June, marked the two year milestone of Long Haul Freight Expediting.
Merced, California was the place I was picking up in when the day arrived. The
thought crossed my mind, but I was too overwhelmed in the thought of the
business at hand and the impending 800 mile run to Fife, Washington to give
it much thought. Over two hundred thousand miles have found
their way under my belt since I left company orientation in Green, Ohio for
that very first run to Detroit.
In these first couple of years, I’ve actually driven four different trucks for
this company. A Hino, from the heavy duty truck division of Toyota, which had
a nice big oak sleeper berth, the short lived “Barney” Freightliner, the “Berry” Freightliner with the dog sled Mercedes motor and two separate tours in the Fatcat Freightliner, until I could wrest her back into my control. Under my command, she’s received three sets of headlights, three sets of
windshield wipers, various gauge bulbs, twelve tires, and a replacement of
pedal rubber and a laundry list of repairs that escalates all the way up to a
rear end assembly. That one wasn’t pretty. When it blew up and spewed fluid all
over the road, I was in Minneapolis where I coasted to the road shoulder next
to a cemetery. That one wasn’t my call. My fleet owner wanted me to limp it
into the repair shop. I would have towed it. But, I got a nice little vacation
in a hotel with a pool and a spa for four days out of the deal. The ‘Cat has
979,694 on the odometer, getting ready for her second million. With proper
maintenance and maybe one rebuild, the Caterpillar C-15 engine should go 3
million. Too bad they can’t make cars that last like that.
Along the way, I’ve had a couple of trainees, a couple of co-drivers, including one,
whom I almost stuffed out the window. He liked to slurp peaches out of can with
no spoon, which is fine with me as long as it isn’t within ear-shot. Among other
things, this fellow was the human equivalent of fingernails on a blackboard in other
very significant insignificant ways. Gordon Lightfoot once said that “being
satisfied is knowing I got no one else to blame.” That works for me.
The Fife, Washington run got shortened in Medford, Oregon. Because of a change
in delivery time, dispatch called and said I would have to transfer the load to a team
operation at a company facility. The pay remained the same, and I handed off to another
truck that could run the load non-stop to Washington. I was disappointed because I was
hoping to visit my old pal Dave in the Tacoma area. It’s the nature of the business. I’m
always in a fluid situation it seems. Time is either my best friend or my worst enemy. However,
I am grateful to have the opportunity to visit friends in just about every region of this
country. We are a far-flung generation and have put down roots everywhere, but where we're
from.
After a nice break in summertime weather which felt like springtime in Central Point,
Oregon, I weighed anchor and headed back to California for some runs in the
Bay Area starting with a special delivery to the University of California in downtown San Francisco. The highlight of that trip was seeing a homeless guy in Oakland on a
street corner, holding up a cardboard sign with a drawing of a house en-circled
with a slash through it. If I could have stopped, I would have given the guy a
buck for creativity.
At this point in time, the calendar was approaching the third month on the road. My runs had taken
me all over California. On this western swing, the road also led to Las Vegas, Nevada,
New Mexico and several places in Arizona. In Vegas, the 35 buck a night stay at the Lucky Club
with $9.99 steak and lobster plate enticed me in. Two nights later a Braves win in the sports betting parlor nearly paid for my stay. Tucson, Arizona was a great stop, visiting my old friend KC.
The the day trip down to Tombstone was absolutely unforgettable. It was a "Bucket List"
accomplishment. The buffet at Casino Arizona in Phoenix was awesome and I had wild horses
running along the side the truck in St, Michaels. I spent a couple of cool nights sitting on a
hill overlooking the City of Albuquerque below. The Fatcat and I covered a lot of ground
entering all four continental time zones and 24 states. It was a successful journey, but I longed
to be home. Freight now took me back to California. My previous record time out was 64 days.
The soap rule wasn’t working (when I wear down a bar of soap, I consider it time to go home). Wearing down a brand new bar of Dove For Men was long enough to be on the road. I was
almost out two bars at this point!
On the phone with dispatch, my contract coordinator and whoever else would listen,
I pleaded to at least get what they call a “Relocation” heading east. Kim, in the contractor
department finally offered me a move from Planning to Dallas, Texas. Just so you know,
Planning is like those bankers who sit in the dark on the show Deal or No Deal. You can
communicate with them, but you can’t talk to them. They’re just one of the Oz types at
the company. Now, I could gain two time zones and put on my Texas hat, 1,738 miles ahead.
Knowing that I would be in the Fort Worth area, I messaged my old friend Tom to
alert him that I would be in the area. He messaged me back that it would great to get
to together, but he was visiting his son in Georgia! My response was “I need to be in
Georgia!” Wow…how ironic is that. About a week later, I end up where he was in Columbus,
Georgia, about the same time he got home! Now, there’s some good timing. Dam.
I rolled down I-5 to begin my Relocation run and was able to stop in Castaic, just north
of LA, and load up on more Carnitas from Senor Jimenez at my favorite stop. The California
hills became the Arizona desert. The desert turned into the painted rocks and eventually the
high plains of New Mexico. The stockyards of Amarillo, Texas turned into the Metroplex of Dallas.
When you take Relocation from the company, you have to agree to stay in service and take a
load when you get to your destination. So, based on my experience, I knew I would run
around Texas for a few days until I could get any further east.
Monday, July 5th arrived and following several runs back and forth from Dallas to
Houston, I was awarded a trip to Jackson, Mississippi. My heart almost skipped a beat
when I crossed the mighty Mississippi at Vicksburg. In Jackson, the following day, the
company sent me several offers to go back to Texas. I politely declined them and
instead pointed the Fatcat toward home on I-20. Sweet Home Alabama turned into
the Georgia state line soon followed by the “Entering Eastern Time Zone” sign.
Eastern Time hadn’t been mine since April 30th.
On the 80th day away from home, I pulled the truck up behind my barn where
I could see Louie's little face and hear his high pitched bark along with little feline faces
peering out the window at this stranger pulling in. This trip had taken me from
Atlanta to as far north as Londonderry, New Hampshire and then directly 3,054 miles
to Gardena, California and back. I’m going to draw that route with all the stops on a large map
of the United States with a big red marker, frame it, and put it on the wall.
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Thursday, July 28, 2011
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
#46
Yesterday, when I was plotting my course down from Minnesota, I noticed an opportunity on the map that absolutely could not be passed up. Earlier, I had to forego the trip up to Brainerd, Minnesota to see the ten story statue of Paul Bunyon and his ox, Babe for lack of time. My disappointment included the lumberjack breakfast in the nearby restaurant. The brochure promised flapjacks unlike any I've ever seen. The massive Spam Museum in Austin on I-90 was out too. Maybe I was being saved from a couple of certain cholesteral bombs. I do have a vivid memory of being curled up in the fetal position in Louisiana from something enormous and deep fried.
What I did see was a window of opportunity that would take me about 10 miles out of my way just north of Sioux City, Iowa. Here, I was looking at the chance to say I was in South Dakota, one of the three missing "lower 48" states I need to complete this American puzzle. All it would require would be a quick jump off US 75 in Iowa and a short jaunt up I-29, over the river and into the most southeastern tip of the great state of South Dakota. Time wasn't an issue, there was time, precious time.
My facebook buddy Phlash Phelps does the morning show on Sirius XM 60's on 6. He has been to all 50 states and all the US posessions. This man has literally been everywhere in America. He's not only done all these states, but he's done them twice! I believe he's working on a third go 'round. In addition, he travelled to 48 states in 14 days at one point, driving in a Cadillac Escolade. Plot that one on a map. One other thing you should know about Phlash is that he substitutes every single letter "F" with a "PH". I don't think he knows how to make an "F". I could have used a pal like him in school.
Phlash has a phenominal grasp of the geography in this country and can relate to callers to his show on a local level no matter what part of the country they live in. There aren't too many people who can pull it off like he does. He's the perfect guy to do a national radio show and make it sound local. No listener is left out. He's been in their neighborhood. It's got to be a profound love of country to do it the way he has. The more I see of America, the more I understand what this nation is about and find myself inspired to do it like Phlash.
The catch in all this is the fact that my esteemed broadcaster acquaintence has only done 45 states since the first of the year. I have been to 45 states since the first of the year too. In fact, in the past year, I've been to all those states at least twice with the exception of Maine. Fate has only guided me there once this year. Probably because Maine is the only state with one syllable. South Dakota would be #46 for me! I almost became giddy. I was going to pass Phlash by one! A chance to move into first was at hand.
The sunshine beemed into the cab of the Fat Cat as I wheeled her down that pleasant stretch of US 75. I could feel a twinge of anticipation as my coveted desitination drew nearer. I stopped twice to check the map to insure that I wouldn't miss the exit for I-29 and the promised land. As the exit approached for the northbound interstate, my pulse quickened as the truck jaked and downshifted into the curved ramp. Within minutes I could see it, the welcome sign proclaiming "Great Faces, Great Places" imposed on a background of Mount Rushmore. My heart just about skipped a beat as I passed the marker and into history. South Dakota was mine! Now, to make this whole thing official, I needed to put two feet on the ground in my newly aquired state. Ahead, there was an exit and I could see a convenience store and a place to pull up next to the car wash. With the truck now parked, I felt like Neil Armstrong as I prepared to open the door and step down onto #46.
As I hopped from the Cat and planted both feet on the ground, a wave of accomplishment overcame me. Where's the Men's room, was my next thought. I ended up picking up a South Dakota postcard and a South Dakota lottery ticket as further proof that I had been there.
I have to admit, this type of state by state travel is quite amazing for Phlash, because, most days, while I'm out on the road, he's broadcasting from his stationary studio in Washington, D.C. I don't know where he finds the time to travel 45 since the first of the year. There are still three and a half months left to the year and Phlash could take two weeks off and do the whole country again, but for now, I'm in the lead.
What I did see was a window of opportunity that would take me about 10 miles out of my way just north of Sioux City, Iowa. Here, I was looking at the chance to say I was in South Dakota, one of the three missing "lower 48" states I need to complete this American puzzle. All it would require would be a quick jump off US 75 in Iowa and a short jaunt up I-29, over the river and into the most southeastern tip of the great state of South Dakota. Time wasn't an issue, there was time, precious time.
My facebook buddy Phlash Phelps does the morning show on Sirius XM 60's on 6. He has been to all 50 states and all the US posessions. This man has literally been everywhere in America. He's not only done all these states, but he's done them twice! I believe he's working on a third go 'round. In addition, he travelled to 48 states in 14 days at one point, driving in a Cadillac Escolade. Plot that one on a map. One other thing you should know about Phlash is that he substitutes every single letter "F" with a "PH". I don't think he knows how to make an "F". I could have used a pal like him in school.
Phlash has a phenominal grasp of the geography in this country and can relate to callers to his show on a local level no matter what part of the country they live in. There aren't too many people who can pull it off like he does. He's the perfect guy to do a national radio show and make it sound local. No listener is left out. He's been in their neighborhood. It's got to be a profound love of country to do it the way he has. The more I see of America, the more I understand what this nation is about and find myself inspired to do it like Phlash.
