Ricochet is the best place on the internet to discuss the issues of the day, either through commenting on posts or writing your own for our active and dynamic community in a fully moderated environment. In addition, the Ricochet Audio Network offers over 50 original podcasts with new episodes released every day.
The End of an Affair (A Trucker’s Benediction)
“You’re gonna do what?!” It was late in the summer of 2003 and I had just told my late father about my plans for life after my impending retirement from active duty. The curtain was slowly drawing on 20 years in uniform, prompting Dad to ask “So, Mr. Military Historian, any idea what you’re going to do next?” My answer left him completely off balance. I had begun my military career in Security Forces and would conclude it as the author of dozens of military history books with numerous tours of duty at the pointy end of the nation’s spear and … and now I was going to follow that up by living at truck stops?
“Dad,” I explained, “I’ve been taking orders from other people for 20 years. I’m ready to do something I’ve always wanted to do, and get paid to travel the country.” “Well, you’ve certainly earned the right,” he conceded. He also allowed as how he thought I’d lost my mind, but it wasn’t the first time he had reached that particular conclusion.
For her part, my Mom was concerned for my safety and anxious that I might be biting off a bit more than I realized. “It’s a hard life,” she cautioned. Ever the impervious know-it-all, I replied that living in a foxhole was a hard life. While it wouldn’t be the cozy confines of the writer’s lair, surrounded by brilliant authors and churning out scholarly analysis of current military operations, it would, I reasoned, ground me in that soul-cleansing process of an honest day’s physical labor.
Some 15 years later, the cumulative effects of all that soul-cleansing along with the attenuating hands of time require a radical change of pace. The last three and a half years, in particular, have been especially difficult as I switched to a local company which specializes in pushing both drivers and equipment beyond all reason. An unholy combination of chronic nausea-inducing fatigue and the almost daily arguments with dispatchers who can’t comprehend why drivers can’t squeeze 16 hours of work into a 14-hour day have taken a very real toll. It was time to either climb out of the truck or resign myself to being carried out while simultaneously hearing my dispatcher ask why I can’t run another load up to Osceola before the ambulance takes me to the hospital. I voted with my feet.
Looking back at the landscape of over a million miles driven across this magnificent country, I’m left with a feeling of immense gratitude, humbled by the beauty of America, her people, and her spirit. I remember, for example, having dinner at a truck stop in upstate New York on the day our Navy SEALs dispatched Osama bin Laden to the nether reaches of Dante’s Inferno. “What did you think when you heard that we got him?” I asked another driver in the diner that night. He opened his eyes fully and leaned forward for emphasis, saying, “Score one for the good guys.”
“Yes, but we better be careful,” added a gentleman whose ball cap was situated precariously over a white dollop of hair shaped like Dairy Queen ice cream with the curl on top. “It’s a good thing they buried that [expletive] at sea because those idiots are gonna be sore enough at us as it is.” “You think they’re gonna like us no matter what we do?” countered the first gentleman, his eyes at half-mast. Answering his own question, he added, “We kill enough of these lunatics, they’ll get the hint.”
Then there were the occasional excursions into the northeast where, I observed, good attitudes and good driving records would go to die. Of course, there are some wonderful people in the northeast, many of whom I’ve met at Ricochet gatherings. From the vantage point of the cab, however, the scenery deteriorates significantly, prompting me in 2011 to rant thus after being assigned a load from Mehoopany, PA to someplace, Connecticut:
Go forth into the mountains, yea through the valleys and up yonder peak. Deliver thou the diaper stuffings and, lo, ye shall find another trailer loaded unto bursting with Proctor and Gamble finished product which thou shalt take into the land that is called Connecticut. For verily, many middle fingers await thee, and thou shalt cry unto the heavens, “Why hast thou sent me into the land of the Philistines! What the hell!” And I will say unto thee, “Turn left at Main Street,” for I am Jill the GPS, and that which I leadest thee into, I wouldst leadest thee out of. Before thou canst double clutch from 4th to 6th, thou shalt be back in the land of warmth and gumbo.” So let it be written. So let it be done. Yea.
