TRUCK STOPS

     I have always been fascinated by truck stops.  Not the neighborhood type stops with a handful of pumps but major stops with dozens of fuel pumps, acres of land, greasy spoon coffee shops, a general store and other road related services.  Some even have movie theaters and showers.  Almost all are on the major interstate highways that crisscross our land and are on the open road, or were before sprawling cities consumed them.

     As you motor across our country all the major truck stops have signs counting down the miles to the next stop.  They give you miles to and the mile marker for their off ramp.  As you get closer they amp up their signage to entice you to stop.  Most often whether you stop or not is a choice but often it is a necessity due to a near empty fuel tank or severe hunger.  The next off ramp may be forever.  Many times I have fallen into a trance on the road and blown right by my off ramp only to drive miles on fumes, prayer and an empty stomach. 

     My favorite stop is Petro.  They have been around awhile and some are rather long of tooth compared to the newer, modern stops but I like them because of their coffee shop, the Iron Skillet.  Everything is good there but you haven’t lived until you've had their breakfast.  They have grits, biscuits and gravy and all those truck driver staples but their hash browns, bacon and eggs served on a piping hot iron skillet, with toast and coffee is to die for.  Having left your motel hours ago and bypassing the fast food options, this is worth the wait. 

     After breakfast and in no hurry to get back on the road, you can wander through their everything-under-the-sun store.  There are tee shirts and hats with every red-neck saying imaginable, all the clothing necessary to make you look like a genuine 18 wheeler, truckers atlases, tools, additives, if it is related to the road, they have it. 

     The parking lot has a life of its own.  It is a pretty safe bet to say that almost every product we use in our day to day life was delivered by truck.  It may have come through one of our ports and then transferred by rail car but at some point a truck was involved.  Rows and rows of trucks miraculously parked inches apart, their front bumpers forming a neat line, bearing license plates from everywhere, fill the lot. There are livestock and grain haulers, flat beds, reefers, tankers and others in every color imaginable.  Some reflect the budget of the owner while others are billboards on wheels with extra chrome and running lights galore.  If you went through the lot and jotted down the companies represented it would pretty much cover the Fortune 500. 

     A stroll through the lot gives you a feel for its pulse.  Some stop for fuel and a meal then return to the road.  Others sit as they catch up on their log book.  Most idle their engines as they run their heating or air conditioning while catching up on badly needed sleep.  It is not unusual to see a man and woman with their young child, living out of their cab and sleeper, a sure sign of a tough economy.  The romantic notion of life on the road, takes a hit as you see drivers bleary eyed from too many hours at the wheel, alone on a Sunday night.  In another tip-of-the-hat to the economy there are many men and women drivers who clearly did not envision being at this truck stop at this time when they charted their careers. 

     As I return to the road I can’t help but think about the millions of people that have traversed our country, particularly from east to west that may have paused at this same truck stop.  Years ago it may have been Route 66; today it is a modern Interstate.  It may have been to relocate a family and begin anew or it could be a trucker piling up the miles to support his family.  Long live the truck stop.                       

LESSON LEARNED

The head man of our local little league called.  He knew my son was in the league and wanted to know if I would like to coach one of the teams.  Before I could say “Thanks for thinking of me but no thanks”, he said they needed one more coach to fill all the positions.  The old guilt trip worked.  I was told I would be mailed the rules, a schedule and a list of my players and then I was on my own. 

     I studied up on the rules specific to our little league organization, such as a limit on the number of pitches a pitcher can throw and a requirement that all players get to play at least 3 innings and others designed to protect the health of the 12 year olds and ensure everyone’s participation.  Next I called all my players, talked with them about the upcoming season and then their parents to assure them their kids were in good hands.  Not that I was any whiz at baseball but I wanted the experience to be an enjoyable one for their kids.

     We gathered one spring Saturday morning at the local park where, I got my first look at our troops.  They were a mixture of kids, some were there because their parents told them to be there, some because they thought they could play but were not sure and a few who had obviously been playing catch with their Dad since they were 2.   Over the course of that day and several other preseason practices we assessed each player.  They were evaluated for their level of ability and their best position.  We put our best players at short stop, pitcher and catcher and spread the others around from there.