The catch in all this is the fact that my esteemed broadcaster acquaintence has only done 45 states since the first of the year. I have been to 45 states since the first of the year too. In fact, in the past year, I've been to all those states at least twice with the exception of Maine. Fate has only guided me there once this year. Probably because Maine is the only state with one syllable. South Dakota would be #46 for me! I almost became giddy. I was going to pass Phlash by one! A chance to move into first was at hand.
The sunshine beemed into the cab of the Fat Cat as I wheeled her down that pleasant stretch of US 75. I could feel a twinge of anticipation as my coveted desitination drew nearer. I stopped twice to check the map to insure that I wouldn't miss the exit for I-29 and the promised land. As the exit approached for the northbound interstate, my pulse quickened as the truck jaked and downshifted into the curved ramp. Within minutes I could see it, the welcome sign proclaiming "Great Faces, Great Places" imposed on a background of Mount Rushmore. My heart just about skipped a beat as I passed the marker and into history. South Dakota was mine! Now, to make this whole thing official, I needed to put two feet on the ground in my newly aquired state. Ahead, there was an exit and I could see a convenience store and a place to pull up next to the car wash. With the truck now parked, I felt like Neil Armstrong as I prepared to open the door and step down onto #46.
As I hopped from the Cat and planted both feet on the ground, a wave of accomplishment overcame me. Where's the Men's room, was my next thought. I ended up picking up a South Dakota postcard and a South Dakota lottery ticket as further proof that I had been there.
I have to admit, this type of state by state travel is quite amazing for Phlash, because, most days, while I'm out on the road, he's broadcasting from his stationary studio in Washington, D.C. I don't know where he finds the time to travel 45 since the first of the year. There are still three and a half months left to the year and Phlash could take two weeks off and do the whole country again, but for now, I'm in the lead.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Scurrilous Commitment
Monday, July 26th began abruptly with stereo alarms on each side of me. Now, let me tell you, waking up at a rest stop on the New Jersey Turnpike will make you feel real ambitious, especially at the crack of dawn. It could have been cold. I did wake up next to a frozen bottle of water last winter. At least the weather was the best I'd seen since embracing Maine about a month ago. When it's nice, summer mornings are the best in my book. The GPS told me that the delivery was 27 miles from where I was. I just wanted to get this one over with. The Bedford Stuyvesant section of Brooklyn isn't one of my favorite places, but they don't tell you exactly where you're going until you commit to the load. Commitment can be a scurrilous affair in this business. After splashing some water on my face, I jumped in the seat and pulled all the controls into position. As the Fat Cat purred to life, I updated the obligatory Driver's Log after a ritual beating of the tires with my rubber mallet and a light and undercarriage check. Back in the driver's perch, I pushed her into gear and let the clutch out with care.
The morning sky was an advanced version of 5:45 am at this time of the year compared to what I'm accustomed to at home in Georgia, which is further west in the Eastern Time Zone. The fabled Turnpike was light on traffic and figured I'd be in Brooklyn in no time. Passing over the Goethals Bridge provided a vantage view of a calm city poised to erupt. As I wheeled onto Bushwick Avenue, the King's Borough was eerily quiet, much like a morning after a great party. I spied a dog walker here and there and a lonely sanitation truck. Wow, my thought was that I picked the perfect time to do this.
The address was easy to find and there was plenty of room to pull the truck right in front of the drop. Immediately, I was greeted by a guy who reminded me a lot of George Carlin in appearance and how he carried himself. We struck up a little conversation about the nice, cool weather and the benefits of starting early. It was 6:30 am and I wasn't expected until 8. My new found friend said "I'll get you unloaded, no problem!" Privately, I thought this just might turn out to be a great day.
There wasn't a loading dock to back up to, so George brought out some chains to go with the forklift. When there's no dock, we attach chains under the wooden freight pallets and drag the goods to the edge of the cargo hold so then the forks of the lift can take the pallets off the truck. George asked "are you going to get into the back of the truck?” He added that he just turned 61 and that jumping in and out of trucks wasn't really part of his repertoire any longer. I replied that I could appreciate that, but not to worry, I have my own little system for hopping in and out of the back of this truck.
We were able to pull all the freight off easily and I thanked George for his help with a "yoos have a good day." It was 7 am, aHEAD of schedule. I almost wrenched my arm patting myself on the back.
Next, all the fun began all at once. As I headed for the Williamsburg Bridge for Manhattan and The George Washington to New Jersey, I was halted by a NYPD Police Cruiser parked sideways with his lights blazing away, blocking the approach to the Williamsburg. Newsradio WCBS informed me that a tractor trailer had rammed the underpass and that there was a fuel spill to go along with that mess. My first thought was "did this guy have fuel tanks on his roof?" Dam. What kind of a truck is that? Well, just about that time, everybody in the borough of Brooklyn woke up and jumped in their cars. Complete and utter gridlock decended from the heavens. You've heard the phrase "...in a New York minute." That's about how long it took for traffic to lock up completely. I watched the same signal cycle through green, red and yellow about six times before moving an inch. I flashed back to Friday, July 2nd when I got caught in the holiday traffic nighmare on the Cross Bronx Expressway. That little number took five hours to go ninety miles. My arse is still sore from that ride.
The other approach to the Williamsburg was blocked as well, so this trucker idiot must have really screwed it up good. After playing with a series of lefts and rights I came upon an electronic sign for the Holland Tunnel that said a three axel truck was ok to use tunnel. Great! I'm now thinking I can now cruise right into I-78 and the safety of New Jersey. I pulled up to the checkpoint area before the tunnel and get "pointed over" by a NYPO. I popped out the truck and looked at the overhead height checker and see a bunch of swaying batans. The officer came over to me where I could see that his uniform cap with the patent leather brim was pulled down so far, I couldn't see his eyebrows. From underneath the that cap, I heard the thickest Heinz Ketchup New York accent tell me "you're too high, you got to take the Bridge" Ok ouffisa, I responded, yoos have a guood day. Crap. Now I have to to go all the way uptown on the Westside Highway, over to Broadway, through a piece of the Bronx and then to the George Washington Bridge, affectionately known to the locals as simply The GWB.
I made it to the Vince Lombardi Service Area off the New Jersey Turnpike (NJTP). The locals call this gem of a road simply The Turnpike. As I was getting comfortable, my stomach was rebelling for breakfast. Again, in a New York minute, Betty from Company Central calls and nicely asks "did you get the opportunity we sent from Springfield Gardens, NY to Poughkeepsie?" I said "yeah, I saw it Betty. I just came from three hours of molton gridlock and it would take something extra special to get me back into the city right now. You'd have to give me twice what you're offering to go." Now, keep in mind that these girls are very skilled at getting loads covered. She then happily proclaims "Great! I'll put you on it for twice and send the info on your Q-comm!" At this point, I'm reeling. What in the H E double toothpicks just happened?" Now, I get to go back over the GWB, The Whitestone and to JFK INTERNATIONAL FREAKING AIRPORT! Yes, I'm hip to that nice little trick. Springfield Gardens is a quaint little name they give to the freight terminal adjacent to one of the maddest airports in existence. At this point, I'm looking around the truck for a paper bag to breathe in and out of.
I made JFK in good time and wheeled the Fat Cat through some barbaric midday traffic, then, proceeded to send my arrival time on the Q-comm only to realize they had bumped the time from 1300 hours to 1500. No, problem, I'll just hang out and play with facebook while I wait. At three, I approached the logistics desk to acquire the paperwork needed to receive an international shipment, this being computer equipment from Korea. About an hour later Jeanette, with jet black pulled back into a pony tail New York hair calls me over from the waiting area and informs me "they cuolled and sed that the computa went down and the shipment won't be ready until tuomorra." Dam. My dreams of a King's Ransom in pay, dashed into the ground. It cost me $24 for the GWB, $18 for the Whitestone and about $10 in fuel from NJ. And...it will cost another $18 to do the Whitestone again. The GWB is no charge to NJ. Do the math. Back on the phone with dispatch, I was able to plead my case and get my tolls reimbursed on my company card.
Now returned to Jersey in one piece, at the Vince Lombardi, barely parked, my Q-comm chirps out a series of load opportunities that I sniffed at like a snob. Then, Jamesburg, NJ to West Haven, Connecticut appeared. Ok, we'll double that price for jollies and see what happens. I'm sure your momma said "be careful what you wish for, you just may get it." Well, double it came back, and like a jolly Santa Clause, I pressed "1" for accept. I thought this one would be a piece of cake...down the Turnpike a few exits and then back up to 287, making the wide turn around New York and up to 95 on up to West Haven. No problem! What I missed was three little words that read "one additional stop". When the load info starting spitting out, it was glaring right at me in computer font, "Stop #2, Syosett, NY" SYOSSETT FREAKING NEW YORK?" OH, NO! Syossett Freaking New York is on Long Island. The only way to get to Syossett Freaking New York is through freaking Brooklyn and freaking Queens and bridges with tolls, mayhem and who knows what ever else. At this point, I looked around the truck for rope. I felt like the professor on Felix the Cat when he operated that contraption with the shoe. Pulling on a rope, he would cause a big shoe to kick himself in the butt proclaiming "I made a boo boo, I made a boo boo." Well, I made a boo boo. What was that about "scurrilous commitment?" It was right here, served up on a silver platter, for me to enjoy.
I'll survive the drama. I'll make money. I just wanted a break from New York for one skinny little day. Maybe I'll get it on Wednesday. Just one little day. One can only hope. I will surely read the next opp in its entirety!
The morning sky was an advanced version of 5:45 am at this time of the year compared to what I'm accustomed to at home in Georgia, which is further west in the Eastern Time Zone. The fabled Turnpike was light on traffic and figured I'd be in Brooklyn in no time. Passing over the Goethals Bridge provided a vantage view of a calm city poised to erupt. As I wheeled onto Bushwick Avenue, the King's Borough was eerily quiet, much like a morning after a great party. I spied a dog walker here and there and a lonely sanitation truck. Wow, my thought was that I picked the perfect time to do this.
The address was easy to find and there was plenty of room to pull the truck right in front of the drop. Immediately, I was greeted by a guy who reminded me a lot of George Carlin in appearance and how he carried himself. We struck up a little conversation about the nice, cool weather and the benefits of starting early. It was 6:30 am and I wasn't expected until 8. My new found friend said "I'll get you unloaded, no problem!" Privately, I thought this just might turn out to be a great day.
There wasn't a loading dock to back up to, so George brought out some chains to go with the forklift. When there's no dock, we attach chains under the wooden freight pallets and drag the goods to the edge of the cargo hold so then the forks of the lift can take the pallets off the truck. George asked "are you going to get into the back of the truck?” He added that he just turned 61 and that jumping in and out of trucks wasn't really part of his repertoire any longer. I replied that I could appreciate that, but not to worry, I have my own little system for hopping in and out of the back of this truck.
