rode with was Rick, a compact and vigorous black man with an enormous energy level. Rick earned the nickname of “Boom Boom” because, his method of instruction on the proper time to shift gears was:

“Okay, get ready—BOOM! Get ready—BOOM!”

Boom Boom relayed countless road stories to us, and he became one of my favorite instructors.

Trucking School - Part 2

2010-01-12T18:58:00.001-07:00

Alan and I bantered nervously in the crisp morning air of the big day. Alan was a transplant from England and, although he had been in the States for sixteen years, he had not lost an iota of his Cockney accent. When he became aggravated or nervous, his accent became even more pronounced—sometimes to the point where I’d have trouble understanding him. On this morning, I didn’t need to understand him. We were both nervous, yet excited about the new challenge before us. We’d be spending the first couple of days in the yard, learning straight-line backing and 45° angle backing.

The instructor entered the yard before the sun had fully risen and waved for us to join him at the row of trucks in the yard. The rank of about a dozen trucks was mostly ancient long-nosed Freightliners and dilapidated Volvos but, presumably, they all worked. They reminded me of ancient battle-scarred warriors who should be resting in retirement, but have been recalled to active duty for one last fight.

The instructor’s name was James, who was a little younger than Ron, but whose shoulders were slightly hunched, as if he’d been carrying a cinder block before arriving. He had a cookie-duster moustache and spoke in a nasal monotone, which made me glad that I’d ingested plenty of coffee this morning. James, as we would discover, had a propensity for talking about women’s breasts. He didn’t just talk about them, mind you, he analyzed them: the shape, the size, the feel, the texture, the “rating system”, the color, the roundness of the areola, the smoothness, the pear-shaped ones, the apple-shaped ones… well, you get the picture. At first, the mammary musings of James was funny and entertaining but, after a time, it started seeming a little creepy. It was obvious that he was obsessed with the glorious globes. I’ll admit that I have an appreciation for female breasts myself, but they are rarely exposed as a topic in one of my normal conversations. James spoke of breasts as if he were casually talking about the weather. Nevertheless, James was our instructor now, and I fervently hoped that he had more knowledge to bestow upon us than the most plausible route to “Titty City” in Nevada.

After about half an hour of verbal instructions, James climbed into the old white Volvo and fired up the engine. The roar of the diesel engine drowned out the sounds of morning as it proclaimed itself the ruler of its domain. Even Steve was dwarfed standing next to the rumbling white giant. James maneuvered the truck between two rows of orange cones and told us that we’d be learning straight-line backing today. He then pointed directly at me and asked for my name.

“Rick”, I said.

“Okay Rick”, grinned James, “you’re first—jump in!”

I climbed up into the rumbling vehicle with trepidation while some of the students wished me good luck, and others wagered on how many cones I’d crush. James climbed up to the window and shouted a reminder at me over the noise of the thundering engine.

“Steer into your trouble… if the trailer goes right—steer right, if the trailer goes left—steer left.”

With that, he climbed down from the vehicle and left me to the task. The old Volvo was shaking with authority, as if it were a rodeo bull eager to dismount me in less than eight seconds. The mirrors were vibrating so violently that I couldn’t even see the cones; they appeared as orange blurs.

I took a deep breath and began my backward trek. Amazingly, I managed to negotiate the 100-yard course without hitting any cones, but it didn’t take long to discover that this was trickier than it seemed. Another hundred yards, and there’s no doubt that I would have killed some cones. Over the next couple of days, I practiced more and gained confidence. Then, I was introduced to the bane of my existence: 45° angle backing.

