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?
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Thursday, July 29, 2010
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.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Unfurl It Like Tractor Paper
The first quarter of 2010 is about to close and I’m two months away from driving over the road nationally for the company for one year. We all marvel at how fast time flies and this past year is no exception. Someone once said to me “life is like a roll of toilet paper, the closer to the end you get, the faster it goes.” How true.
I’m still adding up the numbers and so far, I’ve logged nearly 100,000 miles in three different trucks. My travels have taken me to 45 states. Regarding those 45 states, I’ve been to almost every state I’ve ever been to at least twice, some as many as 10 times. Of the lower 48, only Montana and the Dakotas are the missing pieces. Someday, my dream is to drive a truck in all 50, even if that means renting a Ryder tractor in Honolulu and taking it around town. The lone exception this year has been Maine. Expediting has just not taken me there. Back in 2001, we took a motor home to Bar Harbor and up the rocky coast to explore seaside villages and enjoy some lobster. Even Louie had some of the crustacean. He looks good in a bib.
I have often bounced back and forth from Canada to the Rio Grande like a bungee cord. These sojourns have divided the country into geometric patterns. To be put on a canvas, some of these runs would appear to be modern art. I ran from Washington State to Orlando Florida and I am hoping for an opportunity that will take me from San Diego to Bangor Maine to complete the “X”. The major north-south routes, I’ve almost completed in their entirety include Interstates 5, 15, 25,35,45,55,65,75,85 and 95. East-West Interstates on the list are 90, 70, and 20. I’ve travelled the entire length of 80 from the George Washington Bridge in New York to San Francisco. Also on the completed list is 40, and 10. I just have the section of 75 north of Flint, Michigan to the Upper Peninsula, the Midland-Odessa stretch on 20, and a piece of 95 in Maine to the Canadian border to add those to the done list. All the Interstates I have driven on would unfurl like tractor paper from a computer printer.
Keeping track of all this has been a most enjoyable part of the job. More than numbers, these roads are paths that lead through America. There are home towns along the way that mean something to someone. Most importantly, The Eisenhower Interstate System connects us and our American ideals and principles. We may seem much divided as a country as of late, but I’ve always felt that this is how our country works. Thomas Jefferson, in his first inaugural address in 1801 proclaimed that“Every difference of opinion is not a difference of principle. We have been called by different names, brethren of the same principle. We are all Republicans, we are all Federalists. If there be any among us who would wish to dissolve this Union or to change its republican form, let them stand undisturbed as monuments of the safety with which error of opinion may be tolerated, where reason is left free to combat it” . Our forefathers were brilliant men.
Once again, I over-stayed my home time to complete tax returns and catch up on a few chores at the ranch. After a short run to get my “less than 75”, and move up in dwell time status, my jumping off point out of town would be from the electronics warehouse south of Atlanta to Memphis on Friday. Delivery wasn’t until Monday so I could lolly gag my way across the south a bit. Night number one found me in Birmingham, Alabama at the Flying J. When you start recognizing faces and places along the way, as I do here, it kind of gives a strange air of familiarity. These days, a large portion of America has a “homey” feeling to me. On Saturday afternoon, under brilliant spring skies, I weighed anchor and continued on westward across the top of Alabama and into Mississippi on a smooth and picturesque US 78 in the Magnolia State. The state welcome center in Ole’ Miss was alive in Bradford Pear white and a winter brown Bermuda lawn, a reminder that the last vestiges of the cold season were hanging on. Soon, bare trees would fill out in green and magnificent Magnolias dominate the landscape. I’ve always found solace in an early spring day. In that kind of day, a prize can be found for enduring winter.
Tupelo wasn’t far up the road, and this time, I was determined to visit Elvis Presley’s birthplace. This was my third pass on this route and the King wasn’t going to slip by me again. The Sprint Market across from the Huddle House next to Elvis Presley Lake and Campground seemed like the logical place to put the Fat Cat down for the night. Upon entering the mini market, I was greeted by a chorus of hellos. Seems the lady clerks welcome every customer as they cross the threshold. The jingle bells on the door would clang and hellos and hi’s would follow. I had heard that Tupelo was known for its hospitality and this kind of salutation seemed to fit. As I surveyed the fried deli counter, one of my eyebrows raised as I spied catfish fillets lined up for sale. A three fillet meal with steak fries was $2.39. Another reason I like Mississippi. They don’t try to gouge you at every turn. Fuel prices are usually the lowest in the country too. With a sack of fish, I headed to the truck to settle in and plot my visit the next day at Elvis’s place of humble beginnings.