We were able to pull all the freight off easily and I thanked George for his help with a "yoos have a good day." It was 7 am, aHEAD of schedule. I almost wrenched my arm patting myself on the back.
Next, all the fun began all at once. As I headed for the Williamsburg Bridge for Manhattan and The George Washington to New Jersey, I was halted by a NYPD Police Cruiser parked sideways with his lights blazing away, blocking the approach to the Williamsburg. Newsradio WCBS informed me that a tractor trailer had rammed the underpass and that there was a fuel spill to go along with that mess. My first thought was "did this guy have fuel tanks on his roof?" Dam. What kind of a truck is that? Well, just about that time, everybody in the borough of Brooklyn woke up and jumped in their cars. Complete and utter gridlock decended from the heavens. You've heard the phrase "...in a New York minute." That's about how long it took for traffic to lock up completely. I watched the same signal cycle through green, red and yellow about six times before moving an inch. I flashed back to Friday, July 2nd when I got caught in the holiday traffic nighmare on the Cross Bronx Expressway. That little number took five hours to go ninety miles. My arse is still sore from that ride.
The other approach to the Williamsburg was blocked as well, so this trucker idiot must have really screwed it up good. After playing with a series of lefts and rights I came upon an electronic sign for the Holland Tunnel that said a three axel truck was ok to use tunnel. Great! I'm now thinking I can now cruise right into I-78 and the safety of New Jersey. I pulled up to the checkpoint area before the tunnel and get "pointed over" by a NYPO. I popped out the truck and looked at the overhead height checker and see a bunch of swaying batans. The officer came over to me where I could see that his uniform cap with the patent leather brim was pulled down so far, I couldn't see his eyebrows. From underneath the that cap, I heard the thickest Heinz Ketchup New York accent tell me "you're too high, you got to take the Bridge" Ok ouffisa, I responded, yoos have a guood day. Crap. Now I have to to go all the way uptown on the Westside Highway, over to Broadway, through a piece of the Bronx and then to the George Washington Bridge, affectionately known to the locals as simply The GWB.
I made it to the Vince Lombardi Service Area off the New Jersey Turnpike (NJTP). The locals call this gem of a road simply The Turnpike. As I was getting comfortable, my stomach was rebelling for breakfast. Again, in a New York minute, Betty from Company Central calls and nicely asks "did you get the opportunity we sent from Springfield Gardens, NY to Poughkeepsie?" I said "yeah, I saw it Betty. I just came from three hours of molton gridlock and it would take something extra special to get me back into the city right now. You'd have to give me twice what you're offering to go." Now, keep in mind that these girls are very skilled at getting loads covered. She then happily proclaims "Great! I'll put you on it for twice and send the info on your Q-comm!" At this point, I'm reeling. What in the H E double toothpicks just happened?" Now, I get to go back over the GWB, The Whitestone and to JFK INTERNATIONAL FREAKING AIRPORT! Yes, I'm hip to that nice little trick. Springfield Gardens is a quaint little name they give to the freight terminal adjacent to one of the maddest airports in existence. At this point, I'm looking around the truck for a paper bag to breathe in and out of.
I made JFK in good time and wheeled the Fat Cat through some barbaric midday traffic, then, proceeded to send my arrival time on the Q-comm only to realize they had bumped the time from 1300 hours to 1500. No, problem, I'll just hang out and play with facebook while I wait. At three, I approached the logistics desk to acquire the paperwork needed to receive an international shipment, this being computer equipment from Korea. About an hour later Jeanette, with jet black pulled back into a pony tail New York hair calls me over from the waiting area and informs me "they cuolled and sed that the computa went down and the shipment won't be ready until tuomorra." Dam. My dreams of a King's Ransom in pay, dashed into the ground. It cost me $24 for the GWB, $18 for the Whitestone and about $10 in fuel from NJ. And...it will cost another $18 to do the Whitestone again. The GWB is no charge to NJ. Do the math. Back on the phone with dispatch, I was able to plead my case and get my tolls reimbursed on my company card.
Now returned to Jersey in one piece, at the Vince Lombardi, barely parked, my Q-comm chirps out a series of load opportunities that I sniffed at like a snob. Then, Jamesburg, NJ to West Haven, Connecticut appeared. Ok, we'll double that price for jollies and see what happens. I'm sure your momma said "be careful what you wish for, you just may get it." Well, double it came back, and like a jolly Santa Clause, I pressed "1" for accept. I thought this one would be a piece of cake...down the Turnpike a few exits and then back up to 287, making the wide turn around New York and up to 95 on up to West Haven. No problem! What I missed was three little words that read "one additional stop". When the load info starting spitting out, it was glaring right at me in computer font, "Stop #2, Syosett, NY" SYOSSETT FREAKING NEW YORK?" OH, NO! Syossett Freaking New York is on Long Island. The only way to get to Syossett Freaking New York is through freaking Brooklyn and freaking Queens and bridges with tolls, mayhem and who knows what ever else. At this point, I looked around the truck for rope. I felt like the professor on Felix the Cat when he operated that contraption with the shoe. Pulling on a rope, he would cause a big shoe to kick himself in the butt proclaiming "I made a boo boo, I made a boo boo." Well, I made a boo boo. What was that about "scurrilous commitment?" It was right here, served up on a silver platter, for me to enjoy.
I'll survive the drama. I'll make money. I just wanted a break from New York for one skinny little day. Maybe I'll get it on Wednesday. Just one little day. One can only hope. I will surely read the next opp in its entirety!
Random Thoughts For July 1st
The company offered me a run originating in Athol, Massachusettes. I declined because I didn't want to go to a place where there are a bunch of Athols. Is that Daffy Duck talking?
Why can't I-95 in Connecticut be as smooth as I-95 in New Jersey? Oh, that's right, in New Jersey it's a Turnpike and not really an Interstate. They charge big bucks for smooth. Smoother than Connecticut anyway.
The company offered me a pick up at JFK Airport. I hit decline so hard I nearly broke the button. For starters, the run involved two NYC bridges. That's about $64 in a truck.
The State of New York has new license plates. That's car tags for you Southerners. They're going back to the old orange background with black letters and numbers. For some reason, it prevokes a mind's image of a banged up 1976 Plymouth Fury with the rear orange New York plate hanging by one bolt. Don't know why I envision that. Life is funny that way. In addition, I've always been very wary of states that require both front and back plates...I mean tags.
I had Peter Pan Creamy Plus peanut butter with Premium saltine crackers for a snack this afternoon. I thought of how there was always a box of crackers and a jar of peanut butter for all to share in the kitchen at Bristol Broadcasting in Bristol, Virginia. The handed down story was that someone came in one morning a discovered two little rodent feet and a tail sticking out of an uncovered jar.
The Pilot Truck Stop in Milford, Connecticut was jammed packed last night. Some guy was selling dinners of pork chops or spaghetti and meatballs and all the fixin's with sweet tea included for $10 over the CB radio. Probably better food than the Wendy's in the stop. A driver threatened to call the board of health on the guy. I understand strange food from strange people, but does everybody have to be a cop?
As I pulled out of my parking space and drove down the aisle, two separate trucks pulled out in front of me without looking! I know it wasn't one way. What's going on here?
The weather is quite spring-like up here. Sunny, breezy and 73 degrees right now. It doesn't feel like July, but hey, I'm not complaining. Good sleeping weather.
Two guys look like they're practicing Kung Fu in the parking lot of the Walmart where I'm parked. I guess you got to be ready up here.
A lot of the gas stations up here are small...like a kiosk and offer no public restroom. Not even a shrub or bush around the corner. I don't see pork rinds either.
I have passed Mystic several times on this trip. I wish I had time to investigate and see if there is a Mystic Pizza.
Now that I've been "up north" since June 19th, I think my accent is changing. I'm saying "yoos" and "how you doin'?" I'm even grousing more.
There are lots lof Subaru automobiles in the north. Every Subaru has all wheel drive.
Does anyone want to start a pool as to when I get back to Atlanta?
Why can't I-95 in Connecticut be as smooth as I-95 in New Jersey? Oh, that's right, in New Jersey it's a Turnpike and not really an Interstate. They charge big bucks for smooth. Smoother than Connecticut anyway.
The company offered me a pick up at JFK Airport. I hit decline so hard I nearly broke the button. For starters, the run involved two NYC bridges. That's about $64 in a truck.
The State of New York has new license plates. That's car tags for you Southerners. They're going back to the old orange background with black letters and numbers. For some reason, it prevokes a mind's image of a banged up 1976 Plymouth Fury with the rear orange New York plate hanging by one bolt. Don't know why I envision that. Life is funny that way. In addition, I've always been very wary of states that require both front and back plates...I mean tags.
I had Peter Pan Creamy Plus peanut butter with Premium saltine crackers for a snack this afternoon. I thought of how there was always a box of crackers and a jar of peanut butter for all to share in the kitchen at Bristol Broadcasting in Bristol, Virginia. The handed down story was that someone came in one morning a discovered two little rodent feet and a tail sticking out of an uncovered jar.
The Pilot Truck Stop in Milford, Connecticut was jammed packed last night. Some guy was selling dinners of pork chops or spaghetti and meatballs and all the fixin's with sweet tea included for $10 over the CB radio. Probably better food than the Wendy's in the stop. A driver threatened to call the board of health on the guy. I understand strange food from strange people, but does everybody have to be a cop?
As I pulled out of my parking space and drove down the aisle, two separate trucks pulled out in front of me without looking! I know it wasn't one way. What's going on here?
The weather is quite spring-like up here. Sunny, breezy and 73 degrees right now. It doesn't feel like July, but hey, I'm not complaining. Good sleeping weather.
Two guys look like they're practicing Kung Fu in the parking lot of the Walmart where I'm parked. I guess you got to be ready up here.
A lot of the gas stations up here are small...like a kiosk and offer no public restroom. Not even a shrub or bush around the corner. I don't see pork rinds either.
I have passed Mystic several times on this trip. I wish I had time to investigate and see if there is a Mystic Pizza.
Now that I've been "up north" since June 19th, I think my accent is changing. I'm saying "yoos" and "how you doin'?" I'm even grousing more.
There are lots lof Subaru automobiles in the north. Every Subaru has all wheel drive.
Does anyone want to start a pool as to when I get back to Atlanta?
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Many More Miles To Go
Today, it’s been one year on the road. One year ago, as I sat in the company orientation class in Green, Ohio, I was revved up and ready to get my new profession started. The economy had beaten me up pretty good and by October of 2008, I knew I had to give up nearly ten years in sales. It was over for me. At that point, I determined it wasn’t a good idea to be selling people homes and autos, so I decided another re-invention of myself was in order. Over the road trucking appealed to me and the notion of seeing the country with no one looking over my shoulder seemed like the right way to go. I’ve never had a traditional job, working traditional hours so this type of way to make a living appeared to be in my comfort zone. In December, I enrolled in a truck driving school for a January start. Lora, my career counselor said everything was going to be just fine and soon I would have a new career. I believed her and immediately felt like I made the right decision.