Then there were the passengers, most of whom lightened the work and the atmosphere when they entered the truck. My daughter must have been around 14 or so when she began riding with me during the summer. The satellite radio was perpetually set on the New Country channel. By the end of two weeks I knew the words to every Flascal Ratts song and was mortified when I caught myself singing along to “Man, I Feel Like a Woman” at a TA truckstop in rural Georgia. She was always a joy to have around, though I could have used about two dozen fewer punches to my right arm when she would spot a “Punch Buggy!”
My son’s work schedule allowed him to make a couple of trips with me, and I remember one occasion in particular. We were traveling south from Cincinnati, down toward Louisville, Kentucky. Portions of the interstate were riddled with potholes, causing things to shift around a bit in the sleeper. My son’s stuffed animal and been bounced forward so that it sat precariously at the edge of the top bunk. I casually mentioned that the critter was about to make a leap over the edge when my son looked back and yelled, “Don’t do it!!!” Such a contrast between this hilarious outburst and his usual more sedate nature was enough to give us many miles of uninterrupted laughter.
Of course, my Dad’s trips in the truck have become the stuff of legend. From the time he looked over his reading glasses at the waitress who was feverishly rifling through her apron pockets in search of a pen with which to take our order, prompting Dad to say, “Itches, doesn’t it,” to the time he took a shopping cart in a Lowes and filled it with clearing supplies — whereupon he cleaned the Men’s Room and then brought the cart to the manager’s office, a trip with Dad was an adventure.
Traveling west to California with him once, we observed how short most of the trees were in that region — that is, what few trees we could actually find. I asked how it was that back in the old days they could hang the bad guys from such short tree? “Simple,” he answered, “they kicked the Shetland Ponies out from under them.”
Perhaps the best moments with Dad on the road occurred when he and I met my son and his lovely wife at a motel, which was managed by a dear friend I knew from high school. It was Christmas, and my friend would open the motel each year to local homeless vets to make sure they got a hot meal, a gift, and a warm place to stay for Christmas. We all stayed at the motel and assisted with these remarkable veterans. At the time, I drove the Ride of Pride military show truck, and the look on those gentlemen’s faces when they saw that truck pull into the parking lot is one I will never forget.
For that matter, the two years I spent taking that show truck to military and veteran’s events across the country constitute two of the happiest years of my life. From taking a lap at Talladega Speedway in front of tens of thousands of race fans to riding with hundreds of thousands of military bikers as part of Rolling Thunder 2014 in Washington, DC. It was an unparalleled privilege. I even had the honor of a Vietnam Veteran riding with me for Rolling Thunder. He went by the nickname of Doc. He rode most of the route with me, getting out of the truck near the end so he could walk over to the Memorial and pay respects to his friends. Even now, as I recall the humility and kindness, the gentle grace and humor of a warrior who had seen so much during the Vietnam War, …well,… the emotions get caught in my throat somehow.
Then there was the story of the California Pee-Nile Code. It was December of 2010, and I was in a truck stop diner in Laredo, Texas. I had found a quiet corner of the restaurant and had ordered a hot meal when:
Dinner arrived at the same time as three very loud customers who, naturally, decided to sit at a table next to mine. Let’s see, …the trio consisted of a 20-something couple, and a large older fellow who I gather was the young lady’s father. He played lead fiddle in the conversation and he must have been around 300 years old judging from all the experiences he’s had, which experiences he narrated loudly enough for the benefit of everyone within a 15 mile radius, including the deaf. His specialty? The legal system in California. “Don’t get me started,” he said, as if anyone needed to. “I know evathang they is to know ’bout the California Pee-nile Code.” Yes sir, court was in session and he was granting his own motions to enter anything and everything into the record. I began eating faster. As he went on at Tolstoyvian length about drunk driving laws, three strikes and you’re grateful, whatever, I began replaying opera in my head as a defense. I was mentally playing it so loud that I practically had poor Pavarotti in an aneurysm, but he still couldn’t overcome the California Pee-nile Code.