Sunday opened with a stout cloud cover and cooler temperatures but not to temper my enthusiasm for a visit to the King’s home. I found the Birthplace complex 2 and a half miles down the road and located a good place to park the Cat. Once inside the gift shop, I was greeted by a pleasant woman with silver hair and a big smile I presumed to be in her 70’s. She warned of malfunctioning plumbing in the Men’s room and offered up a program for the tour.
On the grounds, you’ll find a bronze statue of Elvis at 13, dressed in overalls with a guitar in hand. The story wall is situated near a pleasant fountain and has profound quotes from friends and family.
The actual home that Elvis was born in is a tiny two room cottage with a front porch and swing. Inside, it takes about 10 seconds to walk from the front door to the back. It’s been refurbed and decorated down to the finest detail, just as it would have been when Elvis lived there. An old pot belly stove that doubles as the heat and cooking source takes a prominent place in the kitchen with an authentic cast iron skillet. Encompassing the home in concrete are markers denoting each year that Elvis lived there from 1935 to 1948 when the family moved to Memphis for a better life. Next on the tour is a modern looking Chapel built in recent times with beautiful stain glass windows where you can sit in a pew and listen to recordings of Elvis singing gospel.
Last, but not least, is the church where Elvis actually got his singing start. They moved it from up the road in 2008 and restored it to its 1930’s period. Once inside, one of Elvis’s second cousins gives a short talk on the history of the church and then she turns down the lights. Next, three screens drop down from the ceiling and a re-creation film with actors who portray a vintage 1940’s Church of God worship service. The effect is dramatic, you really feel like you’re experiencing an old time gospel service in the old church. Out back, there is an authentic outhouse to complete the feeling of the era. After the presentation, I spoke with the cousin and asked her if she ever got to spend any time with Elvis. She said in fact, yes. She related that he was 9 years older than her and would sometimes bring “dates” around for her older sister. On occasion, she got to tag along with the group.
I thanked the nice woman for a great time and hopped back into the Fat Cat for the next to last leg of the trip to Olive Branch, Mississippi, a suburb of Memphis where I would cue up for an early Monday morning delivery. My ongoing voyage across this great land would continue up western Tennessee through the tail end of Kentucky into the heart of the Bluegrass State to a stop in Lexington. At this point, only my log books know for sure how many times I’ve been in Colonel Sanders Land this year. It’s supposed to be mostly sunny and 70 degrees tomorrow here. I just might want to stay.
I’m still adding up the numbers and so far, I’ve logged nearly 100,000 miles in three different trucks. My travels have taken me to 45 states. Regarding those 45 states, I’ve been to almost every state I’ve ever been to at least twice, some as many as 10 times. Of the lower 48, only Montana and the Dakotas are the missing pieces. Someday, my dream is to drive a truck in all 50, even if that means renting a Ryder tractor in Honolulu and taking it around town. The lone exception this year has been Maine. Expediting has just not taken me there. Back in 2001, we took a motor home to Bar Harbor and up the rocky coast to explore seaside villages and enjoy some lobster. Even Louie had some of the crustacean. He looks good in a bib.
I have often bounced back and forth from Canada to the Rio Grande like a bungee cord. These sojourns have divided the country into geometric patterns. To be put on a canvas, some of these runs would appear to be modern art. I ran from Washington State to Orlando Florida and I am hoping for an opportunity that will take me from San Diego to Bangor Maine to complete the “X”. The major north-south routes, I’ve almost completed in their entirety include Interstates 5, 15, 25,35,45,55,65,75,85 and 95. East-West Interstates on the list are 90, 70, and 20. I’ve travelled the entire length of 80 from the George Washington Bridge in New York to San Francisco. Also on the completed list is 40, and 10. I just have the section of 75 north of Flint, Michigan to the Upper Peninsula, the Midland-Odessa stretch on 20, and a piece of 95 in Maine to the Canadian border to add those to the done list. All the Interstates I have driven on would unfurl like tractor paper from a computer printer.
Keeping track of all this has been a most enjoyable part of the job. More than numbers, these roads are paths that lead through America. There are home towns along the way that mean something to someone. Most importantly, The Eisenhower Interstate System connects us and our American ideals and principles. We may seem much divided as a country as of late, but I’ve always felt that this is how our country works. Thomas Jefferson, in his first inaugural address in 1801 proclaimed that“Every difference of opinion is not a difference of principle. We have been called by different names, brethren of the same principle. We are all Republicans, we are all Federalists. If there be any among us who would wish to dissolve this Union or to change its republican form, let them stand undisturbed as monuments of the safety with which error of opinion may be tolerated, where reason is left free to combat it” . Our forefathers were brilliant men.