January came quickly and it was a relief to see a lot of guys in the class that were my age and that the instructors weren’t the Gestapo I thought they’d be. The whole staff was a group of seasoned professionals and had some good stories to tell. After a week of classroom study taught by William, I passed the permit test with flying colors and then it was time to get in the truck and drive. My road instructor, Jim was firm and helpful. At one point, I was having trouble with a maneuver when he came up to the window of the eighteen wheeler and pointedly asked “do you go to church?” I perplexedly replied that indeed I did at which point he rolled his sleeve up and revealed a tattoo of Jesus on his forearm. He then continued “you have to have faith that if you set this maneuver up correctly, this truck and trailer will go exactly where it’s supposed to go.” Now do it! With Jim’s instruction, I went on to pass my over the road driving exam with confidence and receive the coveted “Class A Commercial Driver’s License.”
The year since has blazed by and now, I’ve travelled over a hundred thousand miles. I'll never forget my first dispatch. After making a "clean break" from the auto business, they send me to Detroit to deliver..what else...auto parts! Another example of how ironic my life is at times. As the earth rotated quickly, I’ve covered a lot of ground. Criss-crossing the country has become a dance routine on a different scale. Moving from one side of the stage to the other like a Bugs Bunny vaudevillian, I race from coast to coast and border to border. The mission has usually been a cannon ball run around obstacles and events that prevent a straight line. Some things that have occurred on the road are just as I imagined they would be. Other things are a little different and even yet some things are far from what I expected before I began life as an Over The Road Long Haul Trucker. I thought I’d have more time to see old friends and sightsee, but not so with some of these dispatches and travel times. For the most part, the truck stops and shower facilities are better kept than I imagined and sleeping in a truck is not as foreboding as one might think. It’s more like a camping experience, except the campgrounds are truck stops with hundreds of trucks sitting in snap line rows with the sound of their diesel engines droning on incessantly. I found that foraging for food can be a fun experience in new places.
Expediting has turned out to be a form of this business that has a strange appeal to me. It’s like having to urgently go to bathroom, but you don’t know where it is. You just know you have to get there, quickly. The time sensitive nature and destination of the freight I carry have turned this type of trucking into a “pants on fire” adventure at times. It’s also kind of like the hot air ballooning I did extensively in the 80’s with my old friend Jim Mount and his “Looking Up” balloon. You go up, but you really never know where you’re going to land. Somebody once asked “can’t you steer those things?” The answer is no, it all depends upon where the air currents take you. You control when you take off and what your altitude will be, but the rest is up to God. Landing is the real challenge in hot air ballooning as is slotting in freight on time in expediting. Fire the burner to go up and pull on the rope to let hot air out of the balloon to come down. That’s all the real control you have in the sport. In my job, as in ballooning, I have to know just when to fire the burner and when to yank on the rope. Part of that expertise in this kind of work is to know when to take the opportunity and go and when to decline it. Sometimes you have only precious moments of time to decide. Being decisive is a requisite in this job. I have to process in short order the question of “will this run take me to a good freight hub or will I be potentially stranded out in left field and have to travel long distances with no freight?” I take all of this into consideration while calculating fuel costs and profit. Like a poker game, I’m drawing and tossing out cards all day. As Kenny Rogers sang in “The Gambler”, you got to know when to hold ‘em and know when to fold ‘em. Know when to walk away and when to run! By run, I mean that I avoid places like Long Island, New York at any cost. It’s a hard place to drive when you consider the traffic, the way people drive and how much it costs to get there when the tolls suck money out of your pocket like an Electrolux. Plus, there are no truck stops on the Island. I’ll go to New York City because I know I can get to the relative safety of New Jersey fairly quickly, but getting out of Long Island is a tall order.
When I speak with freight agents, it’s usually a compact negotiation that takes place quickly, because the freight has to be somewhere soon. In addition, sometimes I’m competing for the same freight with other nearby drivers from my company to make it even more challenging. From another perspective, it’s like a huge board game that’s fun to play!
After years in sales and negotiation, this type of work suits me perfectly. When I contemplated trucking, I never once thought I’d be using skill sets from my previous career. Life is funny to me like that sometimes. You’re being guided and prepared without ever knowing it. It confirms my faith.
A lot of Long Haul jobs in trucking companies have dedicated routes and drivers know what to expect on a regular basis. With my company, I do get to run some dedicated routes from one shipper in particular, but the destinations vary. When I pull up to the warehouse, I know the drill for this company. It’s nice to have at least one place I can go to and not have to think too much. Typically though, when I accept a freight opportunity, it’s a sprint to complete paperwork and a mad dash to locate a shipper and a consignee (the one who receives the delivery) in a location I’ve never been to. It's kind of like another version of “Where’s Waldo?” Sometimes, too, it’s similar to an Easter egg hunt where they hide the eggs real good.
Strangely, the country is getting smaller to me. What I once perceived as an arduous journey across the nation is now just another task on another day. I drive 400 miles for breakfast. Eleven hours behind the wheel isn’t the intimidating thought it once was. It’s all a state of mind. The truck I drive doesn’t feel as big as it once did. This can be a real trap, and I always adhere to the teachings I learned in school regarding safety procedures. Yes, you can get too comfortable with these trucks! A mechanical pre-trip inspection is a must and I walk around the Fat Cat to make sure lights are working and I beat on the tires with a rubber mallet to make sure they are inflated properly. I look for leaking fluids and to see that nothing is askew. I have learned to operate ratchet load securing straps (these things can give you fits!) and work the temperamental landing gear that props up my cargo hold from the rear. Mine has a manual crank that operates with finesse at times. Who says a trucker doesn’t get aerobic exercise? I use heavy metal load securing bars to insure that freight doesn’t shift or move. This is especially important when I haul hazardous materials like flammable liquids or sensitive items like a jet engine.
Prior to a run, I avoid sugar and concentrate on protein before I depart to regulate my system before a long run. I prefer un-sweetened ice tea to drink. It’s good to make sure things that I will want will be close at hand, like additional water and snacks. I insure that my satellite radio remote is close by and my cell phone has a good charge with the head set within reach.
Trip planning is an important part of my routine. I have a GPS unit, but I don’t follow it like some drivers do. A GPS unit will lead you right off the edge of a cliff, if you allow it. You have to physically look at a map and plot out a route on a motor carrier’s atlas. A GPS unit is a computer and it will send you on remote two lane roads through a series of small towns with lights and 35 mile per hour speed limits to save you a half mile on the trip. Trucks can’t go on every road a car can travel. You have to be constantly aware of your surroundings by watching further up ahead than a car for low bridges, power lines and tricky road configurations. This is especially true in cities where sometimes roads are narrow and intersections are tight. One time, I had to do at pick up in Central Falls, Rhode Island where the loading dock was in a garage right at the edge of a narrow road, on a busy afternoon rush hour. It was necessary to stop traffic by sticking the rear end of my truck right into traffic to get to it. Once inside, I learned that my cargo would be thousands of pounds of delicate glass tubing to be transported over rough New England roads. Double whammy! I hate transporting glass, even more than the skull and crossbones stuff.
One thing I have noticed is that we are increasingly becoming a national chain nation. There are Wal-Mart’s everywhere. The grocery stores are more regional because of the way fresh food is distributed, but the big chains dominate. There are surprisingly few towns in America where you can find local drug and department stores. Craving a McDonald’s Big Mac? You will never have to go very far ANYWHERE in the country for two all beef patties on a sesame seed bun with special sauce. It will just cost a ton of money in places like Connecticut. Take an exit off just about any interstate and chances are you will see something familiar. I look for local legends and anything that is unfamiliar. That’s how Route 66 used to be they tell me.
Having been to most states, I now open the state by state section of USA Today and the whole page looks local to me. I hear national news on TV and most times when they talk about a town somewhere where news is taking place, I either have been there or know where it is. America has become one big local community to me. The one thing that is different and interesting to me is the regional dialects of language. Mid Atlantic people tend to leave off consonants on the ends of words. In Brooklyn, New York, they add “R’s” and say “terlit” instead of toilet. New Englanders add a dimension of nasal acoustics to speech. Just put a clothes pin on your nose and talk, you’ll fit right in. Southerners have different tones of accents, but for the most part they just open their mouths and the words fall out. To think that all Southerners speak slowly is a myth. Try to keep up with a native Atlantan. True Cajuns from Louisiana and Mississippi have a certain aristocratic sound. I can pick out a Texas southern easily. Appalachia is a whole different world. You might need an interpreter there. Words and gestures are baffling at times. I knew old timer from Big Stone Gap, Virginia and “yes” was “yay-ya” and the bathroom was “the howsa.” Upstate New York, Ohio and Michigan are somewhat alike and unique sounding. I would say their accent is probably the hardest to imitate. Nearby Indiana doesn’t have and accent. That’s what the so-called language experts say. I tend to agree. They have a straight ahead Midwestern tone. The rest of the Midwest varies slightly. Now, if we’re talking about Wisconsin, Minnesota and the Dakotas, you really need to see the movie “Fargo” to get a true upper Midwest accent. They kind of over play the dialect it to create somewhat of a comical touch in the movie. A good portion of Florida and Urban California sounds like New York City and New Jersey. It’s got to be the huge transplant influence. I haven’t been to Alaska, but Sarah Palin has made me aware that there is an accent there. I like the fact that Hawaii economizes words. I understand “Aloha” means hello and goodbye. The accent is on the ring of flowers. In reality, you can drive three thousand miles and understand what everybody is saying, for the most part. Even if we can’t hear one another, there are some great hand signals. In Los Angeles, Chicago and New York In traffic, I’ve seen people waving with one or no fingers! Such a friendly places.
The physical beauty of America is outstanding. There is something worth seeing in every state I’ve been to. A month ago I had the good fortune of driving on one of the most scenic routes I’ve ever been to. Route 285 which runs down though the center of Colorado is breathtaking. At the same time, the elevation at 9,000 feet will make you short of breath. It’s literally breathtaking. The road winds and dips and at times is just like a roller coaster. When I was there, the snow covered mountains were truly dramatic. Campsites and interesting little towns popped up all along the way. I yearned to be travelling in a motor home instead of the Fat Cat. I’ve enjoyed the Sierras, Cascades and the California ranges out west as well. The east offers some great trips though the Catskills, Adirondack, Appalachian, Blue Ridge, White, Green and Ozark mountains too. There is no shortage of mountain scenery in the United States.