Scarfing down my comfort food, I left the restaurant and went straightway to my truck. After a half hour of quiet, I decided to venture back into the truck stop to see if they had anything I could purchase as a Christmas gift. Unless everyone on my list wants a miniature tractor trailer this year, the pickings will be slim. Remembering that these places have a good selection of flashlights, I wandered back to the tool selection. “Don’t get me started!” I heard. Over by the flashlights stood the California Pee-nile Code, inflicting his wisdom on some hapless truckers whose only apparent offense might have been to say hello to him. They looked miserable, and I looked for the exit.
In fact, I recorded little observations from nearly every corner of the country:
* For sheer beauty, for idyllic tranquillity, for serene repose, I offer the state of Maine. It’s not a bad place to have a tire blowout either.
* If you want to know a person’s true character, just give them the anonymity of a motor vehicle. The same brethren who just minutes earlier shook your hand and said, “Peace be with you,” during Mass will make a hood ornament of your pelvis if you get between his car and the parking lot exit.
* The Denver Broncos’ stadium looks like a Styrofoam bowl whose edges melted in the microwave.
* You might think the Canadian River flows from Canadia, but you’d be wrong. It starts in Colorado, somewhere close to the international raceway, I think.
* Sitting in the restaurant pondering the age-old question: What came first, the egg or the grease?
* Waitresses are more honest ambassadors of a town than its Chamber of Commerce.
Naturally, there were rather poignant moments as well, preeminent among them being the lady who came out from her office at a customer in Kansas City and stood looking at the Ride of Pride. As was my habit, I approached her and began explaining the symbology of the truck and when I got the Gold Star above the driver’s door she stopped me and said, “I know what the Gold Star is for. My son was killed in Iraq.” What to say? I could muster nothing except to express my condolences, thank her for her family’s sacrifice and quietly step back after assuring her that I’d be happy to answer any questions she may have. I can see her now, standing with her arms crossed as if bracing herself against the memories while gazing up at the artwork.
And while it couldn’t be described as necessarily poignant, it was unforgettable when a little hatchback car passed me on I-4 near Orlando, Florida. The driver was taking his family to Disney, I suppose, and he cut over right in front of all 80,000 pounds of me in hopes of moving over one more lane to the right to make his exit. Except that the lane was occupied by other cars. Which prompted the genius to slam on his brakes and come to a complete stop in the middle of the highway with my truck barreling up from behind. I literally stood on the brakes, the tires roared and a wall of smoke went up from the rear of my trailer but I couldn’t bring the thing to a stop. I will take to my grave the image of those children looking up at me from that hatchback as, fortunately, traffic in the right lane cleared and the idiot driver moved over at the last possible moment. Otherwise, I would have gone right over the top of that family.
Which reminds me, gentle reader, lest any of you fancy a career in driving an 18 wheeler. There are many rewards, a few of which I’ve mentioned above. But lest you become unduly enticed by the idea of roaming the country with a steering wheel in one hand and a coffee cup in the other, listening to your favorite music and soaking in quintessential Americana, let me tick off a few items you must also contend with:
* You will live in the truck and visit your home. This means missing a great many family events, weddings, funerals, holidays and the like because the odds are that your dispatcher will not be able/willing to get you home by the date promised.
* You may be called upon to load or unload the freight yourself. It is grueling work done in a trailer that is either sweltering or freezing depending on the season. If you have to unload a 53 ft trailer, loaded top to bottom and front to back with retail furniture and assorted items — as I did — you will hurt. And you might get hurt.
* Speaking of which, after 15 years in the trucking industry, I’ve racked up four ambulance rides to the hospital for kidney stones (one requiring surgery), two herniated discs from a back injury resulting in about 3 months without work, and one stroke which occurred in the truck and was purely a stress-induced event. This stuff takes a real physical toll on the body.
* Chronic fatigue will be your closest friend and constant companion. Some trucking companies understand this and will try to give you some downtime so you can recharge and be safe. My first company, Schneider National, was very good about this. Others, like the mid-size outfit I just left, seem to feel that if you aren’t tired enough to puke, they aren’t utilizing you correctly.