Once again, I over-stayed my home time to complete tax returns and catch up on a few chores at the ranch. After a short run to get my “less than 75”, and move up in dwell time status, my jumping off point out of town would be from the electronics warehouse south of Atlanta to Memphis on Friday. Delivery wasn’t until Monday so I could lolly gag my way across the south a bit. Night number one found me in Birmingham, Alabama at the Flying J. When you start recognizing faces and places along the way, as I do here, it kind of gives a strange air of familiarity. These days, a large portion of America has a “homey” feeling to me. On Saturday afternoon, under brilliant spring skies, I weighed anchor and continued on westward across the top of Alabama and into Mississippi on a smooth and picturesque US 78 in the Magnolia State. The state welcome center in Ole’ Miss was alive in Bradford Pear white and a winter brown Bermuda lawn, a reminder that the last vestiges of the cold season were hanging on. Soon, bare trees would fill out in green and magnificent Magnolias dominate the landscape. I’ve always found solace in an early spring day. In that kind of day, a prize can be found for enduring winter.
Tupelo wasn’t far up the road, and this time, I was determined to visit Elvis Presley’s birthplace. This was my third pass on this route and the King wasn’t going to slip by me again. The Sprint Market across from the Huddle House next to Elvis Presley Lake and Campground seemed like the logical place to put the Fat Cat down for the night. Upon entering the mini market, I was greeted by a chorus of hellos. Seems the lady clerks welcome every customer as they cross the threshold. The jingle bells on the door would clang and hellos and hi’s would follow. I had heard that Tupelo was known for its hospitality and this kind of salutation seemed to fit. As I surveyed the fried deli counter, one of my eyebrows raised as I spied catfish fillets lined up for sale. A three fillet meal with steak fries was $2.39. Another reason I like Mississippi. They don’t try to gouge you at every turn. Fuel prices are usually the lowest in the country too. With a sack of fish, I headed to the truck to settle in and plot my visit the next day at Elvis’s place of humble beginnings.
Sunday opened with a stout cloud cover and cooler temperatures but not to temper my enthusiasm for a visit to the King’s home. I found the Birthplace complex 2 and a half miles down the road and located a good place to park the Cat. Once inside the gift shop, I was greeted by a pleasant woman with silver hair and a big smile I presumed to be in her 70’s. She warned of malfunctioning plumbing in the Men’s room and offered up a program for the tour.
On the grounds, you’ll find a bronze statue of Elvis at 13, dressed in overalls with a guitar in hand. The story wall is situated near a pleasant fountain and has profound quotes from friends and family.
The actual home that Elvis was born in is a tiny two room cottage with a front porch and swing. Inside, it takes about 10 seconds to walk from the front door to the back. It’s been refurbed and decorated down to the finest detail, just as it would have been when Elvis lived there. An old pot belly stove that doubles as the heat and cooking source takes a prominent place in the kitchen with an authentic cast iron skillet. Encompassing the home in concrete are markers denoting each year that Elvis lived there from 1935 to 1948 when the family moved to Memphis for a better life. Next on the tour is a modern looking Chapel built in recent times with beautiful stain glass windows where you can sit in a pew and listen to recordings of Elvis singing gospel.
Last, but not least, is the church where Elvis actually got his singing start. They moved it from up the road in 2008 and restored it to its 1930’s period. Once inside, one of Elvis’s second cousins gives a short talk on the history of the church and then she turns down the lights. Next, three screens drop down from the ceiling and a re-creation film with actors who portray a vintage 1940’s Church of God worship service. The effect is dramatic, you really feel like you’re experiencing an old time gospel service in the old church. Out back, there is an authentic outhouse to complete the feeling of the era. After the presentation, I spoke with the cousin and asked her if she ever got to spend any time with Elvis. She said in fact, yes. She related that he was 9 years older than her and would sometimes bring “dates” around for her older sister. On occasion, she got to tag along with the group.
