Tales of The Big Road by Thom Dickey

TALES OF THE BIG ROAD CHAPTER ONE: MALFUNCTION JUNCTION : CHAPTER TWO: WHERE DID THE ROMANCE GO? CHAPTER THREE: A GOOD LAUGH CHAPTER FOUR: I HATE WINTER CHAPTER FIVE: THEY AIN’T ALL BAD

CHAPTER ONE: MALFUNCTION JUNCTION :

As you’re roll’en down the highway boys you better watch what’s up ahead. Cause somewhere there’s going to be a detour sign. It’s put there to warn you of the troubles in your way: And, if you don’t pay attention you will find. That you’re in Malfunction Junction; and I hope that you’re prepared to spend some time. Cause you can wander there for days; as you struggle through the maze. And, you’ll be lucky if you don’t lose your mind. The day was bright and sunny; and I was dreaming of my honey: I’d soon be with her cause I was making darn good time. But then before I knew it: I knew that I had blew it. Cause I was tail-end Charley in a mile long line. Try’en to get through Malfunction Junction. Where nothing seems to function. I can’t see an inch of movement up ahead. I’m stuck in; Malfunction Junction. My minds filled with compunction: oh, how I wish I’d took that other road instead. The moral of my story is if you want to be a trucker. Don’t believe all that romantic nonsense that you’ve heard. Cause when those eighteen wheels start turning; there are lessons you had best be learning; I’ve been there buddy so you can take my word. Stay out of Malfunction Junction; Malfunction Junction: There is one around damn near every curve. They may go by a different name: But, in the long run there

all the same. And, nerve.

I’m sure there put there just to test your

They call them Speed Cops, Chicken Houses, Radar, D.O.T. and I.C.C. - Detour, Construction Zone, Your Tax Dollars At Work, Low Bridge, Sunken Grade, Loose Gravel, Chains Required, Slippery When Wet, Down Grade, California State Line. There is one around damn near every curve. They may go by a different name; but, in the long run there all the same. ▪ And I’m sure they were put there just to test your nerve. You just can’t believe how many times I’ve wished I had been smart enough to compose that little piece of poetry, before I climbed up into the cab of my first big truck and blissfully headed off down the highway; feeling like that legendary “King Of The Road.” If anybody ever tells you that he, or she, didn’t feel like they were about nine feet tall, and master of all they surveyed, when they were sitting behind the wheel of a diesel powered tractor, pulling a forty foot, or longer, trailer. Equipped with air horns that could shatter glass at a hundred yards to the delight of the kids standing beside the road; pumping their arms up and down begging for the bellow of the big truck, that they were dreaming of someday driving. Now, if anyone ever denys that that statement is true: And, if that person is smaller than you. You tell him, or her, that they are a liar. Of course if that person is bigger than you: Well then you are on your own to get out of it the best way that you can. I just drive e’m bud. I don’t unload e’m. Well, I’m sure that you’ve figured out by now that I was as green as the proverbial gourd when I decided to make the

highway my work place. I was no different than those little kids standing beside the road pumping their arms up and down begging the driver to blow those romantic sounding big horns. If I had to describe myself at that time, “young and dumb”, comes quickly to mind. I, like all the other “young and dumbs” believed that all you had to do was get behind the wheel of that loaded truck, (think eighty thousand pounds), and steer it from where you are to where it needs to be. Now I ask you; what could be simpler than that? Silly Boy!!!! Let me see if I can answer my own question by explaining a couple of things that at the time I hadn’t thought of. First. I am in Denver Colorado. Denver is well known as the mile high city; and for good reason. You got it! That sucker sits over 5,286 feet above sea level and it seems that about everything that a truck hauls out of Denver wants to be at sea level. “So what’s the problem you ask?” Well, I asked the same question as I turned the wheel to the right and headed west. But wait!! Something ain’t right. I’m at 5,286 feet and I want to get to sea level. I should be going down hill; but I ain’t. I just drove this road in my car a few weeks ago and I don’t remember there being a hill here. Especially one this long and steep. This is interstate 70. It’s suppose to be a fast road. Then why am I only doing about 5 MPH? But, what the heck. I got plenty of time. It’s just a little over 1000 miles to L.A. and most of it should be down hill. If I can average 50 MPH that’s just 20 hours; right? Wrong!! Another little problem raised it’s ugly head. In all the excitement of getting to drive this “BIG RIG” I had forgotten that little thing called a “Log Book.” Now I hadn’t spent a lot of time studying the do’s and don’ts that govern the use of this document but it seems like I remember something about the number of hours and,or, the number of miles that I could drive in a day. 500 miles and 10 hours sounded like something I had heard or read. I decided that when I got the time I would look into it a little more but right now my problem was this damn hill

that just kept going up. I heaved a big sigh of relief. Finally, the top. Now I can make some time. L.A. here I come. Whoa!!! This baby want’s to roll a little fast going down this grade. But, no worry old “JAKE” will take care of that. But old “JAKE” didn’t. Oh lord!! I should have chosen a much lower gear before I started down. Now the Jake Brake isn’t holding back enough, the trailer brakes are beginning to smoke and I’m going to fast to down shift. Say your prayers hot shot cause you just screwed up big time and you’re not even 50 miles from home. Does a short but exciting truck driving career ring any bells?? That’s what I thought I was going to have until I saw that the highway again rose up from the bottom of this grade just a few hundred yards ahead. “I had made it.” Is what I told myself as I pulled to the side of the freeway at the top of the next rise. I was feeling pretty proud of myself when I stepped down from the cab to stretch my legs and light a cigarette. My pride took a sharp decline when I found that my hand was shaking so hard with fright that I couldn’t light that cigarette. “Welcome to Malfunction Junction.” Should have been the thought that went through my mind as I tried to light that cigarette: But, I didn’t know yet that such a place existed. I had a lot to learn. And learn I did. I learned that if your smart you will descend a 6% grade at about the same speed and in about the same gear as you ascended that sucker. That Jake, (engine brake), that you just love to hear growl because you know that it scares the crap out of unsuspecting (4) wheelers when you’re in traffic, has it’s limitations: Just like those air brakes that you like to hear go; PHUSSSS WHEN YOU FAN THEM; because it sounds so “BIG TRUCKEEE.” Those tools: And let me emphasis the word “TOOLS”: Because that’s what they are; are a good friend to a wise driver. But, to the uninitiated they can be your

passport to Malfunction Junction. After I stopped shaking long enough to light a cigarette and was strong enough to get back on my feet I took a tour around the “rig” looking for smoke and feeling the hubs for heat. No smoke, but enough heat that I reasoned another fifteen minutes had better be wasted while I let them cool a bit more. “See what I mean? I’m learning.” While I am waiting for the brakes to cool I decided that maybe I should recalculate my driving time from Denver to LosAngles. At 5 MPH up and down these hills that I didn’t realize, (until now), were there: The average speed of 50 MPH may be a little harder to attain than I had thought. Also, another thought kept nagging at my subconscious mind. I’ll probably lose a little time at the “Port Of Entry”,,,( Read Chicken-House) (That’s big truck driver talk): that’s somewhere this side of George Town. But that’s O.K. because I’ve got all my manifests in order, that pesky log book started and I’m in good shape? Right? Wrong!!! Now it is a well know fact: “Just ask any truck driver:” And he will tell you that it is a physical impossibility to drive any truck. Even if that truck has just left the factory. Through an inspection at a port of entry (Chicken house) and not have one of the chickens roosting there find something wrong with it, if he wants to. And those same drivers will swear; (and we all know that truck drivers don’t lie): You can bet your butt they want to. All those guys have ugly wives and lousy sex lives and the only way they can get their jollies is by harassing truckers. I heard somewhere that they even have a special school that teaches them to sneer. I think the school is in Indiana because it is a proven fact, (ask any driver), that the meanest chicken houses are there.

“Good morning sir.” I addressed the normal looking fellow behind the counter. I had looked him over pretty good while I was waiting my turn but I couldn’t see any feathers anywhere. “Probably hidden under that fancy uniform.” I surmised. “You’re 500 over on your drivers.” He informed me as he wrote out the ticket. “Damn!” I said. To myself of course. “I, in all the fuss of hot brakes easing down those hills I forgot to shorten up the trailer.” So you’ll know what I’m talking about, let me explain that a cab-over tractor, like the Mac Cruise-Liner I was driving, will flat beat you to death, unless you have the turn-table, (or fifthwheel), as it’s sometimes called slid as far back in it’s rails as possible. Which will take some of the weight from the steering axle, and transfer it to the drive axles. This of course can create the small problem of overloading the drive axles, which in turn will create a void in your bank account when you pay the ticket. “OOPS; DAMN!” Welcome Dummy, to Malfunction Junction. It could have been worse. I suppose the guy could have given me a ticket for not having my brakes adjusted the way he wanted them. I’m sure that what saved me there was my superior mechanical knowledge, and the fact that I had a 9/16 wrench to adjust them with. More food for thought, another lesson learned, but I was still determined to be a SUPER TRUCKER. “Yeah sure.” The fact of the matter was I had the family fortune wrapped up in this rig and if I didn’t make it pay it was brokes-ville for me. Why hell, I might even have to go to work. “Hold it!” Don’t laugh. Everybody knows that there ain’t no work to steering a vehicle down the road. Why I know a guy that works in a mens clothing store that drove 1100 miles in only a week once when he was on vacation. He said that when he got back home he wasn’t even tired.