     Tom was one of the boys we knew was a “project”.  He had zero athletic ability, zilch, none.  He was at least a head taller than all the others and was about 5 years from growing into his body.  To say he was a tall, gangly drink of water would be too kind.  Because of the aforementioned rule requiring every player be allowed to play at least 3 innings, we had to find a spot for him.  Anyone who knows baseball knows there are less hits to right field than anywhere else.  So Tom played in right field and we prayed no one would hit the ball to him.  We were not only concerned about him fielding the ball but, if he did, where it would end up after he threw it. 

     Personally, unlike many of the other this-is-more-important-than-life coaches, I was thankful for the 3 inning rule.  Kids this age are way too young to be told how great they are as well as they are not good enough.  Any kid with the grit to come out and compete, be it sports, ballet or the debate team, deserves a shot.  Especially one like Tom, who was subject to no end of ridicule from other kids and yet faithfully showed up to play.  Like all the kids we worked with him on fundamentals, encouraged him and talked with him about the importance of his school work.  He did not progress much athletically through our season but he was always there, on time and ready to play.    

     Several years later I read an article about Tom in our local paper.  A sports writer had done a feature story on him.  It seems as though Tom had indeed caught up with his early growth spurt.  He played football in high school, earning all league by his senior year as an offensive lineman.  He also excelled in the class room, earning a scholarship to the Air Force Academy.  There, in his senior year, he made 3^rd team All American as a football player. 

     The lesson I learned from my experience with Tom was never to discourage kids who are willing to face a challenge and make the effort it takes to be successful despite those who scoff at their efforts.  Who knows, with your encouragement and support there is no telling what they might achieve.       

TONY

Did any of you catch Tony Bennett singing God Bless America during the seventh inning stretch of the recent World Series game in San Francisco between the San Francisco Giants and the Texas Rangers?  Now that’s what I’m talking about.  That’s how God Bless America is supposed to be sung. 

As they have for each of the play-off games a guest is introduced to sing God Bless America during the seventh inning stretch.  An assortment of very talented celebrities, military personnel and others are chosen, usually with ties to the local team, each adding their own unique style to their rendition of the song.  Each stands all alone on the field with millions watching, microphone in hand, with no accompanying music to masks their nerves, and sings their hearts out.  The words bring forth emotions of pride, love, respect, humility and a unique feeling of oneness.  I get misty eyed no matter who is singing. 

But on this night Tony set the bar way up there.  Watching on television we learned, by way of a brief clip, that he had softened the crowd up before the game with “I Left My Heart in San Francisco”.  If you can’t hum along to that song you are not old enough.  Tony is from the Bronx but he owns San Francisco.  Then came the seventh inning.  I don’t know who wrote God Bless America but I am sure if the writer had been asked, “Who would you want to sing your song and how?” what happened next would have been his answer.  The man Frank Sinatra called “the greatest singer of them all”, did what he does best.

He sang each word with the utmost respect in his calm, simple, unforced way of presenting a song.  By placing his hand over his heart you felt his passion for this great country of ours.  It was as if he was indeed speaking with God and asking him to bless America.  With all due respect to the many other talented, well intentioned people who are asked to sing songs such as America the Beautiful, the Star Spangled Banner and God Bless America at various events, get a copy of the tape of that game in San Francisco and see how they are supposed to be sung.  Next time you are given the honor of performing one of these songs, set aside your desire to showcase your voice and your range and let the song speak for itself, as Tony did.   

    

KEEP ON TRUCKIN: JOURNEY'S END

We drove all night to reach Chicago around one o’clock in the morning.  There is something spooky about driving through a major metropolitan area in the middle of the night.  Cruising along at 55 mph on freeways normally packed with bumper to bumper traffic in the yellowish overhead lights doesn’t seem right. 

I pulled up to the gate at the Sears yard in a rundown industrial part of town not conducive to an evening walk.  The guardhouse was not manned so I had to push a button to talk with someone, somewhere to gain admittance.  Because of my hearing loss I was unable to communicate with the person on the other end.  I was forced to wake up Mike to help me.  He was not thrilled about that. 

We entered the huge yard that warehouses goods for Sears store all over the mid-west.  After locating our drop-off spot, we backed up to the door into the warehouse, unhitched our trailer and drove off, never having seen what was inside.  Around on the other side of the warehouse we located our pick-up trailer, hitched up to it and took off, our destination, Dubuque, Iowa. 