I thanked the nice woman for a great time and hopped back into the Fat Cat for the next to last leg of the trip to Olive Branch, Mississippi, a suburb of Memphis where I would cue up for an early Monday morning delivery. My ongoing voyage across this great land would continue up western Tennessee through the tail end of Kentucky into the heart of the Bluegrass State to a stop in Lexington. At this point, only my log books know for sure how many times I’ve been in Colonel Sanders Land this year. It’s supposed to be mostly sunny and 70 degrees tomorrow here. I just might want to stay.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
This Ain't My First Rodeo
One of the questions I'm often asked is "how often do you go home?" Not as often as I would like is how I usually answer. In reality, it varies from twenty to thirty days on the road. The longest I've been out was last October to November at a grand total of thirty three days. Since the beginning of the year, I've been through fourty five states and numerous and diverse destinations. The days generally "blur" together as I travel through multiple time zones and climates. I have to keep referring to my watch to keep track of what day it is. The company uses Eastern Time in the twenty four hour military mode exclusively to limit confusion. Thank goodness for that or it would be a real adventure adding and subtracting hours. Personally, I stick with Eastern Time, unless I'm on the west coast for an extended period of time. Then, I ease my personal schedule to Pacific or Mountain Time. Freight pickup and delivery always goes by Eastern Time. One sure-fire method for determining when it's time to go home is my "soap rule". When I begin a trip out, I always start with a new bar of soap. When that bar of soap wears down to a thin wafer, then I know it's definitely time to go home!
After practically living in Ohio for weeks, the Q-comm flashed Texas, and I was happy to oblige. Springtime would surely be springing there! Blinding sunshine, bright blue skies and 70 degree temperatures would most definately greet me in the Lone Star nation. It was time to bust it down to Texas on a series of interstates to the vernal light at the end of the tunnel.
This journey, took me once again, past the Corvette Assembly Plant and Museum in Bowling Green, Kentucky. Someday, I'm actually going to stop there and see all those 'Vettes. It kills me to pass up that place. I have visions of seeing more vintage roadsters than a grown man is supposed to witness without drooling on a hood and ruining a perfectly good McGuire polish. One day, I will go when time isn't my enemy.
The highway droned on passing through Tennessee, around Nashville and Music City was lit up in nighttime magnificence as I made the right hand turn to I-40 then, on to Memphis. The Volunteer State became Arkansas then Little Rock turned into the border wonder of Texarkana and finally to the promised land on the prairie, some one thousand miles at the end of the line.
It felt good to be back in Texas and springtime in all her glory was in session. My first destination would be McKinney, on the north side the Metroplex..Dallas that is. This delivery had three stops, all concrete manufacturing plants. This dispatch would be another challenge because there was no loading dock, just an open area with machinery and a steady stream of mixer trucks pouring in and out of the warm and dusty landscape. I popped out of my cab and surveyed my prospects for the drop losing my hooded sweatshirt in the process. On board, I had three huge containers encased in a metal cage with a chemical needed for the concrete product. The fellows greeted me with an obligatory Texas howdy and assured me there would be no problem removing their goods from my cargo hold. The next thing I see is Jose bounding over in a bucket dozer to cue up behind the Fat Cat. I let out a breath of air and privately hoped these guys knew what they were doing.
Two other hardhats joined us and we plotted the logistical maneuver to take the big square off my truck. After some strategic strapping and jostling we were able to get the goods into the bucket and on the ground without exploding thousands of gallons of who knows what all over. Only two more times of this and I get to go to buffet near the truck stop. After being here three times previously, I know this town. This ain't my first rodeo in Dallas.
Back at the Pilot Truck Stop I always stay at, I met Rick, another driver from my company who calls the Columbus area of Ohio home. He was young at twenty something and displayed exuberance for trucking I love to see. We were both now layed over and had a good time trading stories and exchanging tips about how to work the company. I learned a few new tricks and a couple things I didn't know. Rick has been with them longer and I was appreciative for his knowledge. He also had a little more "dwell" time than me and was awarded the big money New Jersey run over me. That's ok, I'll just stay here and soak up a little more of this nice weather as a consolation prize.
The company has a thing called a "Less Than 75". If you do a short run for them, they will put you way up in front of the line for a load opportunity. I took a short load from Dallas over to Mansfield and became a smiling and shining "Less Than 75" man. Such accomplishments. Being at the front of the line was kind of a bittersweet feeling. It meant that I would probably be blown out of Texas as fast as I blew in. But, I did have three great days in the big one.
Sure enough, the Q-comm rang up a run I couldn't refuse to Romulus, Michigan, right next to the Detroit airport. My prospects now were a return back to winter. This would be my third trip to that exact location. Now it was time to ready up that pile of winter clothes at the end of my bunk. I knew right away from the destination of Romulus that this would be a transfer to another truck headed to Canada. I've got all the papers to go all the way myself, but my fleet owner won't govern the throttle on the truck, which is mandatory for travel in Canada. That's ok, I don't need a slower truck and I'll pass on that bunch of Gestapo’s at the crossing to Ontario I encountered earlier. They told me there was a dungeon there for detaining rule violators. I don't intend on breaking any rules, but they looked like they would try real hard to find something to give themselves something to do.