But enough about this trip. As you’ve probably guessed by now I made it to L.A.--Or as we Truckers call it; “Shakey Town.” I like to talk like a trucker. You know, “ten four good buddy”, and all that stuff. Makes you feel big. “Wanna see my boots?? I got a hat too.” And: I guess you should have figured out what I mean when I mention Malfunction Junction. I hope so because I will be referring to it in some of the following chapters of this saga of the four lane. Trust me: It’s a little worse than having a bad hair day. CHAPTER TWO WHERE DID THE ROMANCE GO? I’m beginning to think that guy who swore he wasn’t tired after driving 1100 miles in only one week was stretching the truth a bit, because, I had been at this truck driving for less than a week, and ,I have to admit that I was beginning to look forward to getting back home, and, a good nights sleep in a bed that didn’t have wheels under it; requiring 11-24-5 ply tires to hold it up. (Only us big truckers know the size of our tires.). In my short career I had been to L.A. (shakey town). San Francisco, (Granolla Bar): You know; full of fruits and nuts. Up to Medford, Oregon: (we just call it Medford because nobody wants to pick on them old people up there. They can’t help it if they squish when they walk). Took on a load of pears and here I am back in Shakey. It sure seems like I been at this “Truck’in” for a lot longer than four days. (And I have been as my log book will attest). If you start in Denver and take me from where I’ve been to where I’m at, about 2500 miles. Divide that by 4 (days) you will see that I have been in jail since Tuesday because the man with the gun says you can’t do that. Of course he don’t

care if you can’t make your truck payment and go hungry. But, he will also tell you that ain’t his problem. “And another lawbreaker is born.” But I was just kidding. I didn’t really get put in jail. Not that they didn’t want to I’m sure, but by now I had learned how to play games with that accursed “LOG BOOK”. You see the trick is to make it read like you have never been anywhere except where you’re now at; and, that, you have no intention of going anywhere else from where you’re at in the near future and you will do all this at less than 50 miles per hour. Of course if you’re really feeling frisky. ( We get that way sometimes.) It comes from all those lonely days and night we spend isolated from the world in the cab of our “Big Truck”. Why, you know: Sometimes we get so lonely for human contact that we will even talk to the cops if there are no humans around. But I’m getting off the subject. I started to say that if you’re really feeling frisky and they ask to see your “Log Book”. We call them “Funny Books”. You might look real serious and ask: “What state would you like to see?” Which reminds me of something that happened farther on down the road and several years later. It was late in December. A couple of days before New Years Eve. I had delivered a load of “swinging meat” to the market in Chicago and had dead-headed down I-65 to Indianapolis, Indiana to pick up a load that would take me home to Denver. Now, ever-thing would have been fine except for the worst winter storm I was ever in. But that’s another story that I’ll tell you about later. Anyhow, it took me two days to make the less than 200 mile trip down to Indy and I was pressing hard to get home. Somewhere west of Kansas City, Kansas I met up with a couple of grain haulers that were also wanting to get home and we flattened out a couple of those Kansas hills. We were in what we “Big Truckers” call the “going home gear.” By the time we made Kanorado. Yes there really is a place called “Kanorado”

Kansas. It’s almost on the Colorado, Kansas state line. We agreed we needed a cup of coffee before making the last dash for home. By now it was about 2:00 O’clock New Years Day Morning. The coffee sure tasted good, and my legs: That hadn’t been stretched since I had stopped for fuel in Kansas City, Missouri: Protested a bit at being asked to carry my weight. Anyhow; we got our coffee and spent about a half hour visiting before we went back to our rigs. They pulled out first with me close behind. At the entrance to the big parking lot I backed off the throttle and looked up and down the road which was empty except for some headlights I judged to be several blocks away. Without coming to a complete stop which would have necessitated my using a much lower gear to get the load moving again, I made a California stop, and kept rolling. I had only just made the ramp to the interstate when the ‘bubble gum machine hit the jack-pot’ and a mild epithet escaped my lips. To tell the truth I said: And I quote. “Oh, Shit.” I new that as soon as I made that California stop I had screwed the pooch. One damn car in sight and it has to be a cop with nothing better to do. I pulled over. Got my paper work out. Stepped down from the cab; and walked back to the car with the pretty blinking lights. Being New Years and all, they looked almost festive. “You didn’t come to a complete stop when you came out of the parking lot back there.” He said that as though he thought I didn’t know. “Yeah; you’re right.” I agreed. “I saw your headlights way down the road and I knew I had plenty of clearance.” “You did have because it was me; but this is New Years Eve and there are a lot of drunks out on the streets tonight. You never know what one of them will do.” “That’s true enough.” Again I agreed. I knew better than to argue with one of these guys. At least not until after he had written the ticket; if he was going to.

“You got your log book there?” Silly question!!! “Ah: Nooo….. it’s back in the truck. I didn’t bring it. DAMN” “Would you get it for me please?” “Do I have to?” In a pleading voice. “Yeah, I think so.” Oh what the hell. I was tired of being a free man anyhow. Maybe a few years in the big house would give me time to catch up on my sleep. I hadn’t slept much since leaving Chicago and that was about a century ago. It’s hard to describe the look of amazement that came on the cops face when he got his first glimpse of my “funny book.” “Hell!!” He said. “You’re still in Chicago.” “Well yeah.” I had to admit that I was a little behind in my paper work. “But, if that’s true, and I’m still in Chicago, you can’t give me a ticket, because I’m not here.” Thank god the man had a sense of humor. He tried not to laugh because I’m sure he thought it might set a bad example for the rookie he had riding with him: But he couldn’t help himself. “Now that’s pretty good. I never heard that one before.” Good, the rookie was laughing too. I might get out of this with less than ten years. “Why are you so far behind?” “Well.” I began in my best pleading voice. “You see, I haven’t been home in three weeks and I wanted to spend New Years with my family.” I wanted to add that my 15 kids were starving and shivering in the cold waiting for me to get home with the $50 dollars I had been able to earn by driving day and night without rest or sleep for those three weeks. If I could just get home today, maybe only two or three of them would die from pneumonia because of the lack of heat and food. But I didn’t think he would buy that. The Rookie; maybe: but not the old hand. Something must have worked thought because he said that he would give me a warning for not stopping before entering a roadway. (Which in some states can earn a driver the

death penalty). And he fined me $20.00. (Payable at once): for the log book violation. He turned me loose with a: “Have a nice day.” And I got my tender little butt out of Kansas; cleared the port in Limon, Colorado, and rolled into the yard about daylight. It was good to be home. I knew that my wife Dolly, would have a complete change of clean clothes: Enough to last at least two weeks; and a big box of chocolate chip cookies for me to munch on with my coffee from the three thermos jugs I always carried with me. Those cookies, and that coffee, helped make it possible for me to average that mile a minute I shrived for every day I was out. At 85 cents a mile to the truck; that was $51.00 for every hour I could keep those wheels turning Stopping to eat was to expensive. Remember at the beginning of this chapter I asked the question; “Where did the romance go?” Well, I’d be surprised if by now you haven’t figured out that it isn’t now, nor has it ever been, in the cab riding with a long haul trucker. Of course, that’s not to say that sometimes we didn’t have some fun out there on the big road. Why don’t we delve into some of that in the next chapter? CHAPTER THREE: A GOOD LAUGH: Some of the funniest things that happen just seem to come right out of the clear blue sky. Like the time me and some other truckers were running together somewhere out east of Denver. I don’t remember exactly where but for the telling of this tale it really isn’t important. We were running along minding our own business, yakking together on the CB radio, when this female type voice called for a break. Well now you can be sure all of us hushed up to let that

sweet thing talk if she wanted to. A hairy legged old buffalo we could talk with most any time, but a sweet young thing was rare. “Go ahead Honey. You got the “Nekked Nigger” here.” That was a Willy Shaw driver that answered first. “Thanks for the break there driver.” The female voice had taken on a sound of a little authority. “This is the “Wild Wahini” comm’in back at’cha. Whats your “20” and what are you pull’ in? “The Nekked Niggers my name and hauling ass is my game. I’m doing it all for Willy Shaw on I-80 at mile sticker 403. What about you sweet lips?” “Steady boy; steady.” She said. “I’m just a poor old hard working trucker like you. I got me a long nosed Pete with a 400 cummins. A 13 speed Fuller transmission and Rockwell rears. I’m grossed out at 80,000 lbs. and I only lack wings to fly. Move over boys big mama’s comm’in through.” This was just what we had been needing for the last few hundred miles. Someone different to talk to. We all took turns talking with the Wild Wahini and it wasn’t long before she was taking us all to school on what we should know about trucking. To hear her tell it, there wasn’t any place she hadn’t been, nor was there anything she hadn’t done. This gal was a real “Super Trucker.” Somewhere in the conversation we got around to weights and measures. Of course she knew all about that too. She told us about the cops catching her a little over weight one day. She ranted and raved about paying the ticket and about how the cops were all a bunch of dirty so-and-sos for giving her a ticket when she was only a little bit heavy. “Well hell, that’s to bad.” One of the boys said. “But if you were only that little bit heavy, why didn’t you make it right?” “How could I do that?” She protested. “I got swinging meat on the rails back there. I can’t just toss a quarter of beef out on