* Running legal is now easier to manage with electronic logging. Again, larger companies like Schneider are fanatical about making sure that their drivers stay compliant with all aspects of federal hours of service laws. Others (and I know of a few) will push you to run illegal every chance they get, but will deny it all and leave you hanging when something goes wrong. Remember that even if a vehicle runs into you, if records show that you shouldn’t have even been there in the first place and were running illegal, it’s you who will go to jail. Not the idiot who dispatched you on an impossible load and then went home to his family.
* Be prepared to spend protracted periods of time outdoors working with recalcitrant equipment in the worst possible conditions. You will learn that getting winded in 35 degree below zero temperatures is extremely painful because when you take a deep breath in those conditions it feels like your lungs are on fire. Likewise, you will experience the thrill of standing in pouring rain trying to slide the trailer tandems, or wading in mud halfway up your legs while hooking up to a trailer, or sweating like Nancy Pelosi in a spelling bee in triple-digit heat. Enjoy your coffee while you drive, because you will earn the respite.
* And that doesn’t even include the traffic, which will generally regard you as the enemy. You will be cut off, flipped off, pissed off and pissed on by everyone who can drive faster than you,..and that’s usually everyone around.
If you can handle all of that without batting an eye — get help. Call home. Have a decent meal and a hot shower because those will be harder to get on the road. Then, if you’re still determined, you might want to look a little deeper into this trucking business. On balance, it’s been a great ride and yes, I’d do it again. I could fill a book with stories from the road. Actually, I already have and I hope to see it published before it becomes a posthumous work.
What will I do next? A lot more writing and a lot more podcasting for starters. One of the great things about having an actual life is that my productivity in more cerebral pursuits should increase dramatically. Besides, I’ve already got a website and a swag store, so we will see where all that leads.
Oh, what else will I do in order to pay the mortgage? Well, if you’re ever in need of some top-notch watch repair, I know of a place that can help you. I did it many years ago, and I’m happy to do it again — with normal hours at decent pay.
Meanwhile, as the mind goes back to the highway, I remember taking my dear friend and fellow military retiree, Bob Lee, on the road with me. We were taking a break at a rest area on the way back home and, as I wrote at the time:
We argued politics, relived stories from our days in uniform, listened to trucking music, and ate apple fritters outside while watching an armada of clouds that looked like fluffy mashed potatoes passing by in formation. “Getting out like this has restored some of my faith in humanity,” Bob said while we sat on that wooden bench that day. I didn’t really know how to respond, because my own faith wanes from time to time, …that and I had a mouth full of apple fritter. Bob isn’t able to drive anymore, and he doesn’t get out as often as he’d like. It was good to see his mood lighten as the days progressed. It was good to see him get in and out of the truck with greater ease as his strength increased, and to see him and that cane moving at an ever quicker pace. I think the trip was good for both of us.
Indeed. In retrospect, the trip was good for us. Hanging up the truck keys for the final time, I must admit that yes, the trip was good for me too.
Well that’s the clincher. I had a TS clearance, and my books are classified. That’s the only way we could tell the entire story of current operations,…the good, the bad, and the ugly. The idea was to form a corporate memory, or database, for future generations. And in order to do that, we had to cover everything aspect of plans, logistics, ops, success, failure, etc. Those books will be declassified and released long after I’m gone.
Actually, we had a one historian, a dear friend, who prided himself on writing very concise histories. I told him if asked to write the history of the Challenger disaster, he would write, “Shuttle fall down go boom.”
Yes. Good point. Short haul is what I’ve been doing the last three years, and by contrast, long haul was much less taxing physically. The short hauls, the multiple customers, multiple trailers, hours spent in major city traffic,…it’s all so much harder on a person.
The Hemingway school of writing.
Exactly!!
If the watch business gets tough, I’m in desperate need of dump truck/semi drivers! :)
Thanks, but no. way. in. hell. Besides, now I’ll have more time to enjoy that moonshine!
Thanks for your service Dave, and not just the military time. No trucks, no food, no stuff.
To clear up a technical question, all cooks know that the grease goes in the pan before the egg.
Thank you!! Usually I would agree with your about the grease and the egg,…but with as much grease as accompanies the egg in some of these places, I have to wonder.