It would be a voyage back up through Arkansas, a corner of Missouri, over the mighty Mississippi into Illinois, east on I-70 around Indianapolis and up I-69 to Michigan where I saw lots of people skating and fishing out of little holes on a lake just over the state line from Indiana. I was right about the winter part. Constantly passing time zones is one thing, but experiencing slide show seasons is yet more confusion to the body. I'm confident it will be springtime everywhere, eventually. But, eventually, this year might be a long, long time.
After practically living in Ohio for weeks, the Q-comm flashed Texas, and I was happy to oblige. Springtime would surely be springing there! Blinding sunshine, bright blue skies and 70 degree temperatures would most definately greet me in the Lone Star nation. It was time to bust it down to Texas on a series of interstates to the vernal light at the end of the tunnel.
This journey, took me once again, past the Corvette Assembly Plant and Museum in Bowling Green, Kentucky. Someday, I'm actually going to stop there and see all those 'Vettes. It kills me to pass up that place. I have visions of seeing more vintage roadsters than a grown man is supposed to witness without drooling on a hood and ruining a perfectly good McGuire polish. One day, I will go when time isn't my enemy.
The highway droned on passing through Tennessee, around Nashville and Music City was lit up in nighttime magnificence as I made the right hand turn to I-40 then, on to Memphis. The Volunteer State became Arkansas then Little Rock turned into the border wonder of Texarkana and finally to the promised land on the prairie, some one thousand miles at the end of the line.
It felt good to be back in Texas and springtime in all her glory was in session. My first destination would be McKinney, on the north side the Metroplex..Dallas that is. This delivery had three stops, all concrete manufacturing plants. This dispatch would be another challenge because there was no loading dock, just an open area with machinery and a steady stream of mixer trucks pouring in and out of the warm and dusty landscape. I popped out of my cab and surveyed my prospects for the drop losing my hooded sweatshirt in the process. On board, I had three huge containers encased in a metal cage with a chemical needed for the concrete product. The fellows greeted me with an obligatory Texas howdy and assured me there would be no problem removing their goods from my cargo hold. The next thing I see is Jose bounding over in a bucket dozer to cue up behind the Fat Cat. I let out a breath of air and privately hoped these guys knew what they were doing.
Two other hardhats joined us and we plotted the logistical maneuver to take the big square off my truck. After some strategic strapping and jostling we were able to get the goods into the bucket and on the ground without exploding thousands of gallons of who knows what all over. Only two more times of this and I get to go to buffet near the truck stop. After being here three times previously, I know this town. This ain't my first rodeo in Dallas.
Back at the Pilot Truck Stop I always stay at, I met Rick, another driver from my company who calls the Columbus area of Ohio home. He was young at twenty something and displayed exuberance for trucking I love to see. We were both now layed over and had a good time trading stories and exchanging tips about how to work the company. I learned a few new tricks and a couple things I didn't know. Rick has been with them longer and I was appreciative for his knowledge. He also had a little more "dwell" time than me and was awarded the big money New Jersey run over me. That's ok, I'll just stay here and soak up a little more of this nice weather as a consolation prize.
The company has a thing called a "Less Than 75". If you do a short run for them, they will put you way up in front of the line for a load opportunity. I took a short load from Dallas over to Mansfield and became a smiling and shining "Less Than 75" man. Such accomplishments. Being at the front of the line was kind of a bittersweet feeling. It meant that I would probably be blown out of Texas as fast as I blew in. But, I did have three great days in the big one.
Sure enough, the Q-comm rang up a run I couldn't refuse to Romulus, Michigan, right next to the Detroit airport. My prospects now were a return back to winter. This would be my third trip to that exact location. Now it was time to ready up that pile of winter clothes at the end of my bunk. I knew right away from the destination of Romulus that this would be a transfer to another truck headed to Canada. I've got all the papers to go all the way myself, but my fleet owner won't govern the throttle on the truck, which is mandatory for travel in Canada. That's ok, I don't need a slower truck and I'll pass on that bunch of Gestapo’s at the crossing to Ontario I encountered earlier. They told me there was a dungeon there for detaining rule violators. I don't intend on breaking any rules, but they looked like they would try real hard to find something to give themselves something to do.