the road.” “That’s not necessary.” One of the drivers she had been educating told her. “Look.” He said in a soothing voice. “You got 18 wheels on that rig. Each tire on those wheels is carrying 104 pounds of air. If you let just 50 pounds of air out of each tire that’s 900 pounds. You were only 600 pounds over and now your 300 pounds under. You see how that works?” The silence seemed to last for an eternity while all of us waited for the response. When it finally came I almost choked to death on one of Dolly’s chocolate chip cookies. And I’ll bet I wasn’t alone. “I never thought of that.” She admitted. “Are you sure I could have kept going with only half of the air in my tires? I was pretty heavy loaded and if I ruined those tires my husband would have killed me.” “Oh sure.” It was my turn. “I do it all the time. You just got to remember to pump them up again at the next truck stop.” “Thanks; I appreciate you telling me that. When my husband wakes up I’m going to ask him why he never told me about this.” Funny things like that happened ever now and then but sometimes it’s hard to get people: Even people your close to to believe you when you tell about it. The proof of the pudding is in the eating so they say and that’s sort of the way I made a believer out of my wife Dolly. You see, for quite a while our son Tom and I drove alone. Sometimes together, Sometimes thousands of miles apart. When we found ourselves at home at the same time we would swap stories of some of our experiences on the road. Our wives would some-times listen in and it was plain from some of their comments that they did not 100% believe some of our ‘TALES OF THE BIG ROAD” This all changed when Dolly started riding

with me. We were heading into Detroit, Michigan with yet another load of swinging meat. We were about half way between Gary, Indiana and Detroit when I informed Dolly we would be stopping for the night at the next rest area. I had learned long ago that it is not smart to go into cities like Detroit, Chicago, New York and other such places to spend the night. If I have to tell you why, then it is plain that you have never spent the night parked in the street of a market district. Some -times I had no choice, and that was the reason I had a loaded pistol under the mattress of my bunk. Even in New York where the local authorities insist that only criminals be permitted to defend themselves. Everyone else should just roll over and play dead. Well not this driver. I had heard of drivers being trapped in their cabs with no way to defend themselves while the bad guys did what ever they wanted to their truck and cargo. Be on notice Mr. Bad Guy. This rig is protected by Mr. Ruger himself and his word is final. But enough of that. This is supposed to be a funny story. For the reasons mentioned above we pulled into a nice rest area and proceeded to go to bed. My head hadn’t much more than touched the pillow when. “Knock,Knock, Knock.” Came on the door. I didn’t bother to take my head off the pillow. Dolly had heard Tom and I tell of such things as this, so I didn’t think it should come as a surprise. “Honey, It’s for you.” I figure it’s time for her initiation. She’s led what I thought of as a sheltered life. I was a little surprised though when she didn’t even protest. She simply crawled out of the bunk, over the drivers seat, rolled the window down, stuck her head out the window, and when the little black girl below said: “You want to party?” Miss Dolly’s response was. “Get the hell out of here. I’m working this lot.” I laughed so hard at hearing my pure, innocent bride say that, that I almost choked to death. She left though. Along with the whole car full she had with her. I never

underestimated Miss Dolly again. I did instruct her though that if you want to be left alone and not bothered by the little “Truck Stop Sweeties” just hang a bra or a pair of panties on the rear view mirror. The possibility of a real mad spouse scares them off every time. I just got to give you one more story of Dolly’s initiation into the world of living in the cab of a truck in all sorts of places. This little episode took place at the Roadrunner Truck stop in Phoenix, Arizona. We had dropped our trailer and was waiting for another load. Now Phoenix isn’t the best town in the country in which to find a place to park a truck. We had to “Bob-Tail” all the way across the city to find a place where we could park and find something to eat and drink. The Roadrunner is a good truck stop. The foods good and it’s most generally pretty quite if you want to sleep. Neither Dolly nor I, was sleepy, so we sat in the cab looking out over the big parking lot and not paying any particular attention to anything until the voice came on the “Cuss and Bitch”. That’s “CB,” in case you haven’t guessed. I perked up; told Dolly to pay attention; and the conversation went something like this. Female voice: “Breaker one nine for a radio check.” Male voice: “Go ahead there breaker. You’re coming in loud and clear.” Female voice: “Thanks for the break there. What’s you’re 20. Male voice: “Why I’m sitting right here in this big red Pete at the Roadrunner. Female voice: “Hey, I’m just pulling in there myself. I been having some trouble with this radio would you check it out for me? Male voice: “Sure bring it over here.”

At this point I had pointed out the car that had just pulled in to the lot. “Watch.” I instructed Dolly. The car pulled up to the big red Peterbuilt truck. The driver climbed out, got in the car, and they left. “What do you think of that?” I asked my bride. “Think of what?” Yep, she’s innocent alright. “Wait.” I instructed her again. “Maybe 45 minutes later the car returned. The trucker got out. The car pulled a short distance away. A familiar female voice said. “Breaker one nine for a radio check.” I didn’t have to ask again. After watching the scene play out before her and hearing the voice again on the radio request a “check”. She got it. “Oh!! Now I see.” She said. “I didn’t know they really did that.” “Honey.” I told her. “You ain’t seen nothing yet. One of these days we will get stuck in Ontario, California. Or find ourselves parked in the wee hours of the morning at the meat market on lower Manhattan Island, New York City. If you want a real education in “slime” that is the place to get it. I can say with authority that now; years later. You will find it difficult to shock that formerly innocent little lady. “She can drive with the best of them.”

CHAPTER FOUR: I HATE WINTER: I have always figured that it was the winter driving that

influenced more than any-thing else, my decision to quite the road. No, I don’t mean to imply that all the bad things happened during the winter months, because that wouldn’t be true. I only mean to say that if you really want the fear of God put in you, you have only to climb up into the cab of a big rig and challenge an icy highway. It’s bad enough in a four wheeler I’ll grant you, but; well; maybe this little poem I composed about a trip down I65 from Chicago to Indianapolis, Indiana will give you a hint: This is the trip I promised I would tell you about a few pages back. Enjoy. “JUST ANOTHER DAY” In the life of a trucking man The road was a solid sheet of ice, the wind like a banshee screamed; I was pinching button-holes out of the seat right through the butt of my jeans. I wanted to get off of that skating rink but there wasn’t a truck stop for miles. About that time, I’d have give all I owned, to be in the tropic isles. I was pull’en an empty high cube van and the wind handled it like a sail: Tractor and trailer, slide’en down the road like a dog, a wagg’en his tail. There were rigs pointed north on the south bound side and rigs pointed south on the north. There was just no grip for the eighteen wheels; as they slithered back and forth. The wind-chill factor was eighty below; and still falling, so the radio said.

They warned, “you’d better get off that road: Or you’re liable to wind up dead.” Well, that sounded like damn good advice to me and I’d be happy to comply: I’d been telling myself for an hour or so; “Lord, I’m to young to die.” There are to many things out there to do; and to many places to go. But first I got to figure a way to get out of this ice and snow. It don’t matter how good a driver I am; I know It’s only a matter of time. Until I over correct, and lose control, and my chances won’t be worth a dime. Have you ever been, in the fix I was in, helpless, scared and alone? Riding fifteen tons of steel through a storm that can freeze you clean to the bone? You have no time to think or plan, Instinct, is your only friend: try to keep it pointed straight ahead till you can get out of the wind. Cars and trucks, are all stacked up in the ditches on either side. A hundred miles of expensive junk; I wondered if any one died. But I couldn’t stop, or even slow down if I did I’d join the pile. “Keep the clean side up, and the greasy side down; and pray for another mile.

And then I saw it just ahead; what a beautiful sight to see. An exit ramp, just sit’en there; and it seemed to be smile’en at me. With a lotta luck I got that truck into the truck stop yard. I shoved her nose in between two rigs, where the wind wasn’t blow’en so hard. I popped the button, and set the brakes and prayed they wouldn’t freeze. I tried to get out, but I couldn’t stand up, for the shak’en in my knees. I staggered inside and set me down, and ordered a strong cup’a joe. The waitress noticed my shak’en hands and asked: “How much further you got to go?” I looked at her like she’d lost her mind for there was just no way in hell: I was going back out on that skating rink cause I wanted to live to tell. This story of “Just Another Day” in the life of a truck’en man. You swear you won’t, but you turn around; Go out; and do it again. ********************************************** And that, I hope; explains why it took me two days to go less than two hundred miles. Trust me; when you’re getting paid by the mile you ain’t making any money. To finish the story, I better tell you the rest. I thought I’d be real smart and spend the night there in the truck stop. Surely; I reasoned. (Silly Boy): They would have the Interstate cleared and salted (sanded) by morning and the rest of the trip to Indy