Hahaha, well hopefully now that you are living a life of leisure we can get together a little more often and sample a few jars! I’ll bring the shine, you bring the BBQ
I’m not sure the Air Force did you any favors in the long run. Judging from your wedding photos where you wore your uniform, and I’m going by memory, but it looks like you retired at E-6, or maybe E-5.
The Air Force has always been slowest in promotions. I don’t know if the Army has an enlisted historian field, but I suspect that if they do, it includes a track to Warrant Officer, which of course the Air Force phased out in the 1960’s.
Your military retirement would have been more lucrative if you had managed that.
You’ve got a deal, my friend. Looking forward to it!
There were some trade-offs on the personal front. Yes, in a career field of 100 people, all of whom study and research and are certified brainiacs,…testing for promotion is tough. I retired at Tyndall AFB, FL, where my kids lived at the time. Had I been promoted, they would have transferred me overseas in a heartbeat. The kids were young, and for various reasons I felt I could do best for them by not transferring overseas. Instead, I volunteered for temporary deployments all over the place, but was — shall we say — less than competitive for that next stripe so I could stay where I felt I was needed at that time. So yes, my retirement check is not nearly as large as it would be had I genuinely competed,..but given personal circumstances, I believe I made the right call.
I’ve always tried to be a reasonably courteous driver, but after getting to know Dave Carter through the comments of Ricochet, whenever I’m cruising up the Interstate in the left-hand lane and I see a semi up ahead signaling from the right lane so that it can pass slower traffic in front of it, I slow down, give my headlights a quick double pump, and let him pull out and pass as I think, “That could be Dave Carter up there – and if not, it could be one of his friends.” I hope you enjoy life at a slower pace, Dave!
You just made my day, my week, month, year, the whole sh-bang. You’ve know idea how gratifying it is when a “four-wheeler” shows a bit of courtesy to guys and gals in a big truck. You’re very kind and I appreciate your kind thoughts and good wishes.
I hope Bob is fairing well he was certainly a blast to talk to at your’s & Shelly’s wedding.
Also remember if you ever get you butt up to the DC region now that you are “retired” that you will have to come stay with us for a spell.
III
And you’ve just made mine with your kind personal response!
Honored to take you up in that. Thanks!
What a wonderful article, Dave. There’s a certain romance of the trucking life, but it’s not without a ton of hard work.
I had the dream when I was 20. I dreamed of piloting a big rig over the open roads. My BIL’s farm couldn’t afford to pay for a truck, but they wanted one to haul equipment from time to time. So at 20 years old, I moved to Idaho and was given responsibility for making sure the truck paid for itself. It was mostly shorter hauls but the loads consisted of potatoes, sugar beets, grain, tractors and assorted farm equipment. Oversize loads weren’t uncommon and were my favorite.
It was an adventure. I found an amazing fraternity of guys, most who would do anything they could to help another driver. I had my share of misfortune, from losing the rear duals on a loaded trailer at 70mph (we never did get the pucker out of the seat) to have a throttle stuck wide open (lousy Cummins design) to almost dying in Phoenix (no exaggeration). The highlight was hauling a John Deere tractor and potato digger from Phoenix to Idaho. The port of entry in Kanab Utah wasn’t happy to see me pull in without an escort. Maybe it was because I was 13 feet wide on a 2 lane road.
In less than 2 years I was ready to buy my own rig. I had a run pulling a convertible trailer and tandem (I had and endorsement that allowed me to pull, if I remember right, 110,000lbs and doubles and triples). The run was lumber from Tacoma back to Colorado/Utah, and grain from Salt Lake to Portland. I found a used trailer/tandem combo and a used truck. That’s when I called my Dad for advice. Needless to say I never bought the truck and shortly thereafter moved back home to Texas.
I still love to the open road. I get an itch once in a while for a road trip. My wife doesn’t understand; she’d rather fly.
We are both of a certain age, contemplating the next stage but not ready to hang up the spurs quite yet. I like to tease my wife, pointing to the ubiquitous RVs and fifth wheel trailers that roll into AZ every winter, telling her, “There you go, Hon, that will be us in a couple years, road warriors on an unending trip across America!” She shudders every time.