It would be a voyage back up through Arkansas, a corner of Missouri, over the mighty Mississippi into Illinois, east on I-70 around Indianapolis and up I-69 to Michigan where I saw lots of people skating and fishing out of little holes on a lake just over the state line from Indiana. I was right about the winter part. Constantly passing time zones is one thing, but experiencing slide show seasons is yet more confusion to the body. I'm confident it will be springtime everywhere, eventually. But, eventually, this year might be a long, long time.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
The Good, The Mad and The Stupid
I’ve almost lost track of how many times I’ve been in Cincinnati on this trip. Just to clarify things, I consider a trip the entire time that I’m on the road away from home. A run is an individual leg of that trip. That is, a pick up from a shipper to be delivered to what they call a “consignee” is a run.
Thursday morning, February 25 found me in Walton, Kentucky at the Pilot, having a breakfast of a bratwurst and cheese link with Sumatra coffee. The bratwurst is actually a good excuse to consume a tube of fat. Healthy choices of food on the road are a challenge when you’re in a hurry. Some days, I end up eating like a billy goat. I know I have to make a more concerted effort to eat well. My favorite healthy dish is a bowl of chopped spinach with just enough liquid for cooking. Not creamed, cheesed or combined with any other flavor enhancers, save some fresh garlic. I don’t know why, but this dish scares the bejeebies out of a lot of folks. I love it. It makes my stomach feel good and it digests well. Maybe it was all those Popeye cartoons when I was a kid to drive me to this phenomenal vegetable. A frozen box of Pic Wik Chopped Spinach at my neighborhood Publix Grocery store is around 90 cents to a dollar. Now, there’s value!
I rubbed the Q-comm as if to induce some good luck in a run and it rang up Paterson, New Jersey, delivering on Monday morning. OK, I’ll go there for the weekend and plant myself in the middle of my original home area. I could spend months there and not see all my old friends. Somebody has got to be around. This will be a good run, provided I get to stay for the weekend.
I pointed the Fat Cat back up I-75 to Cincinnati, again, to the shipper to pick up a hazardous load for a food processing company in New Jersey. Think about that one for a moment. It was an easy navigation over the mighty Ohio River to the Queen City. I don’t know why they call it the Queen City, but I’ll report the news to you when I find out. My Grandmother, Dad’s Mom, lived in Cincinnati as a young girl, and I recall seeing some sort of paperwork describing Cincinnati as the Queen City. So this nickname isn’t new at all.
All loaded and fueled up, I cracked the whip on the Fat Cat and it was on to the Garden State. As I rolled her up I-71, the temperature dropped considerably and snow began to fall as I had Columbus in sight. Here we go again. I think this was snow storm number ten this year. The storm strengthened through Pennsylvania and by the time I was in the middle of the state, I was down to forty five miles per hour. My driver’s side windshield wiper blew out on the top, leaving me only a three inch slot to look out. I adjusted my air ride seat to put my eyes right at the little arc of relative clarity as conditions worsened.
I finally came upon a truck stop and ventured in for a replacement. I approached the parts counter and inquired about such a part. The gruff looking man there, seated comfortably on a stool, grumbled to me that I had to go into the other part of the store. When I found myself on the other end of the building, a young fellow behind the counter retorted in an annoying nasally voice that the wipers were somewhere along the back wall. Well, there were no wipers along the back wall and I kindly asked again and received a rather rude reply of “you got to look, they’re there someplace.” I did find some on the end of an aisle and thought, the hell with this, I’ll just go further down the road looking out a sliver of clear windshield. I’m not going to reward this crappy behavior with my business. I put my drink that I was going to get back in the cooler and left.
I found another truck stop of better people about twenty miles down the road and located the perfect replacement. Now that I could see clearly through the windshield, the snowstorm was beginning to subside approaching eastern Pennsylvania. Figures.
Before long, it was over the Delaware River and back home. Sort of. I was tired from driving in the storm and dropped the Cat down in the TA at Bloomsbury at Exit 7 in familiar territory. I'd been here several times before and the TA has a good restaurant.
Every time I come into New Jersey, I’ve been in a fairly good position to visit old friends in relation to my location. Time can be tight and sometimes I get called right back out when I think I’m going to have a little visitation furlough. This time, I would get to visit with some good old friends. It was great to see our old friend Lori Dobson in Clinton. We laughed so hard telling old stories over Pizza, I could have had mozzarella cheese come out of my nose. I’ve known her and her sisters and brother since the Seventies. We talked about Bob Swensen’s annual delivery of “S” and “O” cookies at Christmastime. We knew what the “S” was for, but the “O” ones have remained a complete mystery all these years. I worked at the A & P with her Mother, Ma Dobson in the store butcher shop. The meat room stories that came from that era at that grocery store is a War and Peace sized book in itself. Top comic writers couldn’t come up with the stuff that went on there. There are lots of people even today to attest to that collection of characters who worked, and I use that term very loosely, at the Pluckemin, New Jersey A & P. We had a lot of fun in those days. Someday, I will tell those stories when I can come up with enough fake names to protect the innocent.