would be easier. Right!!! Wrong!! Bright and early the next morning I headed that old Mack back onto the four lane and commenced to slip and slide the rest of the way to Indianapolis. Those suckers had not put one teaspoon full of salt or sand on that road and I swear it was slicker than the day before. Also, I learned by listening to the radio that I was quite possibly the last vehicle permitted to head south down that Interstate before it was closed to all traffic for the next two days. Oh lucky me! And then if you really want to get your “Jollies” there are the Rocky Mountains of Colorado. Beautiful? Yeah, you got that right. High? Right again. Does it snow up there? Now you’re putting me on; right? You can bet the farm and throw in the old lady to raise the bet if some fool calls. It does snow up there and any trucker with half a brain. “I know, I know. A trucker with half a brain is hard to find, but just for the sake of argument lets pretend that one does actually exist.” Anyhow that imaginary trucker would look long and hard for another way to go from East to West or vice-a-versa between the first of October and the last day of March. Let me give you an example of what can happen. I don’t remember the date this happened. Suffice it to say that it was sometime between the above mentioned dates. I was East bound on I-70 pulling a high cube van loaded with insulation that I had picked up in the Grand Junction area. I was use to the conditions up there so I wasn’t worried as I navigated the icy road. Slow and easy was the rule that a smart driver didn’t violate. I was putt-putt’en along at about 35 MPH; cause, to tell you the truth that road was as slick as snot on a door knob. It kind of took me by surprise when another rig passed me like I was up on jacks. “Now there, Old Buddy, goes a damn fool.” I can remember telling myself as he disappeared into the

night. “Now wait a bit. I know you’re beginning to figure this out but don’t get to far ahead of me/” Anyhow, I don’t think I went more than a mile or two down the road when I saw a pair of head lights looking back at me and I knew they were in my lane. Now comes some of the fun of being a “Big Trucker.” Picture this. You are way to hell and gone up on top of the biggest mountains in North America. The road you are driving on is so slick you can’t stand up on it. Some damn fool is parked in the middle of the road with his head lights blinding you so that you can’t really see what is going on. Now all you have to do is stop before you hit him. Sounds easy: Don’t it? I had a pretty good distance between us when I first knew there was a problem up ahead. I knew better than to use my tractor brakes. If I touched them: Even at the slow rate of speed I was traveling I would wrap that trailer around my neck. I began applying trailer brakes only in an attempt to stop but I was only dreaming. The slightest application of brakes only made the trailer want to pass me. The headlights were getting closer and closer. I might have reduced my speed from 35 to 30 MPH; but I couldn’t tell. I knew I was going to hit what now I could see was a semi, jack-knifed across both East bound lanes. It was no longer a question of if, but rather, a matter of where, I was going to hit him. I know there are a lot of people that would argue with me if I told them about the pure life I had led up to this point. I know it must be true, and that the truckers Gods were looking after me, because that’s the only logical explanation for what happened next. I was within seconds of crashing when I was able to see to the right of the lights what looked like a narrow passage way between the trucks cab and what ever lay to the right of the road way in the darkness beyond. I aimed the old Mack for that hole. It looked like I could fit the tractor into the narrow space but I would have bet there was no way I could get the half jack-knifed

trailer to follow. My gods were smiling. I was wrong. When the tractor plowed into the deep snow and I felt the trailer dollies bite into the unpacked snow I locked the trailer brakes. A miracle happened. When the trailer brakes locked up, the trailer straightened out behind me and followed for the few feet before the deep snow brought me to a halt. I had not touched a feather on that other guys rig. Heard enough yet? Well there’s just a little more. Just before my rig stopped I heard a loud “BANG” from about where I hoped my front bumper still was. It sounded like I had destroyed the old Mack. I’m sitting there, trying to get myself together. I still hadn’t come to grips with what had just happened. I think I was wondering how much it was going to cost to repair the damage when here comes this guy skidding across the road toward me saying in what can only be described as a terrified manner: “I don’t know how you missed me! I don’t know how you missed me!” He kept repeating this over and over again. I regained my senses first and yelled at him: “If you don’t get that damn truck out of the middle of the highway the next guy that comes along isn’t goin to miss you.” This seemed to bring him back to reason because he turned around, ran back to his rig and managed to get it out of the middle of the road. He didn’t have a scratch but I was hesitant to look at the front end of my rig. Besides that, I was buried in about five feet of roadside snow. The end of this little tale could have been a lot worse as you can well imagine. The loud noise I heard was caused by one of those narrow metal poles with a reflector on it to mark the side of the road. It made a lot of noise when I hit it, but the only damage it did was to break out my right headlight. The guy that caused all the trouble was the driver of the truck that had passed me going so fast. He was just a green kid making his first run as a “BIG TRUCKER.” I hope this near miss cured him of thinking that he was bullet proof; and the lecture I gave him

on, “It’s better to get there late than not at all” sunk in. Should any other green drivers happen to read this I hope you learn something from this also. CHAPTER FIVE: THEY AIN’T ALL BAD: Now I know that I’ve been picking pretty hard on those guys that drive up and down the roads in their bubble gum machines or lay in wait in the chicken house for some poor unsuspecting driver to stumble into their clutches. I know that I might have given some of you the impression that they are all alike. (you know, bad to the bone), but I would be lying to you if I did that. (And you know my stand on truck drivers and lying.) I, nor any other driver would ever do such a thing. “Did you happen to notice the look of pure, angelic innocence, on my face?” To prove my point, and to attempt to restore your faith; (if any), in the men, and girls, in blue: Or, lord only knows what other color they may disguise themselves in; I offer this true account of a happening between yours truly, and two of the State Of Missouri’s patrol officers, and, one unfeathered occupant of the chicken house located just east of Kansas City, Missouri. Pay attention now, this gets a little sticky. I had picked up a full load of swinging meat. (That is beef quarters hanging from rails built into the ceiling of a refrigerated semi-trailer). I add this explanation for the benefit of the uninitiated. But, back to the story. -- The meat packing plants are infamous among truckers for their habit of overloading trucks. None of them, at least none that I hauled from, have scales for checking your weight before you venture

into the world of wall to wall cops salivating for the chance to sink their citation writing teeth into your tender young billfold. The pain can be excruciating. Especially when you try to explain to your missus why there is no profit coming from this load. Malfunction junction ain’t a cheap place to travel through. But again I digress… The experienced driver will, upon leaving the private property of “Scrooge” the meat packer attempt to locate the nearest truck scales. These scales are most commonly found at truck stops such as Union 76. If there are none close by; well, you sweat a lot until you find some. Hopefully before the above mentioned State Patrol or County Mounties find you. “Rots of ruck, Charley Brown). Well, I found some right there at a truck stop in Long Island, Nebraska where I had loaded. This was going to be a good day! I rolled over the scale and carefully checked all my axle weights and my gross. Great, I was a few hundred pound, (about 600) under the max. if I remember right. With a light heart and a song on my lips I swung onto I-80 East bound and headed for Missouri. My intention was to leave I-80 at Lincoln, take highway 2 and cross the Missouri River at Nebraska City; then head south on I-29 to pick up I-70 at Kansas City. I can ride I-70 all the way to my destination, which was St Charles, Missouri. Oh happy day!! I’m rollin’. The ground is flat, the night is young, my log book is up to date and God is in his Heaven. All is right with the world. I live in a truckers paradise all the way to Kansas City. All the State scales on I-29 had been closed so I didn’t even have to slow down until I rolled into another Union-76 truck stop in Kansas City, Missouri. It was early in the morning. I had been driving all night and a coffee sure sounded good. I stopped. I hadn’t planned to spend much time at the truck stop. “Those wheels had stopped turning, and I had stopped earning, as I was fond of saying. I had my coffee; filled my thermos jugs

and made my way back to the truck. I fired off the old cummins and was about to pull out of the yard when for some unexplained reason a vision of the chicken house just a little ways east at Blue Springs flashed into my mind. Rather than leaving the truck stop yard I swung around and pulled onto the self operated scales. Put in my quarters and “weighed my chicken”; as we big truckers say. “That can’t be right!!” I screamed at myself. “These scales must be off!” They were showing me to be a few hundred pounds over weight. There’s that 600 pound figure again only this time it is over, not under. “These scales must be off.” I went into the office to check. “No.” I was told. “They were not off. They had been inspected only a short time ago and were found to be right on.” They suggested that my math was wrong. Lord I hope so. I put the truck on the scales and went through the whole process again. The answer to my problem raised it’s ugly head. It was my math alright. Not here though; rather it was when I had weighed it yesterday that I made the mistake. I’m not going to bore you with all the details of how I made the mistake. Suffice it to say I did. “Stupid Driver, Stupid Driver, Stupid Driver.” With a heavy heart I parked the rig, got out, and wandered back into the coffee shop. I am one really screwed puppy. Of all the Ports of Entry that I knew how to avoid with only minimum danger of getting caught; Blue Springs, Missouri was not one of them. “Could it be my tears that is making this coffee taste so salty?” While I am sitting there drinking my salty coffee and wondering if my Wife Dolly can collect on my tiny bit of life insurance if they prove my death was an act of suicide. I noticed two of Missouri’s finest sitting in a booth having their breakfast. “Odd.” I thought. “Those guys being in here; a truck stop; was like wolves looking over a flock of sheep, trying to decide which one to take next.”--No, no, now don’t get mad. I just made that up. I didn’t think that at all. What I did think was: “Old buddy

you are in about as deep as you can get. You are in a corner and you can’t get out. You have nothing to lose so just go over and talk with those guys. I did, and the conversation went something like this. It’s not verbatim, but it’s close. Me- “Excuse me fellows. Could I talk with you for a minute? I have a problem and I don’t know what to do about it.” They- “Sure, what can we do for you?” Me- “I have a load of swinging meat that I am to deliver in St Charles. I loaded in Grand Island, Nebraska and checked my weight at the truck stop there. My math showed me to be 600 lbs. under the limit. I screwed up. I reweighed the load here a few minutes ago and found my mistake. I am 600 lbs. over and I don’t know what to do about it. It’s my mistake and I am willing to pay the fine but I can’t afford to have them impound the truck until I make my weight right. I can’t just throw quarters of beef out on the road side. Those guys at Blue Springs can be tough.” They- “We don’t know what to tell you.” They agreed. “How much fuel do you have on? You could lose some weight there.” These guys were not dummies. Now I should really be ashamed of myself because I lied. “Gasp!” Me- “I thought of that. I have sold and given away all I could. I have only enough on board to get me to St Charles.” They- “We’re sorry but we don’t know what to tell you. Why don’t you just go on down there and see what they say?” Me- “I guess you’re right. I’ll think about it. Thanks for your help.” I’m sure they couldn’t help but see that it was one dejected truck driver that went back to his now cold coffee. I sat around for several more minutes before I finally decided to get it over with. I left the café and was walking across the parking lot as the two cops were leaving. They waved to me, and I waved back.