We left the yard around 3 in the morning.  Mike knew I would be driving most of the next day so he said he would drive and for me to hit the sack.  “Don’t wake up no matter what”, he said.  Sometime between then and daylight we got a flat tire.  I took Mike at his word and did not get out of the sleeper as I listened to him swearing a blue streak, banging and kicking the tire and anything else he could find until we drove off.  The next morning, after climbing out of the sleeper, I listened with great concern as he described what had happened. 

By early afternoon we had crossed the Illinois state line and the Mississippi River into Dubuque.  As I backed the truck up into the loading dock, Mike gave me the bad news.  I would have to unload it by myself.  I guess it was part of the rookie orientation.  Do you have any idea how hot it can get inside of a metal trailer on a 100+ degree Iowa day with humidity to match?  By the time I finished I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that there was nothing that the city of Dubuque and the surrounding area would need for the next century.  If they were cut off from the rest of the world they would get by just fine.  I unloaded toasters, micro-waves, lawn mowers, hair dryers, chain saws, diapers, you name it I unloaded it.  I was finished and sitting in the back of the trailer, weighing 20 pounds less than a couple of hours ago, when Mike strolled up with a dried up cheese burger and a coke with no ice.  Thanks, big guy.

Our next stop would be Green Bay, Wisconsin, headquarters of Schneider National.   After crossing over into Wisconsin we stopped for the night in La Crosse.  Mike felt big hearted so we spent the night in a motel. 

The next day we started off across the state toward Green Bay.  I saw more beautiful trees and gorgeous lakes of all sizes than I had ever seen.  As much as I love southern California I had never seen anything like this.  Parts of the journey took us through small towns.  Pulling up to a signal in one such town we came to a stop behind an suv with several 7 to 8 year old kids in the back seat.  They stared up with awe at the grill of our huge truck looming over them.  They made a motion to me indicating they wanted me to blow the horn.  I gladly pulled the cord, letting out a long blast from our air horn.  Their eyes lit as their faces broke into huge smiles.  That made my day. 

Late in the day I received a call on my cell phone from my brother.  He told me that our mother, who was undergoing chemotherapy treatments, was having a rough time and it might be a good idea if I returned home.  I informed Mike of this and, knowing the area well, he headed toward Appleton, the nearest airport.  Missing the last flight out, I had to stay the night there and catch the first flight in the morning to Chicago and then home.  With my duffel bag slung over my shoulder I watched as Mike drove off to complete the trip without me. 

In the motel room that night I thought about my trip.  The problem I had in Chicago because of my hearing could be a serious drawback when I began driving on my own.  In addition, and no surprise to me, being away from home for any amount of money is just not for me.  As much as I love the driving, truck stops and the open road, I want to be home in my own bed at night. 

My Mom weathered the storm and shortly thereafter I drove up to the Schneider office in LA, thanked them for giving me the training and the opportunity for a career but informed them I would not be coming back.  The training and the experience has led to several long hauls but short term gigs that have proven very enjoyable without the need to be gone from home very long.           

Scratch one off the bucket list. 

KEEP ON TRUCKIN: LIFE ON THE ROAD

     We angled north on Interstate 76 until we picked up Interstate 80 in Nebraska.  I was driving as we crossed what has to be one of the flattest stretches of land on the planet.  Here or there a small pond, a rare tree now and then and miles of farmland.  Mike’s chin would fall to his chest every few miles as he dozed off while reading a book.  Ever the trainer though he did not drop his guard. 

     We had been trained in Schneider’s driving school in something called the Smith System of driving.  It consisted of several key points that were considered critical to the safe operation of an 18 wheeler.  We repeated each point over and over until they became second nature.  One of them was that we were to check the mirrors, the one on the left side of the truck and the one on the right side, every 4 to 6 seconds.  The theory being that if we knew what was going on around the truck at all times we could act instinctively without having to look in the mirror before taking action.

     In the boredom of driving in a straight line over endless miles of flat road I would get lazy.  Thinking Mike was half asleep I would fudge a little and check the mirrors maybe every 8 to 10 seconds.  He may have been half asleep but the other half was wide awake.  In no uncertain terms I was lectured that these rules were for our own good and could very well save our life and others.  Understood.