Think about it; you may not have given up the road, just moved into a different rig!
I likely will hit the road on that fateful day, but I doubt I’ll carry my house on my back. The way I figure, given the cost of fuel, of a 3/4 ton diesel truck and of a trailer, I can travel in a nice Forester Turbo and overnight in cheap motels. I’ll carry a small tent and some sleeping bags so the kids think we’re roughing it. Then it’s national parks here we come!
What do you think? Do we have us a convoy?
“Breaker one-nine, this is El Colonel with a shout out to Cajun Daddy, you copy?”
Congratulations on the next phase, Dave!
Dear Dave,
Congratulations on your liberation! I have enjoyed your writing so much over the years, both the comedic and the serious, and thank you for teaching me to be a more compassionate roadmate for the Leviathan-skippers in the right two lanes.
I wish you a satisfying new career, and a more settled life to enjoy your new family. Retirement’s not a bad gig, especially if you have things you want to do with your time and energies. I pulled the cord on the trolley in September, and have not looked back.
@dougkimball, the only problem with your plan is the days of “cheap motels” are pretty much over. lol
That’s true, but I’ve gotten some good deals when traveling alone by bicycle. I’ve learned that it’s important to be seen pulling up on a bicycle. The owner/manager (an immigrant from India, most likely) might give me a substantial discount just for being a bicycle traveler. Without my even asking for a discount.
I’m posting this from a cheap motel in Indiana. (Where “cheap” is less than $60/night. I didn’t travel here by bicycle, though. There are places I stay when traveling alone that I wouldn’t care to subject Mrs R to. So I usually let Mrs R judge whether a place is acceptable. She works the discount systems and “points” pretty hard, though didn’t use them for this place. We were on the road about 70 nights each of the past couple of years, usually staying in motels, hotels, resort cabins, B&Bs, and AirBnBs, but also stayed with relatives a small percentage of those nights. This year it might be more like 80 nights altogether.)
What I don’t understand about those “elephant races” is why the trucker being passed isn’t slowing down. Blocking both lanes for 5-10 minutes is just as wrong as the rude car drivers.
This was one of my pet peeves as well. If it’s obvious that the truck attempting to pass me is governed at a higher speed than my truck, even if ever so slightly a higher speed, then I’m going to reach over to the dash and back my cruise control down a bit and let the guy pass. We might be going up a hill, and he might have more weight on him than I’ve got which will make him slower than me going up that hill, but there’s no sense in tying everyone else up behind us, and it’s not going to delay my schedule appreciably to show a little courtesy.
I’ve even had instances where I would be the one doing the passing, and the driver in the right lane would suddenly discover that he could go faster, and he’d start speeding up. Jerks come on any number of wheels, from four to 18.
Copy that, El Colonel,…why don’t you put in the hammer lane and scream on up the big road for a bit. I got yer back door. Just find a camp ground with some room service, 10-4?
I’m sorry I can only “Like” this comment once.
Now, I ain’t gonna drag this thread off the road and into the ditch, so to speak, but when I come across a lane-wide pack of 20 or so rubber-pants two-wheelers, on a “casual” speed ride on a country road, the rear guard of which just looks back at you and grins, that don’t kick in my reservoir of feel-goods. And in some of your boo-teek towns and universities, the smug one-wheelers darting-for-effect through the crowds generate a similar response.
[Now, it’s not a “jerk” story, but to complete the numbers, my toddler nephew once rode off and was found happily wheeling his tricycle down the on-ramp to the interstate.]
Dave Carter Post author
True, true. The same thing happens when four-wheelers pass four-wheelers who are going just under the speed limit. All of a sudden, the slower four-wheeler remembers how to operate the gas pedal and their speed increases (“You aren’t going to pass me!”). This tense little race then happens for a mile or so until (usually) the four-wheeler in the left lane really tromps the accelerator, zips ahead, and the right-lane cretin slows back down. Humans are truly funny creatures – particularly when they get behind the wheel of a motor vehicle.