Thirty minutes later I rolled onto the scales at Blue Springs. Sure enough the “pull around in back” sign came on. I did; gathered up all my paper work and went inside. “You’re a little heavy.” Was the greeting I got from my fine feathered friend. “Yes, I know.” I admitted: as I stuck out my hands so he could slap on the cuffs. “What you got on?” He asked. He didn’t even look at my bills of lading. “Swingin’.” I knew he’d know what I ment. “Where you goin’?” “St Charles.” “How much fuel you got?” “Shame on me.” I repeated the lie I had told the cops back at the restaurant. “Show me on this map where you’re going.” He indicated the large map of the State of Missouri hanging on the wall. I did that and he continued. “I’m going to let you go.” He said. “But don’t you take on any fuel between here and there: And, don’t you cross those scales at Wintzville. Those guys probably won’t let you go. Now you get the hell out of here.” He handed back my paper work that he hadn’t bothered to look at. “Yes sir.” And I was sincere when I called him sir. “I won’t even get close to Wentzville you can depend on that.” I was still puzzling over what had just happened to me as I drove east on I-70. I had just been given a reprieve by some of the toughest cops in the entire 48 states. At least that is their reputation. “Don’t get caught wrong in Missouri.” Was the advice any driver would give you if asked. Well I had been wrong, and, I had been caught, but here I was merrily driving on down the road. “Why?” “Why? Well I can’t prove it, but I’ll tell you what I think. A

couple of cops having their breakfast in a truck stop restaurant took pity on a real dumb trucker. They talked to the guy in the chicken house. They told him my story. Now that I think back on it I can see that the weigh-master was not surprised when I rolled over his scales, nor; was he surprised to hear my story. I now believe that he was waiting for me. The decision of how to handle my case had been made minutes before I arrived at Blue Springs Port Of Entry. Despite the fact that I had lied a little to earn some sympathy I knew that I had just met three gentlemen officers who knew how to enforce the law. I know they probable will never read this, but I am going to say it anyway. “Thank You Gentlemen.” Now I’m still just as bad as the next guy when it comes to poking fun at the cops; but I want them to know that it is strictly tongue in cheek. That is, as far as the good ones go. The ones that are real jackasses: And they know who they are. Well, I mean every word of it.

CHAPTER SIX UNSUNG HEROS: Out on the big road there are some people in some of those big rigs that you rarely, if ever, hear about. They are the wives and sweethearts of the guys that first come to mind when “Trucker” is mentioned. In this chapter I hope to prove to you that that just isn’t right. Those Gals deserve a share of all the credit, {both good and bad}, that is given to the Guys. Those Gals: Some of them drivers, and some are there to give moral support and provide company in a very isolated environment. It can get darn lonely a thousand miles from home; in the middle of the night; with no one to talk with. Picture yourself in the middle of Nebraska. It’s three o’clock in

the morning. It will be another hour to an hour and a half before the dawn starts showing in your rear view mirror. You haven’t spoken to a another living soul since you left Chicago. “Lord, how many hours ago was that? Thirteen? Fourteen?” It’s easy to forget when about the only sensation you have felt for a while is the steady hum and vibration of the powerful 350 HP Cummins Diesel Engine. “Are you still with me? Got the picture? What would you give right now to have someone you love and respect sitting over there in the Buddy seat? Someone you could turn to and say: “How you doing Babe? Getting tired?” Sounds good right? Well it is good for you, that’s for sure. But; how about her? Remember she’s not built like you. All this bouncing up and down we’ve been doing in these air seats for the last several hundred miles non-stop have an entirely different effect on the female anatomy than they do on the male. Consider the breast….I never did, until I had it pointed out to me just what a full figured woman must endure riding in the cab of a vehicle that never stops bouncing. Now that I understand, I have an even greater respect for the Gals I see trucking down the highway. I always say. “Go get em’ gal. You’re tougher than I am.” Now that we’ve got the serious part of this chapter out of the way let’s have some fun with our {bless em’} Gals. There are probably a million stories that could be told but there are a couple that stick in my mind that I still have to laugh at every time I think about them. Now, I’m not going to use any names in telling these stories because I want to cling to what little life I have left without being all beat up. Not that there is anything to be ashamed of in what I’m going to tell, but, well. Let’s just say it might be just a little bit embarrassing.

The plot of my first “expose” has it’s setting somewhere along I-15 in the state of Utah. The time is just after midnight. Our hero and his wife are peddling, {us big truckers like to say peddling instead of driving}, South towards their destination somewhere in Southern California. Our Heroine enters. “Can we stop pretty soon? I’ve got to pee.” “Sure, no sweat.” As he allows the rig to drift slowly across the fog line and come to a stop at the side of the Interstate. Our Heroine steps down from the cab and in an act of modesty positions herself between the truck’s cab and the front drive axle where she can’t be seen by passing motorist. All is going well. With both inner and outer pants lowered, and in a squatting position: {I must now break into the telling of this part of my tale to give a brief explanation of the workings of a particular part of a truck’s “air system.”} The air system is one of the most vital of all the parts and pieces that go into what makes a big rig function. Air Brakes, Air Shifts, Air Seats to name just a couple. For these things to function properly it is most important that the air going to them be dry. To insure that it is void of moisture, a system know as an air dryer is built into the system; and works automatically to dump, or drain from the system, any moisture build up. It was within just a few inches of the dump valve that our Heroine chose to squat and relieve herself. Unfortunately, all this was also at the same time that the automatic system sensed a moisture build up and chose to rid it’self of this unwanted moisture. With a mighty “Psssssshhhh of air released under 100 PSI, the moisture was simultaneously released from both the truck’s, and our heroine’s systems. With a scream, and believing herself to be snake bit, our Heroine, {pulling at very wet pants trying to cover herself} fled from the scene. Still, all might have gone well except!!!! Enter our Hero: {color him real dumb}. Seeing his scared

wife; very wet from having peed all over herself in trying to escape from what ever had attacked her. The damn fool saw the humor in the situation and began to laugh. True; it was funny. To everyone except our heroine that is. She was now one teed-off lady. Not knowing all there was to know about the air system of the truck she thought he had did that on purpose. He might have convinced her of his innocence if he had not laughed so long and so hard. Now this all happened several years ago and I am not altogether sure that he was ever successful in his plea of innocence. Of course it didn’t help any when he just had to tell me about it and I laughed as loud and as long as he had. I wonder if that lady still likes me??? Yeah; she does. I know her well and she is one sweet, sweatheart” ************************************ NOW THE MORAL OF THIS STORY BOYS IS IF YOU TAKE YOUR GAL OUT TRUCK’IN. YOU WANT TO BE REAL CAREFUL; WHEN IT COMES TO THAT YUCK, YUCK’IN. CAUSE THAT LITTLE GAL JUST MIGHT NOT SEE, THE HUMOR IN THINGS, LIKE YOU AND ME; ESPECIALLY WHEN AT THE SIDE OF THE ROAD SHE HAS TO SQUAT AND PEE. NOW YOU AND ME WE COOL OFF OUR TIRES; WHILE STANDING UP REAL STRAIGHT. BUT THEM POOR GALS A’ SQUATT’IN THERE, LOOK MORE LIKE A FIGURE EIGHT. WITH PANTS PULLED DOWN AND ALL THEY OWN, EXPOSED FOR THE WORLD TO SEE: IF SOMETHING GOES WRONG, YOU BETTER NOT LAUGH; BECAUSE AMUSED, SHE AIN’T GONNA BE. **********************************************

CHAPTER SEVEN SPEED COPS: “Now I don’t know if I should get to truthful about these guys, (I didn’t meet any gals) DARN!! or not. But what the heck; surely the statutes of limitations have run out by now so here goes.” This first little episode took place on East bound I-80 in the great State of Pennsylvania. There were two of us. Each driving identical Mack Cruise-liner cab over tractors. I was in the lead about a quarter of a mile ahead. “Dare I say at this point that we were making a little extra money for Mom and the Kids today??” Yeah, you figured it out: we were driving just a tweet fast. This little story is taking place during those great days when 55 MPH was the limit and it is possible, (now mind you I said possible) that I could have been going a little over that. I can’t be sure because I don’t believe my speedometer which was registering 80 at the time was correct. At least that was what I had planned to tell the Judge if it became necessary. But it wasn’t, because when I reached the bottom of the hill, (which I should add was the real reason that I might have been just a tweet over the limit and: Which, (this will also be part of my story to the judge if it comes to that) makes the State of Pennsylvania equally guilty for allowing such unsafe hills to exist in their state. I know, I know. I’m reaching, but what the hell!” OK, back to the story. as I passed the bottom of the hill I glanced to my right and there; well hidden from view, sat “Old