Mighty rivers traverse our land on a grand scale. The Mississippi is a sight to behold and I’ve crossed it in several regions of the country. The Columbia which separates Washington and Oregon is awesome to view. The Rio Grande in Texas makes a long border between us and Mexico. The Ohio probably has more quaint towns and impressive all American cities on its banks than any other. Located right on the Ohio, Cincinnati is a picturesque and well rounded metropolis as viewed on a hill from the Kentucky side with plenty of riverside attractions. Pittsburgh, where the Monongahela and the Allegheny form the Ohio, has transformed from a dirty old steel town to a land of high tech and a cleaner environment. The St. John’s River that runs through the middle of Jacksonville, Florida, is the only river in North America that flows from south to north. Add the Delaware, The St. Charles, The Hudson and The Tennessee and you know that we are a nation of great rivers.
As for coastline, we’ve got plenty of that too. The problem is though, there aren’t a whole lot of truck routes that hug the coastline. I’ve been on a few good ones like the Pacific Coast Highway and AIA in Florida, just not in the truck. Many of us yearn to be on the coast to feel the sand, the sea and the air. There’s just something very therapeutic about the beach. It soothes the soul and fills the senses with serenity.
When I think of over- all friendliness, there are lots of places in all regions of the country where the people are amiable and smile a lot. California is a pretty happy place for the most part. They don’t seem concerned that the next big earthquake, forest fire or mudslide could be moments away. My favorite Mad comic, Alfred E. Newman must have been from here. His motto is “What, Me Worry?” The south is a generally hospitable place, but Mississippi and Louisiana seem to stand out to me in addition to my home state of Georgia. Kentucky and Tennessee are also good for hospitality. I like Texas for over all niceness and New Mexico gets my vote as well. Colorado and Utah folks will make you feel comfortable and right at home. Pennsylvania is a tale of two cities where Pittsburgh gets the advantage over Philadelphia. Florida is problematic with lots of crabby old New Yorkers and Boston can go either way depending on if you’re a Sox fan. Generally, we’re a good nation willing to help each out with a kind word or a good deed.
The weather in the past year has had its challenges. I’ve driven in 12 sizeable snow storms and seen some frigid temperatures along the way. Ironically, the coldest I’ve been was in my home state of Georgia last February when the mercury hit 10 degrees with no power because the truck wouldn’t start. Michigan came in second with a brisk wind off Lake Michigan at St. Joseph in November. I didn’t feel the cold as much out west in the Rockies in Places like Salt Lake City and Idaho because of the elevation and dry air. I have definitely been hot in a few places. Laredo, Texas comes to mind first where it hit 107 when I was there. I could have popped out of my truck like bread out of a toaster. Phoenix was 97 at ten in the morning when I was there. Yuma, Arizona was the all time hottest when I felt 119. The only other time I feel that kind of heat is when I check my cornbread in the oven. I have to remind myself to drink extra water and wear a cowboy hat in the sun. I’ll stick a fan in my face and idle the engine for air conditioning as much as I can. As for good weather, California is a good place to be, when it’s not raining buckets. I’m very fond of the south in spring. The far north becomes comfortable in summer. As far as driving, fog is my least favorite. I hit a lot of it on several trips, at night, in Indiana. Snow doesn’t bother me as long as the road departments clear it off good and I don’t have to “chain up” the tires. Rain just makes the truck dirty when all that road grime splashes up on her and can be wicked in cities regarding the way people drive.
In all, I like this type of work, but I’m not sure how long I can be out on the road. It can be a real grind when you’re away from home for long periods of time. But, for now, I’m taking it days at a time, not wanting to get too far ahead of myself or too far behind. I have a few ideas of what I want to do next, but I haven’t fully thought them through. So, for now, I’ll continue this gypsy way of life. Here today, gone tomorrow and somewhere else the next day. As we speak, I’m working up my Top 10 favorite lists. The lists will be of favorite small towns, favorite cities, favorite road songs, favorite food stops and favorite truck stops to mention a few.
To me America is a great place. I’m not done seeing it all. Figuratively speaking, I want to meet all the Americans and see the places that the locals love to be. There are many more miles to go, many more places to see and many more stories to write.
January came quickly and it was a relief to see a lot of guys in the class that were my age and that the instructors weren’t the Gestapo I thought they’d be. The whole staff was a group of seasoned professionals and had some good stories to tell. After a week of classroom study taught by William, I passed the permit test with flying colors and then it was time to get in the truck and drive. My road instructor, Jim was firm and helpful. At one point, I was having trouble with a maneuver when he came up to the window of the eighteen wheeler and pointedly asked “do you go to church?” I perplexedly replied that indeed I did at which point he rolled his sleeve up and revealed a tattoo of Jesus on his forearm. He then continued “you have to have faith that if you set this maneuver up correctly, this truck and trailer will go exactly where it’s supposed to go.” Now do it! With Jim’s instruction, I went on to pass my over the road driving exam with confidence and receive the coveted “Class A Commercial Driver’s License.”
The year since has blazed by and now, I’ve travelled over a hundred thousand miles. I'll never forget my first dispatch. After making a "clean break" from the auto business, they send me to Detroit to deliver..what else...auto parts! Another example of how ironic my life is at times. As the earth rotated quickly, I’ve covered a lot of ground. Criss-crossing the country has become a dance routine on a different scale. Moving from one side of the stage to the other like a Bugs Bunny vaudevillian, I race from coast to coast and border to border. The mission has usually been a cannon ball run around obstacles and events that prevent a straight line. Some things that have occurred on the road are just as I imagined they would be. Other things are a little different and even yet some things are far from what I expected before I began life as an Over The Road Long Haul Trucker. I thought I’d have more time to see old friends and sightsee, but not so with some of these dispatches and travel times. For the most part, the truck stops and shower facilities are better kept than I imagined and sleeping in a truck is not as foreboding as one might think. It’s more like a camping experience, except the campgrounds are truck stops with hundreds of trucks sitting in snap line rows with the sound of their diesel engines droning on incessantly. I found that foraging for food can be a fun experience in new places.
Expediting has turned out to be a form of this business that has a strange appeal to me. It’s like having to urgently go to bathroom, but you don’t know where it is. You just know you have to get there, quickly. The time sensitive nature and destination of the freight I carry have turned this type of trucking into a “pants on fire” adventure at times. It’s also kind of like the hot air ballooning I did extensively in the 80’s with my old friend Jim Mount and his “Looking Up” balloon. You go up, but you really never know where you’re going to land. Somebody once asked “can’t you steer those things?” The answer is no, it all depends upon where the air currents take you. You control when you take off and what your altitude will be, but the rest is up to God. Landing is the real challenge in hot air ballooning as is slotting in freight on time in expediting. Fire the burner to go up and pull on the rope to let hot air out of the balloon to come down. That’s all the real control you have in the sport. In my job, as in ballooning, I have to know just when to fire the burner and when to yank on the rope. Part of that expertise in this kind of work is to know when to take the opportunity and go and when to decline it. Sometimes you have only precious moments of time to decide. Being decisive is a requisite in this job. I have to process in short order the question of “will this run take me to a good freight hub or will I be potentially stranded out in left field and have to travel long distances with no freight?” I take all of this into consideration while calculating fuel costs and profit. Like a poker game, I’m drawing and tossing out cards all day. As Kenny Rogers sang in “The Gambler”, you got to know when to hold ‘em and know when to fold ‘em. Know when to walk away and when to run! By run, I mean that I avoid places like Long Island, New York at any cost. It’s a hard place to drive when you consider the traffic, the way people drive and how much it costs to get there when the tolls suck money out of your pocket like an Electrolux. Plus, there are no truck stops on the Island. I’ll go to New York City because I know I can get to the relative safety of New Jersey fairly quickly, but getting out of Long Island is a tall order.
When I speak with freight agents, it’s usually a compact negotiation that takes place quickly, because the freight has to be somewhere soon. In addition, sometimes I’m competing for the same freight with other nearby drivers from my company to make it even more challenging. From another perspective, it’s like a huge board game that’s fun to play!
After years in sales and negotiation, this type of work suits me perfectly. When I contemplated trucking, I never once thought I’d be using skill sets from my previous career. Life is funny to me like that sometimes. You’re being guided and prepared without ever knowing it. It confirms my faith.
A lot of Long Haul jobs in trucking companies have dedicated routes and drivers know what to expect on a regular basis. With my company, I do get to run some dedicated routes from one shipper in particular, but the destinations vary. When I pull up to the warehouse, I know the drill for this company. It’s nice to have at least one place I can go to and not have to think too much. Typically though, when I accept a freight opportunity, it’s a sprint to complete paperwork and a mad dash to locate a shipper and a consignee (the one who receives the delivery) in a location I’ve never been to. It's kind of like another version of “Where’s Waldo?” Sometimes, too, it’s similar to an Easter egg hunt where they hide the eggs real good.
Strangely, the country is getting smaller to me. What I once perceived as an arduous journey across the nation is now just another task on another day. I drive 400 miles for breakfast. Eleven hours behind the wheel isn’t the intimidating thought it once was. It’s all a state of mind. The truck I drive doesn’t feel as big as it once did. This can be a real trap, and I always adhere to the teachings I learned in school regarding safety procedures. Yes, you can get too comfortable with these trucks! A mechanical pre-trip inspection is a must and I walk around the Fat Cat to make sure lights are working and I beat on the tires with a rubber mallet to make sure they are inflated properly. I look for leaking fluids and to see that nothing is askew. I have learned to operate ratchet load securing straps (these things can give you fits!) and work the temperamental landing gear that props up my cargo hold from the rear. Mine has a manual crank that operates with finesse at times. Who says a trucker doesn’t get aerobic exercise? I use heavy metal load securing bars to insure that freight doesn’t shift or move. This is especially important when I haul hazardous materials like flammable liquids or sensitive items like a jet engine.
Prior to a run, I avoid sugar and concentrate on protein before I depart to regulate my system before a long run. I prefer un-sweetened ice tea to drink. It’s good to make sure things that I will want will be close at hand, like additional water and snacks. I insure that my satellite radio remote is close by and my cell phone has a good charge with the head set within reach.
Trip planning is an important part of my routine. I have a GPS unit, but I don’t follow it like some drivers do. A GPS unit will lead you right off the edge of a cliff, if you allow it. You have to physically look at a map and plot out a route on a motor carrier’s atlas. A GPS unit is a computer and it will send you on remote two lane roads through a series of small towns with lights and 35 mile per hour speed limits to save you a half mile on the trip. Trucks can’t go on every road a car can travel. You have to be constantly aware of your surroundings by watching further up ahead than a car for low bridges, power lines and tricky road configurations. This is especially true in cities where sometimes roads are narrow and intersections are tight. One time, I had to do at pick up in Central Falls, Rhode Island where the loading dock was in a garage right at the edge of a narrow road, on a busy afternoon rush hour. It was necessary to stop traffic by sticking the rear end of my truck right into traffic to get to it. Once inside, I learned that my cargo would be thousands of pounds of delicate glass tubing to be transported over rough New England roads. Double whammy! I hate transporting glass, even more than the skull and crossbones stuff.