Sunday arrived and I met up with my long lost pal, Jeff Crosby for lunch at Cracker Barrel. Jeff lived in my neighborhood and we went all the way though grade and high school together. It was good to see him and re-live some old memories and talk about where we’d been and hope to be since our last visit. Jeff reminded me of the last time I saw him and his better half, Bonnie. It was when I worked at Magic 98 in Central New Jersey in the 80’s. They came in during my evening show there for a tour and nice visit. Too much time has gone by since that time.
Early Monday landed with a thud and way too quickly as I awoke to the Waltons Theme on my phone alarm. It was time to head up I-287 and 80 to Patterson for a 7:30 am delivery. The early morning commute was surprisingly smooth and I made good time getting there. As I’m driving around downtown Patterson, I’m continually amazed at the stupidity or boldness of people here walking right in front of my moving truck as I drove nearer to my destination. Were these people brain dead? Or perhaps trying to be knocked down so they could sue me and get some money? Personally, I’m not walking in front of any moving truck, I don’t care if you’re going to hand me a million bucks. As I continued, a guy on one of those motorized scooters that people who can’t walk use, drives right off a perfectly good sidewalk right into the middle of the road right in front of me! He’s not riding near the side of the road, or next to the curb, but right next to the yellow line in the middle of traffic! Does this man have a death wish for himself? Is he deaf or even blind? Maybe this man is just plain stupid. All these thoughts ran across my mind in an instant. My favorite funny man, Ron White, put it best in one of his routines once. “You can fix bad eyesight, you can fix bad hearing, but you CANNOT fix stupid.” Then again, maybe there were Superfund Toxic Waste Sites here that polluted the environment so badly, that people are missing key brain functions from ingesting that stuff in one way or another.
I was glad to get out of a town where everyone was trying to kill themselves . I scurried back to the relative safety of the Hampton stop off I-78.
After a short rest, my Q-comm offered a run to Dayton, Ohio from Collegeville, Pennsylvania. Now, it would be back to the Buckeye State and another visit to Dayton. From Dayton, I would travel back down to Cincinnati for another pick up. I’ve got to get a clicker counter to gauge the number of visits there. Then from Cinci, I would get to travel back down south again to the Lonestar Nation. Time to rummage about and come up with the appropriate hat. I like Texas. A lot.
Thursday morning, February 25 found me in Walton, Kentucky at the Pilot, having a breakfast of a bratwurst and cheese link with Sumatra coffee. The bratwurst is actually a good excuse to consume a tube of fat. Healthy choices of food on the road are a challenge when you’re in a hurry. Some days, I end up eating like a billy goat. I know I have to make a more concerted effort to eat well. My favorite healthy dish is a bowl of chopped spinach with just enough liquid for cooking. Not creamed, cheesed or combined with any other flavor enhancers, save some fresh garlic. I don’t know why, but this dish scares the bejeebies out of a lot of folks. I love it. It makes my stomach feel good and it digests well. Maybe it was all those Popeye cartoons when I was a kid to drive me to this phenomenal vegetable. A frozen box of Pic Wik Chopped Spinach at my neighborhood Publix Grocery store is around 90 cents to a dollar. Now, there’s value!
I rubbed the Q-comm as if to induce some good luck in a run and it rang up Paterson, New Jersey, delivering on Monday morning. OK, I’ll go there for the weekend and plant myself in the middle of my original home area. I could spend months there and not see all my old friends. Somebody has got to be around. This will be a good run, provided I get to stay for the weekend.
I pointed the Fat Cat back up I-75 to Cincinnati, again, to the shipper to pick up a hazardous load for a food processing company in New Jersey. Think about that one for a moment. It was an easy navigation over the mighty Ohio River to the Queen City. I don’t know why they call it the Queen City, but I’ll report the news to you when I find out. My Grandmother, Dad’s Mom, lived in Cincinnati as a young girl, and I recall seeing some sort of paperwork describing Cincinnati as the Queen City. So this nickname isn’t new at all.
All loaded and fueled up, I cracked the whip on the Fat Cat and it was on to the Garden State. As I rolled her up I-71, the temperature dropped considerably and snow began to fall as I had Columbus in sight. Here we go again. I think this was snow storm number ten this year. The storm strengthened through Pennsylvania and by the time I was in the middle of the state, I was down to forty five miles per hour. My driver’s side windshield wiper blew out on the top, leaving me only a three inch slot to look out. I adjusted my air ride seat to put my eyes right at the little arc of relative clarity as conditions worsened.