Smokey Himself” just waiting for fools like me. I suppose he thought I would slow down when I saw him but I had other plans. I grabbed the microphone hooked to the CB to warn my buddy behind but I was to late. He went roaring by “Old Smoky” before he could get his car in gear to come after me. I saw it was to late for me to be of any help so I really leaned on the throttle and me and old Mac put a lot of distance between us and that Speed Cop. “Why would I do this?” You ask. Well from my experience watching these guys operate I had concluded that they work a 20 mile stretch of highway. That’s 10 miles each way from a center point which I am sure they mark with a donut, or on a good day a bear-claw. I figure if I get out of this 10 mile zone I done lost this sucker. “And you know I was right.” “How do I know that?” You ask. “Well let me tell you the rest of the story.” It was about a half hour later that I felt safe from pursuit and backed the old Mack down to legal limit. We were almost to the New Jersey line when my buddy caught up and told me what had happened to him. “That son-of-a-gun; (not his exact words) had me before I even knew he was there.” He said. “I pulled off in the first wide spot and he came roaring up beside me. He seemed all out of breath as he demanded my license and began writing the ticket. It was the fastest I ever saw one of those guys move. He almost threw the ticket at me and said: “Now I’m going to get your buddy! He jumped in his car and burned rubber getting out of there. Man that was one hot cop!” “Yeah! I’ll bet.” I agreed. “He probably figured I would be dumb enough to go down the road a couple of miles, pull off and wait for you. He should live so long.” As far as I know that cop is still running up and down that road trying to find that law break’in trucker that didn’t have the sporting spirit to stop or at

least slow down so he could catch him and write him a ticket for having the audacity to try to make a living in his state. “55; that’s the limit you crook! Don’t be trying to tell me that there is no physical possibility that you can make freight hauling profitable at that speed. So you have to spend an extra day or so on the road between pickup and delivery. That’s your problem, not mine. Our great and all wise government in Washington has decreed that no matter what it costs or who it hurts this “new law will” ????? I don’t think anyone ever found out just what that new law did other than cost the American consuming public a bundle of bucks. “Oops! I forgot the insurance company’s. They made a killing by raising rates on the poor suckers that got speeding tickets on their driving records for doing 60 MPH on a 70 MPH rated Interstate Highway.” But those guys are persistent; and if you stay out on the big road long enough and continue to stretch the speed limit while trying to make a living: Sooner or later they are going to get’cha. Now I have no way to prove how many miles of asphalt and concrete passed under the wheels of the trucks I drove, but surfice it to say a million would be a conservative estimate. I am happy to say that I got only one speeding ticket in all those miles and in all that time. The part that hurts though; is that the only one I got was when I was in no hurry, way out in the middle of nowhere in North East Nebraska where there wasn’t a town for 50 miles and was probably one of the safest roads in the world. We, (that is Dolly and I); were “dead-heading” to a little town named Newcastle in North Eastern Wyoming. There was a little sawmill there from which we had hauled many times before. We were pulling an empty 40 foot flat bed trailer, the road was flat except for the rolling sand hills that part of Nebraska is famous for. I was paying no particular attention to my speed as there was no traffic to speak of and the CB radio

was quiet. I had picked up a talk radio station in Denver and was listening to the conversation. Now and then we would pass another truck going the other way but they must have been interested in something else as was I, because they gave no indication they saw us, although I’m sure they did. To explain why I have taken the time and space to tell you all this is because you may not know that truckers do, (to a degree). Look after one another. For instance if there is a problem ahead such as an accident, road damage, a weather problem or; shudder-shudder, a speed cop or trap: They will signal by flashing lights or using their radio if they have one. None of these things happened as I rolled blissfully along at about 65 MPH in those 55 MPH days. Remember I said we were in no hurry to get where we were going as we could not load in Newcastle until the next morning. Imagine my surprise when I crested one of those famous sand hills; 50 miles from nowhere and saw before me, blocking the highway, what looked to be the entire Nebraska state police force, every deputy sheriff of what ever county we were in, and, the entire police force from what ever town there was within 50 miles. “Oh Yeah”, I must not forget the airplane that was circling overhead. Unless they wrote a lot of tickets the State Of Nebraska must have spent their entire highway safety budget that day. “Your tax dollars at work.” My ticket was $20.00. Why I got no warning from another trucker still puzzles me to this day. There is one thing though that I have often wished for. “The donut franchise on that highway.” Lord, I could have made a fortune. Another missed opportunity to get rich.

CHAPTER EIGHT: But all is not fun and games out on the “Big Road”. If your

haul route covers the lower 48 States and Canada as mine did you are bound to sooner or later meet up with most everything: Both good and bad. First let’s talk about some of the bad. Something that’s not talked about a lot but is one big problem facing the independent trucker is loading and unloading. These problems vary with what kind of things they are hauling and what kind of trailer you are hauling them on. Now there are some things that create no problems for the experienced driver. For example, something big and heavy like a piece of machinery or something else made of iron or steel that requires a crane or fork lift to handle. The drivers only problem with such loads is to make sure they are securely bound to the trailer in such a way as to make it impossible for it, or them, to get loose from the trailer even if the trailer is upside down. After this is done all he, or she, has to do is (and at this point I am assuming that the weight of the load and the tractor trailer hauling it are within the legal limits of all the weight limit laws of all the citys, counties and states through which it must pass to get to it’s destination) just sit back and steer. It’s going to be an easy run because you know that when you get there all you have to do is remove your chains or straps, get out of the way and they will unload you. But then there is the other things which you may find yourself transporting from place to place. You are still facing the usual problems of weights and measures, logbooks, the weather, and, but well, you get the picture so let’s not dwell on this to much: Let’s talk about the load that doesn’t require heavy lifting equipment to load or unload. This is the one that gives a driver a real problem. “But why should that give a driver a problem you might well ask?” And that is a fair question that deserves a fair answer and that answer is: “It shouldn’t ! But it does, because of the greed of the shippers and receivers.” They go by some fancy names but I think shippers and receivers will best be

understood by the general public. These people “the shippers and receivers” want the free labor they get if the driver does the work of loading and unloading, or pays someone else; (they are called lumpers) to do the work of loading or unloading. All this would be well and good if the driver were paid extra to do this work but (you guessed it) they are not. “EXCEPT FOR ME” That’s right, I’m Tex-Bad-Boy on this one. I think I mentioned somewhere way back that “I just drive em, I don’t load em or unload em”. You might be saying; “Now hold on there! If that’s the way it’s done in the trucking industry how can you refuse to load, unload or pay for the loading or unloading of the freight you are hauling?” “OK, you got me. I guess I forgot to mention that I am one ornery, stubborn SOB and I refuse to be taken advantage of. I will give any man a fair days work for a fair days pay but allow myself to be used by someone for their own personal gain: I don’t think so.” Of course this attitude did sometimes get me into some touchy situations. As an example let me tell you about what happened when I delivered a load of lambs from the slaughter house in Denver to the meat market on lower Manhattan Island, New York City. I didn’t want to spend the night parked on the street of a city like New York City so I stopped just short of the New Jersey - Pennsylvania State line. This left only a short jump across New Jersey to the George Washington bridge and down Broadway toward the tip of Manhattan to about 14th St. After a good long nap I left the truck stop early the next morning to give myself plenty of time to make it to the market by 4AM. I did this so as to be among the first to be unloaded when the market opened. It was a good plan I thought but it didn’t work out as smoothly as I thought it should. It’s true that I was among the first at the dock to be

unloaded but thought I waited with my doors open exposing my load to those working on the dock nothing was being done with my load of lambs. After about half an hour with no one touching my load I got a bit restless and climbed up on the dock to see what was the problem? “Why were other trucks that had arrived after me being unloaded and mine was not??” I could get no satisfactory answer from anyone working on the dock so I asked “Who is the Boss here?” They pointed at a little fat man wearing a white butchers coat and smoking a big cigar. I approached him and asked why I was not being unloaded. He said I would have to talk with the men working the dock. Well it finally soaked into my feeble brain what was going on so I said, and I quote. “You are the boss here aren’t you?” His response was. “Yes.” Then I said. “Then you tell them to unload me.” His response was. “You will have to talk with them.” I responded. “No, I am talking to you. I have a load of lambs on my truck. If you want those lambs you have fifteen minutes to get started unloading me or I will close my doors and take my load down the street. I know a man down there who will be glad to buy this load from me and he will unload it. Have I made myself clear?” Now I had the man’s attention. He puffed up like a poisoned toad and said. “You can’t do that! Those lambs belong to me!” “No.” I said to him. “You are wrong again. As long as those lambs are on my truck they belong to me. They will belong to you when, and only when, they are off my truck and you sign my “Bill Of Lading” accepting their delivery. You have fifteen minutes and then I am gone.” I suppose a note of explanation at this point is in order so as to clear the air. In the first place I knew that he had to have that load. He already had it sold. He was just a middle man. Every dollar he didn’t have to pay out for delivery was a dollar in his pocket. If I refused to deliver the load for what ever reason his whole day was ruined. He wasn’t about to let me drive away