     We motored through Omaha in the dark, my wife’s birthplace and home of many of her relatives, and on into Iowa where we stopped at one of the company yards.  Schneider is one of those companies that are big enough to have their own truck stops.  Here you can refuel at favorable rates, shower, take a nap, stretch your legs or watch a movie.  With their emphasis on safety you can have repairs and service done 24/7.  Just pull your rig into a bay, tell them what you need, and it is fixed instantly.

     Feeling refreshed, we hit the road.  Somewhere in Iowa during the night we encountered a construction zone.  In the states that have severe winter weather, they do their highway construction work in the summer.  It is not unusual to have up to 25 miles of one lane driving because the other lane is closed.  That is normally not a big deal but when you are driving a Schneider truck, it is.  You see, the company has a policy of every truck being restricted, by governor, to a maximum of 55 miles per hour.  This can be rather problematic when setting out on a stretch of 25 miles of one lane road.

     As you enter that stretch the cars and trucks in front of you are soon long gone.  Behind you is another matter.  Since it is the middle of the night those behind you are primarily truckers.  As the miles go by their numbers are increasing.  As we ambled along at 55 mph I envisioned countless disgruntled truckers trailing along in our wake.  All of them have CB’s of course and the grumbling starts.  Mind you these are guys and gals that would normally be barreling along at 70 plus miles per hour. 

     In the darkness of our cab a voice comes over the CB “Another Schneider student driver”.  I don’t believe I mentioned it but Mike has a very, very short fuse.  He is also about 6 feet 4 inches and 240 pounds of ex-Ohio State linebacker.  Mike takes great pride in his company and their safety record and is protective of his trainees.    Mike responds “Hey *** hole, you got a problem”.  A very heated discussion ensues culminating with Mike letting the other trucker know that we would be pulling off at the first off ramp and we would wait for him and upon his arrival he would beat the living **** out of him.  The response came back “I’ll be there”. 

     Right at the end of the construction zone there was an off ramp with a gas station on the corner.  We pulled into the lot.  Mike got out, walked around to the back of the truck and waited.   We watched as truck after truck passed by.  Seemingly every truck within 5 states passed, but none stopped.  Mike cooled down, and then laughed.  We got back in the truck and took off. 

     On to Chicago.

 

         

    

  

KEEP ON TRUCKIN: GOING LONG HAUL

NOT ME, BUT I COULD NOT FIND A GOOD LOOKING DRIVER

     My trainer Mike and I pulled out of the yard at 5 am onto the streets of Los Angeles on a hot summer morning.  Early, yes, but not by LA freeway time.  We began the slow crawl through the downtown interchange and up the 101 toward Oxnard, where we were to pick up a trailer for delivery to a Sears warehouse in Chicago.  Rush hour turned the 45 minute drive into a 2 hour ordeal.  Upon arrival I zipped in to and out of a tight spot that had given me fits early in my training.  I was starting to get the hang of it.  With a fully loaded trailer we began the trek east.

     Fortunately, we did not have to back track through LA.  We worked our way across the Mojave Desert to pick up Interstate 15 and were on our way.  With the air conditioning inside the cab we were oblivious to the 105+ degree heat outside as we cruised through Las Vegas just before sunset.  We decided to stop in Mesquite, Nevada, just shy of the Utah border. 

     Being a veteran of the road Mike knew all the spots he liked and those he did not like.  He loved Mesquite because there was a casino there.  We parked on the back of the lot with numerous other trucks lined up in a neat row.  I always loved seeing this, now I was one of them.  We went inside, had dinner, then Mike vanished into a crowd of gamblers.  I went back to the rig, climbed in the sleeper and fell asleep. 

     Early the next morning I went inside the casino for breakfast and saw Mike at a black jack table.  It’s possible he had come back to the truck during the night but I doubt it.  I ate breakfast, wandered around for a bit then returned just as Mike was deciding he was not going to earn his fortune just now.  He grabbed breakfast and we were back on the road.

     Traveling north toward Salt Lake City and then veering east on Interstate 70 through eastern Utah I saw some of the most beautiful scenery I’ve ever seen.  Scenery that is unique to this part of the country.  The hills and rock formations were illuminated by brilliant sun shine at times and brooding, dark clouds leading to spectacular flashes of lightning and torrential rain at other times.  We crossed into Colorado, passed through Grand Junction and into the Rockies just as darkness fell. 