Trucking School - Part 1

2010-01-11T14:57:00.008-07:00

Priceville, Alabama was where my trucking adventure began. A Super 8 motel room would be my home for the next three weeks while I attended CDL school. I did not know what to expect on the first day, but I met a wide range of personalities in the other students. The range included a Mississippi farm boy with a middle-school education to a former software engineer with a Master’s degree. An ebony giant named Steve looked like an offensive lineman for the New England Patriots and his foil was a rail-thin fellow named Ray, who might have eked out a height of 5’5 if he had been wearing cowboy boots. There was also Mike, from North Carolina, who just seemed perpetually bitter. Of course, there was also “The guy who already knew everything” and for whom, in his mind at least, this school was a mere formality. Despite the varied backgrounds and personalities, everyone here had at least one thing in common: each person was seeking a better life for himself or, he was seeking to get his life back on track from a prior misfortune. It came as no surprise when camaraderie quickly developed among most of us.
I became fast friends with Alan, the former software engineer. Alan was laid off from his engineering job and, at 54; he’d been having difficulty finding suitable employment in a young man’s field. Like me, Alan had a lot riding on the success of this new venture. After my recent moving expenses and the costs of CDL school and my motel, my savings were dwindling rapidly. If this trucking thing didn’t work out, I was screwed. However, Alan and I were not the only ones who had pushed our chips “all in” on this hand. The guy from Mississippi said that he sold the stereo system out of his car at a truck stop in order to have gas money to get to Priceville.
As is often the case, most of us banded together and helped to alleviate the concerns of our circumstances through laughter and joking. Steve was the biggest comedian of all, both literally and figuratively. Steve wore a perpetual smile, and the clowning giant was the rare type of person whose mere presence tends to lift one’s spirits. He was always a joy to be around and he usually kept everyone laughing, except Mike, who stayed pissed off at the world and everyone in it.
The training format of the school put us in the classroom during the first week in preparation for the written tests, and the next two weeks introduced the road training for the driving portion of the test. I wasn’t too concerned about the written tests—but I was VERY concerned about the road test. This could prove to be the potential worm in my apple but I was determined to give it my best shot.
The classroom instructor was a rotund, middle-aged fellow named Ron. He boasted many years of OTR experience and, although he may not have been the most entertaining instructor in the world, it soon became clear that he had probably forgotten more about trucking than most of us would ever know. Thanks to Ron’s expertise, ten of the fifteen students passed the written tests on the first try. Three of them passed the second time around and, the other two had to make a third attempt but, eventually, everyone in the class passed. Now, it was time to drive the trucks. Oh boy…

Introduction

2010-01-10T14:15:00.012-07:00

I was probably one of the most unlikely candidates to become a truck driver that the world has ever seen. Not only had I worked in a sedentary job for the past 20 years, I had never driven anything larger than a U-Haul. To be sure, my skills at maneuvering any vehicle larger than a Ford Focus left a lot to be desired. I once attempted to back a U-Haul to the door of my former girlfriend's apartment. She finally grew weary of observing my struggle and offered to take over. While I can't swear to it, I think that I could literally feel my testosterone level depleting as she deftly manuevered the truck exactly where it needed to be.

Meanwhile, I had spent the past 20 years of my life working in television broadcasting in various roles. While it had been exciting and challenging at first, the years had eroded my role into a thankless and suffocating rut. I seriously needed a change...a new experience. I can only chalk it up to chance that I ran across one of those CDL school ads in the Sunday paper and, unlike the dozens of other times that I'd seen them, and ignored them, it caught my eye this time. If a major change was what I needed, this certainly seemed to be the ticket.

In the following days, I will attempt to share my experiences from my first year on the road. This story runs the gambit from a wide-eyed rookie in CDL school to the eventual embracing of a new lifestyle at a dusty little truck stop in Crab Orchard, Tennessee. My loyal traveling cat accompanied me for the entire journey, and the adventures of "Kitty" will be included as well.

There are over 3.4 million long-distance truck drivers in the United States and millions more in local delivery operations. Motorists share the highway with them every day yet, little is known about the lifestyle of a long-haul trucker outside of the inner sanctum of the trucking industry. Hollywood paints truckers as uneducated southern rednecks who are heavily adorned in flannel and answer to a name such as Bubba, Jim Bob, or Cooter. Through his tobacco-stained teeth, he necessarily hits on every woman he sees while hiding his wedding ring.

In truth, trucking attracts people as diverse as the aforementioned stereotype to former, doctors, CEO's, bankers, engineers, and even members of MENSA. The diversity among truck drivers is just as great as in any other profession.

In the days to follow, I seek neither to champion the causes of truckers, nor to verbally flog trucking company management, although each may happen to some degree. I make no claim that my view is the correct one nor that my opinion reflects that of all truckers...this is simply an account from one driver's perspective. The only guarantee I make is that the story will be told with honesty and from a singular perspective.

It is said that everyone has a story to tell...and this is the story of the life of an American Trucker.