with that load. Also, and shame, shame on me. I didn’t know anybody down the street to sell those lambs to even if it was legal for me to do that but I was betting that he didn’t know that. And I was right because before the fifteen minutes was up they were unloading my rig. I knew they were unloading me because I could hear them slinging the steel hooks the meat was hanging from as hard as they could against the front of the refrigerated trailer. They were not happy campers. After I was unloaded I pulled away from the dock, closed my doors and went into the office to get my bills signed. The little fat man with the big cigar signed my bills and then in a voice loud enough to be heard out on the dock sneered. “You don’t ever need to come back here again!!!” I replied in a voice equally loud so as to be heard out on the dock. “You don’t need to worry because you don’t have enough money to pay me to bring you another load and I’ll tell you this. I will spread the word among all truckers from here to Denver that if they refuse to pay your lumpers you will pay the lumpers yourself.” With that I got in my truck and got the hell out of there before someone got the idea of getting even. And, Your right. I never went back to that market again although the shipper in Denver said they would reimburse me for any lumper fees I had to pay. Another similar instance happened in Denver when I delivered a load of canned goods to a big wholesale warehouse. This episode really sticks in my mind because when I arrived, (I had never been here before) I found one of the most difficult places I had ever been in to back a trailer into the docks. Some brilliant designer had put a fueling station right square in the middle of the lot in such a way that you could not get a straight line into the docks. You had to back in sort of a figure 8 to get your trailer against the dock. Well hell, I had been in tight

spots before and so I knew I could master this one even if it was a lot of work without power steering. (The Mack Truck people say that with their center point steering you don’t need power steering). Those lying suckers ain’t never had to fight one of those rigs into some of the place I’ve been in). But, after getting into door #1 where I had been directed to by those on the dock I went inside with my bills. I was thinking, “This is pretty good. I didn’t even have to get out and open my doors. The guys on the dock had done it for me. I’m going to like this place.” I didn’t know that malfunction junction could be so well disguised. “What the hell are you doing at that door??” Well that got my attention. “That’s where your men directed me to.” I meekly answered. “My men!! Those aren’t my men. Those guys are lumpers!” At this point a little lower voice or at least talking to me as if I were other than a slave would possibly have changed what came a bit later. I don’t remember what my response to him was at this point but knowing me like I do I am quite sure my tongue was taking quite a chewing in order not to say something that I shouldn’t. I again fought the good fight and was successful in maneuvering tracter and trailer into it’s appointed place at the dock. And I waited. And I waited. And I waited. Nothing is happening. I wonder why. I guess I should ask the man. Yes Bill I think that is what you should do but give it just a few more minutes. Your temperature is still a little above boiling. On the dock I asked the man very politely. “When will they start unloading me?” “Any time your ready.” Not quite so politely. “Well I’m ready now so why don’t you tell your man on the fork lift to run right in there and pick up a pallet and bring it out. I’m sure he knows where to stack it. Doesn’t he?” “He can’t do that.” I was informed. “You must go into the trailer and lift each case onto our pallet which he will bring to

you with his fork lift. Then he will take that full pallet away with his fork lift and you can load another pallet by lifting each case and placing it on our pallet.” “Let me see if I’ve got this right.” I said. “You think I am going to lift everyone of those many hundreds of cases; by hand, and load them onto a pallet so all your man has to do is pick them up with his fork lift and haul them away. Is that right??” I don’t remember his exact words so I am going to put words in his mouth based on his personality as I deemed it to be. He was a Jackass. “That is right. You can either move the cases yourself or you can pay the lumpers to do for you. Our men are not allowed to help. Only to drive the fork lifts.” The boiling point had been reached and I said. “Well I am very happy for your men. They must have a pretty strong union. I don’t belong to a union so it is necessary for me to fight my own battles so I tell you this. I have already put in a sixteen hour day getting this freight to you on time. I am very tired and all I want to do right now is get rid of this trailer load and go home. I am not about to man handle every case of this load so that you don’t have to pay someone to do it for you. With that said here is what I am going to do. I’m going to go sit in my truck for a few minutes. If in those few minutes I don’t hear you or your men in there unloading this trailer I am pulling away from this dock and going home. What happens to this load is up to you. Now! Have I made myself clear?” Now I had his attention. “You can’t do that!” His sneer had changed to a sputter. “Try me.” I said. As we were having this conversation another person who identified himself as the boss walked up and asked. “What’s the problem.” “He doesn’t want to help unload.” I think the sneer was

back. “Why not?” This from the boss. “Because I’m not paid to do that.” I said. “And also I am very tired and I want to go home.” “Well!” The boss said as though he had never heard of such a thing. “If you want it unloaded that is what you will do.” “Then you are refusing to accept delivery of this load?” I said. “Unless you unload it yourself or pay the lumpers to do it; that is right.” “Fine.” I said. “Then I am gone.” “You can’t do that.” “Watch me.” I pulled away, got out and closed the doors while the astonished ware-housemen stood and (watched me). I pulled the trailer to the trucking company's yard. Backed it up against a fence so the back doors could not be opened without hooking a tractor to it and pulling it away. Without a word to anyone I went home and went to bed. I was one tired puppy. As you have probably guessed it didn’t take long for the phone to start ringing the next morning. “What have you done??” I was asked. And I told them. “You must come and get this trailer and take it back to them.” I was told. “I don’t think so.” I replied. “But you must! The dispatcher pleaded. “They need that load desperately and I don’t have another power unit in town to move the trailer.” “You are talking to someone who doesn’t really care if they ever get that load or not.” I told the dispatcher. Then I proceeded to fill him in on the way I had been treated by the people at the warehouse. This guy was one of the really good dispatchers that I had the pleasure to work with. It thrills me to remember that he called the head man at the company and told

him of the actions of some of his employees and informed him that because of their actions the only power unit in town at that time refused to redeliver the load and it would be at least a week before he would have anyone to do it. He was sorry for any inconvenience. However, if they really needed the load sooner than that he could rent a power unit from onee of the local truck rental firms and find another temporary driver. The truck and driver would cost somewhere between three and five hundred dollars. Now I don’t know, nor do I really care, how much it finally cost that warehouse to get that load brought back to their dock and unloaded but I’ll bet you a dollar to a horse turd and hold the stakes in my mouth, that it was a heck of a lot more than the forty or fifty dollars they would have paid to the lumpers that were there when I was. It was a few months later when I brought another load to that same warehouse and do you know what??? “They opened the doors for me and were getting those cases of beans or what ever I had back there unloaded before I got the engine shut down. Damn!! That felt good. One of the lumpers told me that the word had got around and some of the other independent truckers were also refusing to manhandle the cargo themselves or pay from their own pockets the lumper fees to get someone else to do it. I believed then and I still believe today that it should be made unlawful to force a driver who has already (most likely) put in a full day’s work to either unload the trailer himself or pay someone to do it for him. The cost of loading and unloading should be built into the freight rates. See, I told you that I could be one mean, ornery SOB sometimes but most of the time I am just soft and cuddly and full of fun (and sometimes a litle mischief) like one hot, muggy day down in Texas.

CHAPTER NINE: It was one of those hot, sultry, sticky days that the gulf coast of Texas is famous for. You could take a cooling shower and be wet with sweat again before you could hang up your towel. Myself, along with five or six (I don’t remember how many for sure) other truckers were loading pipe at one of the ports on Galveston Bay. Now I said loading but that isn’t correct. The cranes did the loading: all we had to do was make sure it was loaded properly and then chain it down so there was no chance of the load shifting on the long haul to Bakersfield California roughly 1600 miles away. We worked together helping each other get it done as we all wanted to get out of the heat and humidity as soon as possible. It took about two hours before the last truck was loaded and secured. It was with a big sigh of relief that we climbed up into our air-conditioned cabs and headed for the big Union 76 truck stop on I-10 just west of Houston. We knew they had good showers, hot coffee and good food. It was just a little bit after noon. Cooled by the showers, fully fed and ready to challenge the road this bunch of drivers in clean, sweat free clothes climbed back into their air conditioned cabs and pointed the big rigs west. OH YES!!! Life is good when the big engines hum and the miles fall effortlessly behind you. West Texas is about as flat as your table top so all you need do is steer, and all you need do is steer, and all you need do is steer, and all you need do is steer…………..Are you still with me?? You didn’t fall asleep while you were doing all that steering did you?? Well I almost did and I wasn’t alone. The monotony of the 800 miles of nothing except San Antonio between Houston and El Paso began to set in and like boys “who will be boys” began to look

for something to do to pass the time; and; as luck would have it………………W E L L……. They were beautiful little “Z” cars of several different colors all traveling in a convoy that was about a mile long. They must have been going to a “Z” car rally or something like that. They were traveling at the correct speed keeping the correct, safe distance between themselves and were bothering no one. We, as some truckers are apt to do were running just a tweet faster than some of the other traffic on the interstate so we overtook the convoy. One of the drivers, (it couldn’t possibly have been me), got a bright idea of how to break the monotony of this trip. “Why don’t we break up this convoy?” He asked. “Oh goody,lets!” One of the other drivers (who could not have possibly been me), replied. And that’s what we did. For the next several miles (can’t remember exactly but quite a ways) we took turns breaking in between the cars in the convoy. We would run in the left lane until we found an opening and then we would move into the right lane. In their attempt to keep their convoy together they would pull into the left lane and speed up to catch up with their friends. If you close your eyes and use your imagination you can picture those little cars trying to keep their nice straight convoy while some (less than bright) truckers are using them as a toy to play with to break the monotony of a very long road. By now you should be (as were the drivers of the little “Z” cars) very upset with the antics of a bunch of truckers; but don’t despair for the devil will have his due and some will get their just desserts. The “Z” drivers had had enough of our nonsense and pulled into a rest stop. Probably to let their tormenters (us) to go away; which we did, now fully awake and having a good laugh at our antics when it happened. We had not gone much more than 25 miles since leaving the convoy when the left tire on the steering axle on one of the

trucks in our little convoy blew with a mighty “BANG” and the driver had all he could do to keep the rig right side up as he went into the median strip and came to a stop. All of us, of course, stopped as quickly as we could and rushed to his aid and that’s where we were, jacking that truck up to get the blown tire off so we could replace it with another tire we had taken from one of the trailers: Dripping wet with sweat in our clothes dirty from crawling around in the dirt to get the jacks under the truck: When the neatest little convoy of “Z” cars went by tooting their little horns and waving BY BY to us. “OH the humiliation of it.” But, I guess we got what we deserved.