     Normally I consider it a waste to drive through beautiful country like this in the dark but tonight was an exception.  It happened to be a full moon this crystal clear night, which lit up the Colorado River as it meanders alongside much of I-70 in this area.  Mike was driving at this point so I was free to gaze at this magnificent scene.  Huge, old trees descended down steep hill sides to the water’s edge where the free flowing river often turned to turbulent rapids as it worked its way down the mountain.  The ribbon of water was a magnet for the moon light.

     The next morning, after pulling off the road for a few hours sleep in Eagle, we set out for Denver.  This was my first experience driving the long descent out of the Rockies into the Denver area.  Truckers do not like long descents and a runaway truck is their biggest nightmare.  This one is famous.  Trucks stop at the top to check their brakes then use a combination of brakes, jake brakes, caution and patience as they slowly work their way down.  A fully loaded truck weighs close to 80,000 pounds so the smell of burning brakes is common as you creep down the steep hill single file in the far right lane.  Mike lectured me at the top about what to expect and then coached me down smoothly.  I was relieved my first trip down was not in a winter snow storm. 

We pulled into a truck stop on the outskirts of Denver for lunch, a shower and fuel.  Mike made a few phone calls, corresponded with the office via computer and updated our log book.  By law, a log book of time spent behind the wheel by the driver’s, must be kept.  In an effort to ensure safety there are limits as to how much time a truck driver may spend behind the wheel in any 24 hour period.  Law enforcement officials may request to see the book at a weigh station or a routine stop.  Conformance is critical.  After stretching our legs for a bit we were back on the road again.  More to come.

           

 

  

   

KEEP ON TRUCKIN

     I always wanted to drive an 18 wheeler.  Eighteen wheels and a dozen roses, that kind of thing.   The thought of cruising down the Interstate, smoke trailing from two chrome stacks, a good country station on the radio and the CB crackling with the chatter of truckers speaking the language of the road, always appealed to me.  I had the opportunity to do just that recently.

     It began with attending truck driving school in order to obtain the Class A Commercial Drivers License required to legally drive an 18 wheeler.  Along with about 10 other students I spent about 2 months learning how to go through 10 gears, fill out a log book, hook up to a trailer, drive safely, back into a spot with inches on each side and how air brakes work.  The entire course was designed to help you pass the test for your license while also learning how to drive a tractor with a 54 foot trailer attached.  Fascinating stuff. 

     Nearing graduation most of us were approached by trucking companies recruiting us to drive for them.  I was not looking to make a career of trucking but it was the next step in shortening my bucket list.  Upon passing my physical, written exam, driving test and drug test, I was granted my license and I committed to Schneider.  Those all orange rigs you see tooling our highways are Schneider trucks.  They are one of the largest trucking companies with some 12,000 trucks.  What appealed to me is that they are famous for their driver training and their safety record.  I went through the famous Schneider training and was ready to hit the pavement.

     Before you can venture forth across the country you must “drive the coast” as they say.  That means since I was based in the Los Angeles office I would be driving up and down the Pacific coast as my final training, all with a veteran driver acting as my trainer. 

     My first trip was to pick up a load of Heinz steak sauce in LA and deliver to a warehouse in Oxnard.  Normally a short drive but in the LA area nothing is a short drive.  Maybe in miles, not in time.  I learned quickly I better strengthen my left leg for the rigors of riding the clutch in the endless stop and go traffic.  I had my first experience with backing a truck up to a loading dock with barely enough room for the mirrors to clear on each side and several grizzled veterans observing while giggling to themselves.  What would have been a one shot deal for them required several passes for me.  Returning to LA I managed to stall the truck on a steep hill during rush hour traffic.  Not a great start.

     The rest of the coastal training included a trip to the San Joaquin valley for Wal-Mart, a delivery of Yokohama tires to Fullerton and various other rather short trips.  None of them putting me on the open road I envisioned.  I waited patiently, trusting there was a reason for all of this.  One night, as we pulled into the yard, I was informed that I had to be there at 4 the next morning for a trip to Chicago.  More to come.