One thing I have noticed is that we are increasingly becoming a national chain nation. There are Wal-Mart’s everywhere. The grocery stores are more regional because of the way fresh food is distributed, but the big chains dominate. There are surprisingly few towns in America where you can find local drug and department stores. Craving a McDonald’s Big Mac? You will never have to go very far ANYWHERE in the country for two all beef patties on a sesame seed bun with special sauce. It will just cost a ton of money in places like Connecticut. Take an exit off just about any interstate and chances are you will see something familiar. I look for local legends and anything that is unfamiliar. That’s how Route 66 used to be they tell me.
Having been to most states, I now open the state by state section of USA Today and the whole page looks local to me. I hear national news on TV and most times when they talk about a town somewhere where news is taking place, I either have been there or know where it is. America has become one big local community to me. The one thing that is different and interesting to me is the regional dialects of language. Mid Atlantic people tend to leave off consonants on the ends of words. In Brooklyn, New York, they add “R’s” and say “terlit” instead of toilet. New Englanders add a dimension of nasal acoustics to speech. Just put a clothes pin on your nose and talk, you’ll fit right in. Southerners have different tones of accents, but for the most part they just open their mouths and the words fall out. To think that all Southerners speak slowly is a myth. Try to keep up with a native Atlantan. True Cajuns from Louisiana and Mississippi have a certain aristocratic sound. I can pick out a Texas southern easily. Appalachia is a whole different world. You might need an interpreter there. Words and gestures are baffling at times. I knew old timer from Big Stone Gap, Virginia and “yes” was “yay-ya” and the bathroom was “the howsa.” Upstate New York, Ohio and Michigan are somewhat alike and unique sounding. I would say their accent is probably the hardest to imitate. Nearby Indiana doesn’t have and accent. That’s what the so-called language experts say. I tend to agree. They have a straight ahead Midwestern tone. The rest of the Midwest varies slightly. Now, if we’re talking about Wisconsin, Minnesota and the Dakotas, you really need to see the movie “Fargo” to get a true upper Midwest accent. They kind of over play the dialect it to create somewhat of a comical touch in the movie. A good portion of Florida and Urban California sounds like New York City and New Jersey. It’s got to be the huge transplant influence. I haven’t been to Alaska, but Sarah Palin has made me aware that there is an accent there. I like the fact that Hawaii economizes words. I understand “Aloha” means hello and goodbye. The accent is on the ring of flowers. In reality, you can drive three thousand miles and understand what everybody is saying, for the most part. Even if we can’t hear one another, there are some great hand signals. In Los Angeles, Chicago and New York In traffic, I’ve seen people waving with one or no fingers! Such a friendly places.
The physical beauty of America is outstanding. There is something worth seeing in every state I’ve been to. A month ago I had the good fortune of driving on one of the most scenic routes I’ve ever been to. Route 285 which runs down though the center of Colorado is breathtaking. At the same time, the elevation at 9,000 feet will make you short of breath. It’s literally breathtaking. The road winds and dips and at times is just like a roller coaster. When I was there, the snow covered mountains were truly dramatic. Campsites and interesting little towns popped up all along the way. I yearned to be travelling in a motor home instead of the Fat Cat. I’ve enjoyed the Sierras, Cascades and the California ranges out west as well. The east offers some great trips though the Catskills, Adirondack, Appalachian, Blue Ridge, White, Green and Ozark mountains too. There is no shortage of mountain scenery in the United States.
Mighty rivers traverse our land on a grand scale. The Mississippi is a sight to behold and I’ve crossed it in several regions of the country. The Columbia which separates Washington and Oregon is awesome to view. The Rio Grande in Texas makes a long border between us and Mexico. The Ohio probably has more quaint towns and impressive all American cities on its banks than any other. Located right on the Ohio, Cincinnati is a picturesque and well rounded metropolis as viewed on a hill from the Kentucky side with plenty of riverside attractions. Pittsburgh, where the Monongahela and the Allegheny form the Ohio, has transformed from a dirty old steel town to a land of high tech and a cleaner environment. The St. John’s River that runs through the middle of Jacksonville, Florida, is the only river in North America that flows from south to north. Add the Delaware, The St. Charles, The Hudson and The Tennessee and you know that we are a nation of great rivers.
As for coastline, we’ve got plenty of that too. The problem is though, there aren’t a whole lot of truck routes that hug the coastline. I’ve been on a few good ones like the Pacific Coast Highway and AIA in Florida, just not in the truck. Many of us yearn to be on the coast to feel the sand, the sea and the air. There’s just something very therapeutic about the beach. It soothes the soul and fills the senses with serenity.
When I think of over- all friendliness, there are lots of places in all regions of the country where the people are amiable and smile a lot. California is a pretty happy place for the most part. They don’t seem concerned that the next big earthquake, forest fire or mudslide could be moments away. My favorite Mad comic, Alfred E. Newman must have been from here. His motto is “What, Me Worry?” The south is a generally hospitable place, but Mississippi and Louisiana seem to stand out to me in addition to my home state of Georgia. Kentucky and Tennessee are also good for hospitality. I like Texas for over all niceness and New Mexico gets my vote as well. Colorado and Utah folks will make you feel comfortable and right at home. Pennsylvania is a tale of two cities where Pittsburgh gets the advantage over Philadelphia. Florida is problematic with lots of crabby old New Yorkers and Boston can go either way depending on if you’re a Sox fan. Generally, we’re a good nation willing to help each out with a kind word or a good deed.
The weather in the past year has had its challenges. I’ve driven in 12 sizeable snow storms and seen some frigid temperatures along the way. Ironically, the coldest I’ve been was in my home state of Georgia last February when the mercury hit 10 degrees with no power because the truck wouldn’t start. Michigan came in second with a brisk wind off Lake Michigan at St. Joseph in November. I didn’t feel the cold as much out west in the Rockies in Places like Salt Lake City and Idaho because of the elevation and dry air. I have definitely been hot in a few places. Laredo, Texas comes to mind first where it hit 107 when I was there. I could have popped out of my truck like bread out of a toaster. Phoenix was 97 at ten in the morning when I was there. Yuma, Arizona was the all time hottest when I felt 119. The only other time I feel that kind of heat is when I check my cornbread in the oven. I have to remind myself to drink extra water and wear a cowboy hat in the sun. I’ll stick a fan in my face and idle the engine for air conditioning as much as I can. As for good weather, California is a good place to be, when it’s not raining buckets. I’m very fond of the south in spring. The far north becomes comfortable in summer. As far as driving, fog is my least favorite. I hit a lot of it on several trips, at night, in Indiana. Snow doesn’t bother me as long as the road departments clear it off good and I don’t have to “chain up” the tires. Rain just makes the truck dirty when all that road grime splashes up on her and can be wicked in cities regarding the way people drive.
In all, I like this type of work, but I’m not sure how long I can be out on the road. It can be a real grind when you’re away from home for long periods of time. But, for now, I’m taking it days at a time, not wanting to get too far ahead of myself or too far behind. I have a few ideas of what I want to do next, but I haven’t fully thought them through. So, for now, I’ll continue this gypsy way of life. Here today, gone tomorrow and somewhere else the next day. As we speak, I’m working up my Top 10 favorite lists. The lists will be of favorite small towns, favorite cities, favorite road songs, favorite food stops and favorite truck stops to mention a few.
To me America is a great place. I’m not done seeing it all. Figuratively speaking, I want to meet all the Americans and see the places that the locals love to be. There are many more miles to go, many more places to see and many more stories to write.
Friday, June 4, 2010
A Garden of Paradise
The call came on the trusty old Q-comm and it was an offer of a run from Louisville, Kentucky to Rockville, Maryland. The pay offered made me raise one eyebrow concerning the importance of this load considering it was a stone’s throw from Washington, D.C. It was the right money without even trying. Ok, I’ll go, was my thought. The commodity was “electronic equipment”. When I received the rest of the load information, the picture was clearer. This fun little excursion was taking me to the Federal Justice Center. I then had visions of being ordered to spread eagle for a pat-down search before entry to the compound would be granted. So, I prepared my paperwork and pre-trip inspected the Fat Cat for the run. Rockville is like a branch of DC and a bastion of activity…kind of like a beehive. But, hey, the weather promises to be nice and roads look good on the map. I’ve got twelve hours to get there from the point of freight pick up.
I arrived in Louisville the next morning from Florence, well rested and ready for a nice drive through Kentucky, West Virginia and Western Maryland. With the freight loaded, it was on to Rockville by the nine pm deadline.
Night had barely fallen when I pulled up to a non-descript building in suburban Rockville. I got out of the Cat and felt like someone was waving a checkered flag at me. It was mostly a straight drive through to meet my deadline.
Now, I was facing the highest chain link gate I think I’ve ever seen in my life with an intercom box near the gate. As I reached to push the button, a voice like the Wizard of Oz boomed out of the speaker and said “please state you name” in a terse tone. At that moment, I felt very small. I responded with my name and continued in a back and forth question and answer period with the great Oz. Apparently, they had sixteen cameras trained on me and knew a lot about me from probably as many TV monitors in some control room. Good thing I brushed my teeth.
The voice in the box ultimately communicated that they would be sending a uniformed man to question me at the gate. I felt like saying “I haven’t done anything wrong and I only have equipment that someone in your office really needs!”
After a few minutes, an impeccably dressed officer sporting a Clark Gable moustashe in a starch white uniform shirt appeared with a decidedly amiable air about him, quite different from the sound of the intercom. His purpose was to question me further. He said no one in the compound knew anything about any delivery from my company and that I would have to return the following morning and talk to different people. I responded that I would check with my dispatch and see if they could offer any assistance. I got Kelly on the phone and explained the situation and she mockingly informs me “your load doesn’t deliver until 9:00am tomorrow morning. “ She then laughed at me and said “at least you’re not late!” I shot back with “there’s no laughing at a government installation!” At the same moment, I picked up the Q-comm and sure enough, it said in our military time mode 0900 to 0900. Dam, double dam. I had turned 0900 to 0900 to 0900 to 2100. Wow. At least I wasn’t late. I apologized to the guard and said “my mistake, I’ll be back in the morning.”
After a hot meal and a good night’s sleep at the South Baltimore TA truck stop, it was time to return to Chain Link City to unload. When I spoke with the daytime people, they told me “someone should have taken that load off your truck...we are a twenty-four hour operation. They should have recognized the names on the paperwork. There will be some meetings on this.” I privately thought to myself, “What have I caused here? What kind of meetings? Prayer meetings?” But, then I realized that that this is the federal government. Nobody is supposed to know what is going on!
From Rockville, my expediting life picked up in pace. The loads were coming to me fast and furious. I back-tracked to Hagerstown to take a load to Boston. From Boston, I slid over to Central Falls, Rhode Island where I had to stop traffic to back into a narrow garage type loading dock. This one was going to Manchester, New Hampshire. At that point, it was a turn- around and a cannon ball of 1,130 miles direct to Atlanta. From Atlanta, a jaunt back up I-85 a bit to Lavonia, Georgia to run to Charleston, South Carolina. Next, it was over to Columbus, Georgia for some necessary repairs at Fleet Base. My fleet owner gave me a car to go home for a few days and I would catch up on house chores and wait for the room to stop spinning.