CHAPTER TEN: Another funny thing happened one day as I was making another one of my three trips a week from Denver to Chicago. Now understand that this little episode was not of my making. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time. To bring you up to speed on this little story I need to tell you that I had been enjoying the trip by having another trucker running with me and we had the CB all to ourselves to visit on. We had been swapping stories……………”Now wait a minute! I know what you’re thinking and it just isn’t so. We were not lying……..Well not much.” When he broke off what he was

saying right in the middle of a word. I didn’t think anything about it. I just figured he got busy shifting a gear, adjusting his seat or picking his nose. So, while I am waiting for him to come back on the air I amuse myself by looking out the window at a countryside that I had seen so many times before that I had it committed to memory. Now don’t you Nebraska people take offense, but you got to admit that there ain’t a heck of a lot to look at in the western part of your State, but, that’s another story. To continue what I was telling you about; there I am sitting way up there in the cab of this old Mack Cruse Liner. From this elevation I have a good view of everything that passes me by in the fast lane. I saw the little four wheeler as it drew abreast of my trailer and didn’t give it much thought other than to observe that it seemed to be taking it’s time in passing me. Now I can state with-out reservation that I am a good driver and every good driver knows that one of the most dangerous times out there on the “Big Road” is when one vehicle is passing another, so, you keep an eye on who, or what, ever is passing until who, or what, ever has gone by. And that’s what I was doing when I looked down into the cab of the little four wheeler as it came abreast of me in my cab sitting way up there where I could see everything there was to see………and that’s what she showed me. There she was; wearing nothing but a big grin with her feet propped up on the dashboard, legs spread. There was nothing left to the imagination. I just had to look and I almost looked too long. I came to my senses just in time to see that while I was looking to my left the old Mack was drifting to the right and had just crossed the fog line. I spun the wheel and got myself back in the lane where I belonged. Heaved a big sigh of relief at having dodged what could have been a disaster. That’s when my buddy back there chose to break radio silence and exclaim. “Hey driver. You darn near ran off the road didn’t you?”

“Yeah!” I told him. “Why didn’t you warn me about that?” He was laughing so hard he almost couldn’t answer me but finally he said. “I just wanted to see what you would do. I almost ran off the road too.” Well what the heck; nobody hurt. You can’t get mad at a guy out here when he’s just trying to have a little fun. It’s things like that that makes the trip seeem a bit shorter. Another story I just got to tell you. It was told to me by another trucker. The story he told was about something that happened to him. It goes like this. “One day when I was running on I-80 East bound. I was between Grand Island and Lincoln and I needed to get up to Minnesota. There was a secondary road that I had taken many times before because it saved me a lot of miles and gallons of fuel. There was nothing but field after field of what ever those farmers were growing. There was virtually no traffic except me and of all things some cops with a set of jump scales out to catch a law breaking trucker trying to dodge the scales at the port of entry. They had me in their sights and there was no way for me to get away. They waved me into a wide spot at the side of the road: One of them came back and told me to stay put. The other one was busy unloading their portable set of scales. It took about twenty minutes for them to get set up and order me to drive across their scales so they could record my gross weight. I did as I was told and watched the expression on their faces as they read the results.” Now it was one unhappy trooper who came to the side of my truck and almost yelled. “Why didn’t you tell us you were empty.” “You didn’t ask me I replied.” “You let us go to all the work of setting up the scales

without saying a word!” “I didn’t think you would appreciate me telling you how to do your job. Can I go now?” He didn’t bother to answer me so I assumed he had seen all he wanted to of me and I got out of there and headed on down the road before he could think of something else to check me out for. My log book was about a week behind but he didn’t ask me about that either. “Super Truckers!” You go out and run up and down the big road and you will find them in all shapes and sizes. Now some of them are about half smart but the most of them that I met in person were real DUMB: Which brings me to this next “TALE OF THE BIG ROAD.” It was deep in the winter time and no matter where you went it was cold. I had made my run down to Aliquarcy New Mexico from Denver. I thought that after I crossed Raton Pass the roads would get a little better but I was wrong again. I-25 was snow packed all the way to Santa Fe and icy from there to albckuriy. I was to meet my son Tom there the next day and I was looking forward to a good supper and a long nights sleep while I waited. I found myself a space in the big “Union 76” truck stop that was away from most of the rigs parked there. My plan was to avoid any “Reefers” that had their noisy refrigeration Units running all night long. They can sure mess up your sleep. It must have been one of my luckier days because the meal I had was good. When I crawled into the bunk to sleep there wasn’t a “Reefer” within 200 feet of me and none parked next to me all night. There was just one small problem that popped up. One that I couldn’t possibly have anticipated. Sometime during the night a “Bull-Hauler”. “That’s a cattle truck, for those of you who might not be familiar with the term” Parked behind me. Now

ordinarily this would be no problem but remember what I said about the weather. “It was damn cold.” And, cold weather somehow an effect on the potty habits of the load of sheep that guy wass hauling. Agin’, there would not have been a problem if the slope of the parking lot had not carried the urine and poop that those sheep turned loose under my truck. I awoke to the strong odor. I didn’t know what it was until I stepped down from the cab and found myself standing in it. I want you to know that smell would gag a maggot. I got back in old Mack and we moved way over to the other side of lot. Up wind. Well I know that you are saying; “Sure all that is well and good and maybe a little funny but what does it have to do with these “Super Truckers” you were going to tell us about?” OK!! Don’t get violent I’m coming to that it’s just that I had to set the stage so you could picture what happens a little later in the morning. I know that you are all anxious to meet the hero of this story and well you should be because this boy is sharp. He has it all. The time is now about 8:30 in the AM. I have cleaned the “stuff” off my boots; had a big breakfast of bacon and eggs and about a gallon of coffee. I have returned to my truck with every intention of drawing some cartoons in my funny book while I wait for Son Tom and Wife Barbara to wake up. They had got here in the wee hours of the morning, parked next to me and gone to bed. Time was no problem so I let them sleep. With nothing to do but sit and watch the activities of the busy truck stop I couldn’t help but notice our hero when he stepped down from the cab of one of the prettiest long nosed bright red Peterbilt power units I ever did see. I knew this boy

was proud of that truck and well he should be, It shined like a brand new silver dollar; (he either hadn’t been on the road with it yet or he had just come from a truck wash). It had 100 yard long CB antennas; (I know, I lied) It had more lights on it than the national Christmas tree in Washing, DC. I don’t remember what kind of trailer he was pulling I was too busy looking at that boys costume. I can’t prove it but I’ll bet what that boy was wearing would cost more than me and old Mack could net in a week. Starting at the top I saw a cowboy hat that could not be described as “ten Gallon”. That sucker was at least “121/2 gallons” if it was a drop and blacker than your mother-in-laws heart. He must have been a strong man because I swear he had no less than 75 lbs. of rhinestones on his shirt. You know, I used to feel sorry for all the snakes and alligators that gave up their lives to become human footwear; but I’ll bet if they saw what that boy had on his feet, they would all want to do it again. As I watched he must have spent no less than five minutes admiring and adjusting his attire. His neckerchief had to be at just the right angle. His pants tucked into the tops of his boots just so. When all met with his approval he strode forth to charm all the truck stop cuties and hard working waitress as he permitted them and all the not so fortunate other truckers to admire him. By now you must be again asking: “So, what’s so unusual about all that?” Just because a guy likes to dress up and look good doesn’t make him dumb. Just because he is driving a truck that you would give your half interest in hell to own doesn’t make him a “Super Trucker“. “So why are you picking

on him?” You are so right to ask so I guess I better tell you before I start a riot. Remember the weather? Remember the sheep? I guess this boy hadn’t been at this trucking business long enough yet to know that even in warm weather but most especially in cold weather you give “Bull-Racks” a wide birth. I can still see in my minds eye that boy strolling jointly along beside that cattle trailer when one of the animals inside with it’s butt aimed at a ventilation opening in the side of the trailer turned loose a long stream of very juicy waste from it’s bowels. It’s aim was deadly. Had it been bullets our hero would have been dead. As it was he only smelled like he had been dead a long time. But all was not lost. Our “Super Trucker” had just learned a valuable lesson that should stay with him forever.