A Brief Encounter at a Maine Truck Stop A Brief Encounter at a Maine Truck Stop

By Frank Adkins

The heavy rain overnight had given way to a fiery sunrise. Outside, the distant clattering of idling diesel engines was periodically overpowered by the deep groan of a big rig rolling past on its way out of the parking lot, heading to its next destination presumably several hours and possibly several states away. I wiggled from my sleeping bag, donned a clean pair of work pants and a T-shirt, and clambered from my makeshift sleeping chamber, the fiberglass enclosed bed of my Dodge Dakota.

Although it was not yet 5:30am, daybreak had long passed, for the sun rises early in Maine. Goosebumps spread across my arms as the cool June air invigorated my mind and spirit. The restaurant at Dysart’s Truck Stop in Bangor didn’t open until 7:00am, but the convenience store was open now. I strode inside, brushed my teeth in the men’s room, then purchased a large coffee, an aerosol can of window cleaner, and a roll of paper towels. Maine’s woods are rife with insects, and my windshield had slaughtered hundreds of them the previous evening.

As I scrubbed the gooey bug guts from the glass, I thought about the car events I would miss that day. I was sure many of my friends would be at the Fox Run cruise near Newark, Delaware. As much as I loved spending time in Maine, I hadn’t yet immersed myself in its car culture. Someday, I vowed. Since my teen years I had yearned to make Maine my home, and my wife and I were taking steps for that dream, now our dream, to become a reality.

Shortly after 7:00am, I entered the restaurant. Photos of area scenery captured by local photographers adorned the walls, and in the center of the floor sat an antique truck. On the back wall hung a couple of doors from rigs that had frequented the truck stop in days gone by. Although there were no Stephen King references to be seen, Dysart’s Truck Stop is said to have been the inspiration for his Maximum Overdrive book and movie. That’s not surprising considering his home is less than five miles away. I took my seat, ordered coffee and French toast, and began perusing the stories in the car magazine I had brought with me.

Good food and quick service are customary for Dysart’s, and my breakfast delivered on both counts. I pushed the magazine aside and smothered all three pieces of French toast in syrup. While savoring the first bite, I noticed a man who appeared slightly older than I sitting alone at a table nearby. His back was toward me, and his sweatshirt read: Tail of the Dragon, 11 miles, 318 curves.

Immediately I recalled the 1999 Tire Rack One Lap of America. The brainchild of Brock Yates, One Lap is what the original Cannonball Baker Sea to Shining Sea Memorial Trophy Dash, better known as The Cannonball Run, had morphed into. My longtime friend Steve Gray and I had built a junkyard-sourced 1970 Dodge Dart to do battle in One Lap more than 25 years earlier, and we had competed in 1998 and 1999. During the 1999 event, while following the route book between race venues, we came upon a twisty road that seemed to go on forever. In addition to a supercharged 360-cubic-inch V-8 and a four-speed manual transmission, we had outfitted the Dart with tight suspension and good brakes. Consequently, this road proved to be a blast! At that time, neither of us had heard of the Tail of the Dragon. It wasn’t until years later that we discovered we had actually driven this now iconic stretch of Highway 129 that links western North Carolina and eastern Tennessee.

The man in the sweatshirt finished his meal before I did. The waitress took his plate, and as he was enjoying a fresh cup of coffee I called out to him.

“Excuse me, but I noticed your shirt. Have you driven the Tail of the Dragon?” I said. Indeed, he had, in a ’93 Corvette. His eyes lit up as he spoke of the car, but he explained that not long after driving the dragon’s tail, he had been forced to sell his beloved ‘Vette due to a business dealing that had gone awry. Recently, his wife had secretly bought it back for him. He left his chair and joined me at my table.

Over the next 20 minutes we talked about many things. He was originally from Maine, but had lived in Florida for many years. He owned a business that erected steel buildings up and down the East Coast, and his crew was finishing a job nearby. He had packed up and was heading back to Florida after breakfast. I explained that my wife and I owned property 40 miles northwest of Bangor, and I was cutting up some trunks from the trees that I had felled the previous summer so they would be out of the excavator’s way. I was delivering them to a neighbor who heated exclusively with firewood.

The man in the sweatshirt had been staying in a motel not far away. I explained that my wife and I usually stay in motels, but I couldn’t justify the expense of a motel when traveling alone. Instead, I had taken an eight-dollar shower at the truck stop and slept in my truck. Having camped extensively in tents and out in the open during my youth, camping in the truck was actually a little too refined for me.

Soon, our conversation deepened as we shared our philosophies on work ethic, honest dealings with others, and the secrets to making a marriage last. He hadn’t had an easy childhood, though he and his wife had been together since grade school. But as we talked, the topic of cars kept bubbling to the surface. There we sat, two strangers, each of whom had traveled several hundred miles, only to meet at this truck stop by pure happenstance. And now we shared snippets of our lives and our passion for cars over coffee. We both knew that we would almost surely never see each other again, yet we had found kinship through our love of automobiles. For the time that it took us to finish our coffee, we enjoyed each other’s company. But time never waits. He had to begin his jaunt down I-95, and I had more wood to cut and haul before leaving for home later in the day. We bade each other farewell and headed in opposite directions, each richer for our brief encounter.