After a blazing fast four days at home, I drove back to Columbus to get the Fat Cat and take an opportunity. This time, I was awarded Cottonton, Alabama to pick up a roll of paper heavier than my Buick to take to Omaha, Nebraska. Next up, I ran up to the only part of Iowa I haven’t been to in the north west corner of the state near Sioux City. At the loading point, I remarked the forklift guy that Sioux City must be where all the lawyers live. He looked at me kind of funny like he didn’t get the joke. I didn’t dwell on it. This load was over 10,000 pounds of concrete patio furniture being rushed to Novato, California, on the North Bay side of San Francisco.
There would be no time to put on a Hawaiian shirt and do tourist duty in San Fran, for the next destination was Los Angeles. Unfortunately, most of this trip would be on truck friendly I-5 and not the more scenic and interesting Pacific Coast Highway 1. The scenery on that road is stunning. But, I had the good fortune to make a trip from Los Angeles to San Francisco at a leisurely pace in a car at one point. The PCH as the initiated call it, is a must drive experience. If you’re looking for the one road in America that will provide scenery, history and great beaches, this is it. Put it on the bucket list.
At the end of this line, I stumbled into Castaic, California on the north side of LA, next to Simi Valley and a Ventura Freeway ride to the coast. This is ground zero for the musical group America’s song Ventura Highway. The lyrics say it all. “Seasons crying no despair, alligator lizards in the air…” Castaic is a tidy little town with picturesque mountains surrounding a bustling community of commerce and shopping. The wide boulevard through town conjures up images of American Graffiti and hot rods and woody wagons with surfboards cruising up and down the blocks. I felt like I was stepping up to receive an award just for arriving here.
The Pilot Truck Stop here is the best Pilot I’ve been to. In my initial scope of the premises I found an inviting patio with concrete tables and umbrellas, perfect for setting down with a Gurkha Black Dragon cigar. In this little garden of paradise, the landscaping was well tended to and perfect to the point where I thought the trees came from Michaels Craft Store. The April weather was absolute perfection for human inhabitation. I then discovered an authentic taco stand next door with an ample selection of Mexican offerings. A couple of times I sat down to a meal of the real deal with an amazingly good non-alcoholic bottle of sangria. The Bell is no match for this place. I spoke some Spanish with some local men who had gathered around and asked them when the boulevard cruisers appeared on the street. They were happy that someone as white as me would speak their language. I even got a compliment on my accent. Thank you Senoras Rossi and Fuentes (my high school Spanish teachers).
With perfect palms and dark sunglass inducing sunshine, you could conceivably find a petrified version of me here years from now. This part of Southern California is my speed. Laid way back.
Amongst these pleasant surroundings is where I met David and Susan, a travelling couple from Southern California with two dogs and three cats. David was a self proclaimed country boy with wavy light brown hair and a matching moustache. His slender wife had long dark brunette hair with a nice smile. I was intrigued when they paraded the cats into the Pilot courtyard on leashes like dogs. This family of felines and canines seemed to be doing just fine on the harness type apparatus. They had the pet carriers for the cats to go in and get out of the sun and rest, but they seemed to enjoy sniffing around and pawing “kitty holes” under the bushes to do what kitties do. These were nice folks about my age and we enjoyed a long conversation about animals and things that go on in Southern California. They let me hold one of the cats, a perfectly white boy which was a special treat to me. I miss my own animals at home, one of the things that makes life on the road tough.
After a great weekend, Monday came crashing through the window and it was time to go. I could have spent a week here, but Phoenix, Arizona beckoned and I readied the paperwork for the load. To the desert I go, leaving behind a perfect little place. I’ll be back. You can put money on that bet.
I arrived in Louisville the next morning from Florence, well rested and ready for a nice drive through Kentucky, West Virginia and Western Maryland. With the freight loaded, it was on to Rockville by the nine pm deadline.
Night had barely fallen when I pulled up to a non-descript building in suburban Rockville. I got out of the Cat and felt like someone was waving a checkered flag at me. It was mostly a straight drive through to meet my deadline.
Now, I was facing the highest chain link gate I think I’ve ever seen in my life with an intercom box near the gate. As I reached to push the button, a voice like the Wizard of Oz boomed out of the speaker and said “please state you name” in a terse tone. At that moment, I felt very small. I responded with my name and continued in a back and forth question and answer period with the great Oz. Apparently, they had sixteen cameras trained on me and knew a lot about me from probably as many TV monitors in some control room. Good thing I brushed my teeth.
The voice in the box ultimately communicated that they would be sending a uniformed man to question me at the gate. I felt like saying “I haven’t done anything wrong and I only have equipment that someone in your office really needs!”
After a few minutes, an impeccably dressed officer sporting a Clark Gable moustashe in a starch white uniform shirt appeared with a decidedly amiable air about him, quite different from the sound of the intercom. His purpose was to question me further. He said no one in the compound knew anything about any delivery from my company and that I would have to return the following morning and talk to different people. I responded that I would check with my dispatch and see if they could offer any assistance. I got Kelly on the phone and explained the situation and she mockingly informs me “your load doesn’t deliver until 9:00am tomorrow morning. “ She then laughed at me and said “at least you’re not late!” I shot back with “there’s no laughing at a government installation!” At the same moment, I picked up the Q-comm and sure enough, it said in our military time mode 0900 to 0900. Dam, double dam. I had turned 0900 to 0900 to 0900 to 2100. Wow. At least I wasn’t late. I apologized to the guard and said “my mistake, I’ll be back in the morning.”
After a hot meal and a good night’s sleep at the South Baltimore TA truck stop, it was time to return to Chain Link City to unload. When I spoke with the daytime people, they told me “someone should have taken that load off your truck...we are a twenty-four hour operation. They should have recognized the names on the paperwork. There will be some meetings on this.” I privately thought to myself, “What have I caused here? What kind of meetings? Prayer meetings?” But, then I realized that that this is the federal government. Nobody is supposed to know what is going on!
From Rockville, my expediting life picked up in pace. The loads were coming to me fast and furious. I back-tracked to Hagerstown to take a load to Boston. From Boston, I slid over to Central Falls, Rhode Island where I had to stop traffic to back into a narrow garage type loading dock. This one was going to Manchester, New Hampshire. At that point, it was a turn- around and a cannon ball of 1,130 miles direct to Atlanta. From Atlanta, a jaunt back up I-85 a bit to Lavonia, Georgia to run to Charleston, South Carolina. Next, it was over to Columbus, Georgia for some necessary repairs at Fleet Base. My fleet owner gave me a car to go home for a few days and I would catch up on house chores and wait for the room to stop spinning.
After a blazing fast four days at home, I drove back to Columbus to get the Fat Cat and take an opportunity. This time, I was awarded Cottonton, Alabama to pick up a roll of paper heavier than my Buick to take to Omaha, Nebraska. Next up, I ran up to the only part of Iowa I haven’t been to in the north west corner of the state near Sioux City. At the loading point, I remarked the forklift guy that Sioux City must be where all the lawyers live. He looked at me kind of funny like he didn’t get the joke. I didn’t dwell on it. This load was over 10,000 pounds of concrete patio furniture being rushed to Novato, California, on the North Bay side of San Francisco.
There would be no time to put on a Hawaiian shirt and do tourist duty in San Fran, for the next destination was Los Angeles. Unfortunately, most of this trip would be on truck friendly I-5 and not the more scenic and interesting Pacific Coast Highway 1. The scenery on that road is stunning. But, I had the good fortune to make a trip from Los Angeles to San Francisco at a leisurely pace in a car at one point. The PCH as the initiated call it, is a must drive experience. If you’re looking for the one road in America that will provide scenery, history and great beaches, this is it. Put it on the bucket list.
At the end of this line, I stumbled into Castaic, California on the north side of LA, next to Simi Valley and a Ventura Freeway ride to the coast. This is ground zero for the musical group America’s song Ventura Highway. The lyrics say it all. “Seasons crying no despair, alligator lizards in the air…” Castaic is a tidy little town with picturesque mountains surrounding a bustling community of commerce and shopping. The wide boulevard through town conjures up images of American Graffiti and hot rods and woody wagons with surfboards cruising up and down the blocks. I felt like I was stepping up to receive an award just for arriving here.
The Pilot Truck Stop here is the best Pilot I’ve been to. In my initial scope of the premises I found an inviting patio with concrete tables and umbrellas, perfect for setting down with a Gurkha Black Dragon cigar. In this little garden of paradise, the landscaping was well tended to and perfect to the point where I thought the trees came from Michaels Craft Store. The April weather was absolute perfection for human inhabitation. I then discovered an authentic taco stand next door with an ample selection of Mexican offerings. A couple of times I sat down to a meal of the real deal with an amazingly good non-alcoholic bottle of sangria. The Bell is no match for this place. I spoke some Spanish with some local men who had gathered around and asked them when the boulevard cruisers appeared on the street. They were happy that someone as white as me would speak their language. I even got a compliment on my accent. Thank you Senoras Rossi and Fuentes (my high school Spanish teachers).
With perfect palms and dark sunglass inducing sunshine, you could conceivably find a petrified version of me here years from now. This part of Southern California is my speed. Laid way back.
Amongst these pleasant surroundings is where I met David and Susan, a travelling couple from Southern California with two dogs and three cats. David was a self proclaimed country boy with wavy light brown hair and a matching moustache. His slender wife had long dark brunette hair with a nice smile. I was intrigued when they paraded the cats into the Pilot courtyard on leashes like dogs. This family of felines and canines seemed to be doing just fine on the harness type apparatus. They had the pet carriers for the cats to go in and get out of the sun and rest, but they seemed to enjoy sniffing around and pawing “kitty holes” under the bushes to do what kitties do. These were nice folks about my age and we enjoyed a long conversation about animals and things that go on in Southern California. They let me hold one of the cats, a perfectly white boy which was a special treat to me. I miss my own animals at home, one of the things that makes life on the road tough.
After a great weekend, Monday came crashing through the window and it was time to go. I could have spent a week here, but Phoenix, Arizona beckoned and I readied the paperwork for the load. To the desert I go, leaving behind a perfect little place. I’ll be back. You can put money on that bet.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
The Doors of Agent 86
I had hoped to be home for Easter, but the way my schedule was working, it wouldn’t be so this year. I’d been to every Easter service in the new church building at Providence since we opened it. In fact, the very first service in that sanctuary was Easter Sunday, 2007. This year, I would observe the culmination of the most solemn religious week of the year in Chicago, alone. That’s ok, a weekend in solitude would give me a sense of introspection I need from time to time. This was my twelfth time here since last summer and the very first time I would actually get to lay over here. On the holy morning, I awoke to bright sunshine and strong winds after a rainy northern Illinois night. The air was cool and I had to fight to keep my ball cap on my head. The Windy City was truly living up to its nickname today.