I finally came upon a truck stop and ventured in for a replacement. I approached the parts counter and inquired about such a part. The gruff looking man there, seated comfortably on a stool, grumbled to me that I had to go into the other part of the store. When I found myself on the other end of the building, a young fellow behind the counter retorted in an annoying nasally voice that the wipers were somewhere along the back wall. Well, there were no wipers along the back wall and I kindly asked again and received a rather rude reply of “you got to look, they’re there someplace.” I did find some on the end of an aisle and thought, the hell with this, I’ll just go further down the road looking out a sliver of clear windshield. I’m not going to reward this crappy behavior with my business. I put my drink that I was going to get back in the cooler and left.
I found another truck stop of better people about twenty miles down the road and located the perfect replacement. Now that I could see clearly through the windshield, the snowstorm was beginning to subside approaching eastern Pennsylvania. Figures.
Before long, it was over the Delaware River and back home. Sort of. I was tired from driving in the storm and dropped the Cat down in the TA at Bloomsbury at Exit 7 in familiar territory. I'd been here several times before and the TA has a good restaurant.
Every time I come into New Jersey, I’ve been in a fairly good position to visit old friends in relation to my location. Time can be tight and sometimes I get called right back out when I think I’m going to have a little visitation furlough. This time, I would get to visit with some good old friends. It was great to see our old friend Lori Dobson in Clinton. We laughed so hard telling old stories over Pizza, I could have had mozzarella cheese come out of my nose. I’ve known her and her sisters and brother since the Seventies. We talked about Bob Swensen’s annual delivery of “S” and “O” cookies at Christmastime. We knew what the “S” was for, but the “O” ones have remained a complete mystery all these years. I worked at the A & P with her Mother, Ma Dobson in the store butcher shop. The meat room stories that came from that era at that grocery store is a War and Peace sized book in itself. Top comic writers couldn’t come up with the stuff that went on there. There are lots of people even today to attest to that collection of characters who worked, and I use that term very loosely, at the Pluckemin, New Jersey A & P. We had a lot of fun in those days. Someday, I will tell those stories when I can come up with enough fake names to protect the innocent.
Sunday arrived and I met up with my long lost pal, Jeff Crosby for lunch at Cracker Barrel. Jeff lived in my neighborhood and we went all the way though grade and high school together. It was good to see him and re-live some old memories and talk about where we’d been and hope to be since our last visit. Jeff reminded me of the last time I saw him and his better half, Bonnie. It was when I worked at Magic 98 in Central New Jersey in the 80’s. They came in during my evening show there for a tour and nice visit. Too much time has gone by since that time.
Early Monday landed with a thud and way too quickly as I awoke to the Waltons Theme on my phone alarm. It was time to head up I-287 and 80 to Patterson for a 7:30 am delivery. The early morning commute was surprisingly smooth and I made good time getting there. As I’m driving around downtown Patterson, I’m continually amazed at the stupidity or boldness of people here walking right in front of my moving truck as I drove nearer to my destination. Were these people brain dead? Or perhaps trying to be knocked down so they could sue me and get some money? Personally, I’m not walking in front of any moving truck, I don’t care if you’re going to hand me a million bucks. As I continued, a guy on one of those motorized scooters that people who can’t walk use, drives right off a perfectly good sidewalk right into the middle of the road right in front of me! He’s not riding near the side of the road, or next to the curb, but right next to the yellow line in the middle of traffic! Does this man have a death wish for himself? Is he deaf or even blind? Maybe this man is just plain stupid. All these thoughts ran across my mind in an instant. My favorite funny man, Ron White, put it best in one of his routines once. “You can fix bad eyesight, you can fix bad hearing, but you CANNOT fix stupid.” Then again, maybe there were Superfund Toxic Waste Sites here that polluted the environment so badly, that people are missing key brain functions from ingesting that stuff in one way or another.
I was glad to get out of a town where everyone was trying to kill themselves . I scurried back to the relative safety of the Hampton stop off I-78.
After a short rest, my Q-comm offered a run to Dayton, Ohio from Collegeville, Pennsylvania. Now, it would be back to the Buckeye State and another visit to Dayton. From Dayton, I would travel back down to Cincinnati for another pick up. I’ve got to get a clicker counter to gauge the number of visits there. Then from Cinci, I would get to travel back down south again to the Lonestar Nation. Time to rummage about and come up with the appropriate hat. I like Texas. A lot.
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