Chicago is a busy place with freight going every which way twenty four-seven. Even so, I thought I’d get one more night to lay back and gear up for Monday. Not this time. The company called and pleaded with me to take a special “hot” load of special auto parts to an assembly plant in the Cincinnati area for early Monday morning delivery. I agreed and quickly readied up for the run. The bright sunshine was clouding up rapidly and rain became eminent.
As the song goes “…some days are diamonds and some days are stone...” Well, this would be one of those of days of stone…or night, if you’re keeping score. As I’m nearing my pick up destination, in heavy getaway Chicago Easter traffic, in the pouring rain, the company calls and says “you have to pick up a fax before you can get the load.” I responded with an irritated “great, where do you think I can pick up a fax in Downtown Chicago?” I had wished they let me know that back at the truck stop. It would have been easy to pop in to the fuel desk and get it. Dam. My only option was a convenience store near O’Hare. Fortunately, they were able to accommodate me. But, when the fax arrived, it was un-readable. I called the company back and was instructed to just go to the pickup point with the mushy document.
I navigated the famous Chicago congestion and arrived at the international transfer point for the load at the second busiest airport in America. Upon entering the building, I was greeted by a series of doors to get to the shipping window. If you remember the 60’s TV show “Get Smart”, it was like the opening scenes of Agent 86 making his way to the telephone booth where he crosses his arms and disappears straight down.
I get back to the window and apologetically present the obligatory un-readable fax to a perplexed looking middle aged lady who summoned two other male colleagues to try to decipher the brain puzzling mode of communication. She returns the baffling document with a shrug of the shoulders and a “we can’t read this. I have no idea what you’re here for.” Privately, I felt like an idiot. Now, it was time to start dialing for dollars and un-ravel this crime scene of a document. I knew at this point, it was going to be a long night.
Two hours and a bunch of calls back and forth solved the mystery and now I could get loaded and head out. I was granted permission to enter the warehouse and prep the truck for ten pallets of parts that the plant on the other end needed to continue production. They were waiting on me. The pressure was on. The assembly line was shut down until I got there. Anxious managers on the other end wanted this shipment badly. The prospect of paying auto workers to stay on duty while doing nothing wasn’t sitting well with the powers that be. I don’t blame them, not in these economic times. The silver lining here was the fact that an auto plant was in production, working overtime on a holiday. Perhaps, this could be interpreted as a good sign for the economy.
Well, sometimes forward motion in this business is like riding a Jeep in the woods. Next, I was greeted by a fellow who I could picture at a metal thrash club. Somewhat short, and bearded, he looked like he had been beat silly with loud music. I made room for the load and he proceeded to forklift the goods that had just arrived from China on the Fat Cat. At this point, I came to the realization that I don’t think I’ve ever seen a forklift operator drive and work as slow as he did. I looked at my watch so much that I could have looked the numbers right off my wrist. Then I noticed that he had nine pallets on the truck with no room for a tenth. Now, I know ten will fit on my truck. Just when I’m about to open my mouth, a supervisor comes over and surveys the situation and orders the rave clubber off the forklift and then gets on and begins unloading my cargo himself. At least this guy can pedal this thing a bit. The supervisor takes everything off and re-loads it correctly, getting all ten on. Miracles never cease.
At this point, I was nearing the four hour mark here. The problem is that I can only drive eleven hours in a day and then have to shut down for ten. You can be on duty, not driving for fourteen and that’s it. Once you start driving, the fourteen hour clock starts and it doesn’t stop. There are no exceptions and if you’re caught going over hours, they can fine you…heavily. I knew at this point with travel time to Cincinnati, it would be close by the time I got there. Roadside breaks would have to be very brief and I’d have to stay moving for most of the run without stopping like I usually do.
Daybreak arrived and I had my destination in view. It was a tough overnight run to get there on time. I didn’t see dancing animals on the highway, but was close to that point. I pulled into the plant and headed to the shipping office to check in and determine where to unload at this sizeable manufacturing facility. I was instructed to tell them it was urgent “shut down freight”. The clerk there directed me to a loading dock on the other side of the plant.
I get to where I’m directed and a fork lift lady now informs me I she can’t unload me at that particular dock so I drive around to another and proceed to ready the truck for the delivery. Most places, I get on the dock and enter my cargo hold to remove load bracing bars and perform other tasks in an effort to prep it for forklifts to enter and remove the goods.
Another lady spies me there and yells at me for being on the dock. “You’re not supposed to be in this part of the warehouse”. I replied ok, and then you’ll remove the load bars and then replace them back in my truck?” She answers me with a strained “yes, but you really need to be off the dock right now.” As I’m leaving the area, the first woman approaches me with a florescent yellow vest and instructs me to do what I need to do on the dock. As I begin doing what I need to do, the second woman comes back around and says “I thought I told you not to be on the dock!” This was now turning into a Three Stooges routine. Except now, I wanted to be Moe and give someone a two finger poke in the eyes and a smack on the noggin. I left the dock and the first lady comes back around and asks me if I’m going to remove the load bars! I handed my yellow vest over and explained that she was going to have to do it herself. I could see a frustrated look on her face. I wanted to tell her welcome to my world, but was too tired to get into it.
Finally, the load was off the truck and out of my hair. I now had just enough time to slink off to my favorite truck stop in Florence, Kentucky across the river. Now, like Barnaby Jones, I could enjoy a bottle of milk and a long daytime sleep in the Bluegrass sunshine. I earned every penny of this one.
Chicago is a busy place with freight going every which way twenty four-seven. Even so, I thought I’d get one more night to lay back and gear up for Monday. Not this time. The company called and pleaded with me to take a special “hot” load of special auto parts to an assembly plant in the Cincinnati area for early Monday morning delivery. I agreed and quickly readied up for the run. The bright sunshine was clouding up rapidly and rain became eminent.
As the song goes “…some days are diamonds and some days are stone...” Well, this would be one of those of days of stone…or night, if you’re keeping score. As I’m nearing my pick up destination, in heavy getaway Chicago Easter traffic, in the pouring rain, the company calls and says “you have to pick up a fax before you can get the load.” I responded with an irritated “great, where do you think I can pick up a fax in Downtown Chicago?” I had wished they let me know that back at the truck stop. It would have been easy to pop in to the fuel desk and get it. Dam. My only option was a convenience store near O’Hare. Fortunately, they were able to accommodate me. But, when the fax arrived, it was un-readable. I called the company back and was instructed to just go to the pickup point with the mushy document.
I navigated the famous Chicago congestion and arrived at the international transfer point for the load at the second busiest airport in America. Upon entering the building, I was greeted by a series of doors to get to the shipping window. If you remember the 60’s TV show “Get Smart”, it was like the opening scenes of Agent 86 making his way to the telephone booth where he crosses his arms and disappears straight down.
I get back to the window and apologetically present the obligatory un-readable fax to a perplexed looking middle aged lady who summoned two other male colleagues to try to decipher the brain puzzling mode of communication. She returns the baffling document with a shrug of the shoulders and a “we can’t read this. I have no idea what you’re here for.” Privately, I felt like an idiot. Now, it was time to start dialing for dollars and un-ravel this crime scene of a document. I knew at this point, it was going to be a long night.
Two hours and a bunch of calls back and forth solved the mystery and now I could get loaded and head out. I was granted permission to enter the warehouse and prep the truck for ten pallets of parts that the plant on the other end needed to continue production. They were waiting on me. The pressure was on. The assembly line was shut down until I got there. Anxious managers on the other end wanted this shipment badly. The prospect of paying auto workers to stay on duty while doing nothing wasn’t sitting well with the powers that be. I don’t blame them, not in these economic times. The silver lining here was the fact that an auto plant was in production, working overtime on a holiday. Perhaps, this could be interpreted as a good sign for the economy.
Well, sometimes forward motion in this business is like riding a Jeep in the woods. Next, I was greeted by a fellow who I could picture at a metal thrash club. Somewhat short, and bearded, he looked like he had been beat silly with loud music. I made room for the load and he proceeded to forklift the goods that had just arrived from China on the Fat Cat. At this point, I came to the realization that I don’t think I’ve ever seen a forklift operator drive and work as slow as he did. I looked at my watch so much that I could have looked the numbers right off my wrist. Then I noticed that he had nine pallets on the truck with no room for a tenth. Now, I know ten will fit on my truck. Just when I’m about to open my mouth, a supervisor comes over and surveys the situation and orders the rave clubber off the forklift and then gets on and begins unloading my cargo himself. At least this guy can pedal this thing a bit. The supervisor takes everything off and re-loads it correctly, getting all ten on. Miracles never cease.
At this point, I was nearing the four hour mark here. The problem is that I can only drive eleven hours in a day and then have to shut down for ten. You can be on duty, not driving for fourteen and that’s it. Once you start driving, the fourteen hour clock starts and it doesn’t stop. There are no exceptions and if you’re caught going over hours, they can fine you…heavily. I knew at this point with travel time to Cincinnati, it would be close by the time I got there. Roadside breaks would have to be very brief and I’d have to stay moving for most of the run without stopping like I usually do.
Daybreak arrived and I had my destination in view. It was a tough overnight run to get there on time. I didn’t see dancing animals on the highway, but was close to that point. I pulled into the plant and headed to the shipping office to check in and determine where to unload at this sizeable manufacturing facility. I was instructed to tell them it was urgent “shut down freight”. The clerk there directed me to a loading dock on the other side of the plant.
I get to where I’m directed and a fork lift lady now informs me I she can’t unload me at that particular dock so I drive around to another and proceed to ready the truck for the delivery. Most places, I get on the dock and enter my cargo hold to remove load bracing bars and perform other tasks in an effort to prep it for forklifts to enter and remove the goods.
Another lady spies me there and yells at me for being on the dock. “You’re not supposed to be in this part of the warehouse”. I replied ok, and then you’ll remove the load bars and then replace them back in my truck?” She answers me with a strained “yes, but you really need to be off the dock right now.” As I’m leaving the area, the first woman approaches me with a florescent yellow vest and instructs me to do what I need to do on the dock. As I begin doing what I need to do, the second woman comes back around and says “I thought I told you not to be on the dock!” This was now turning into a Three Stooges routine. Except now, I wanted to be Moe and give someone a two finger poke in the eyes and a smack on the noggin. I left the dock and the first lady comes back around and asks me if I’m going to remove the load bars! I handed my yellow vest over and explained that she was going to have to do it herself. I could see a frustrated look on her face. I wanted to tell her welcome to my world, but was too tired to get into it.
Finally, the load was off the truck and out of my hair. I now had just enough time to slink off to my favorite truck stop in Florence, Kentucky across the river. Now, like Barnaby Jones, I could enjoy a bottle of milk and a long daytime sleep in the Bluegrass sunshine. I earned every penny of this one.
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