09.17.2013 Narrating A Life Written On The Road: Federal Way Truck Stop Chase

Federal Way Truck Stop Chase

Despite being capable and competent, I was too petite to be considered a serious truck-driver. Logging thousands of miles didn't seem to matter as I seemed forever younger than my age and looked more like some of the other entrepreneurs that congregated around truck stops.

One evening, after phoning in my whereabouts, I turned from the outdoor phone booth to be confronted by 3 or 4 truckers already under a load, if you get my drift. And they didn't believe my claim to be a truck driver rather than a business lady plying my wares.

A chase ensued. My childhood experience escaping my drunken brother into the darkness outside the house now served me handily as I zigged and zagged between rigs in the parking lot. To head for my own truck would corner me, so I crouched beneath and between the dual axles of a random truck, willing my breathing to quiet. I could hear them talking back and forth as they continued their search, moving away briefly then, to my horror, returning with flashlights.

I froze as the beams swept slowly and methodically under trucks and trailers near me, within inches of my position. I prayed my beating heart didn't give me away.

After an eternity, I calculated their position based on their calls to one another, then executed a swift dash to my Kenworth, unlocked the driver's door by feel and memory with the cached screwdriver that functioned as the key for the missing lock. Scaled the ladder and was inside the cab in two seconds flat, closed the door as quietly and firmly as I could, pushing down the lock button and diving into the sleeper through the rolled-down curtain.

Big rigs don't have auto-on cab lights, like cars do. Small blessings, silent thanks.

I peered cautiously through the curtain while they continued combing the lot for their prey. An hour, then two passed before I felt brave enough to fire up the truck and pull out of there for the last time.

06.12.2013 Before You Dispense Advice...

“That the automobile has practically reached the limit of its development is suggested by the fact that during the present year no improvements of a radical nature have been introduced.” So reads an excerpt from Scientific American in January 1909.

More recently I exchanged several emails with a software engineer turned miracle healer who reversed his mother's incurable lung disease largely through eliminating most carbohydrates, believed responsible for the progression of her illness. I shared my own experience with a low-glycemic natural sugar replacement, along with the rejoinder “The research is never done, is it?” to which he responded, “My research IS done! I've found the answer and I don't need to do more!” Presumably that software engineer is still on dial-up service for his 1976 Macintosh.

Many years back, surgery loomed for my spouse, with one last effort to block the chronic pain in the form of a procedure termed nerve block injection. In principle, the aggravated nerve is numbed so the pain is abated, avoiding the scalpel. Success rates vary, but the numbers were not high. Sometimes more than one application was required. Scrutinizing the brochures, I cast my vote for this last-ditch effort before resigning to the ultimatum of the knife.

It failed. Worse, it was discovered AFTER the surgery that cortisone – the key ingredient in the series of shots – inhibits healing. The damage could not be undone, and the pain would accompany him to the end of his days.

My sense of guilt about encouraging him to undergo a procedure with such a dismal record in the first place was amplified by this news. Although he didn't blame me, I felt responsible for his lifetime of unending agony.

So I don't advise anyone anymore. Ever. I owe it to myself to do the footwork, make educated choices based on the information I have and reap the risks and rewards accordingly.

And the onus is on you to do the same.

Undoubtedly there will be unforeseen events and factors. That's life, after all. No one can imagine or predict all possible scenarios. Making decisions for ourselves is imperative to our freedom, dignity, soul even. Gather the opinions and evidence you feel necessary, weighting each according to your gut instinct or hard science. Courage and faith are required to make mistakes, risk your reputation, gamble on the outcome.

I believe that, like me, most people make the best decisions they can at any given moment. But like Alice, people change sizes frequently, sometimes several times daily. Then the key cannot be reached on the tall, tall table, or the house suddenly closes in, effectively restricting any movement or progress.

Sometimes my lack of available courage leaves me unable to peek out from under the covers, and that's my best for that moment. But at other times I am Capable Woman, inhaling mightily to inflate that red-white-and-blue leotard 3 sizes larger than Life. Most days, I am the same size all day long, and my capacity to make decisions for myself is relatively stable.

I respect you, as a chronological adult, enough to allow you to make your own decisions. If you want my personal experience or views, you're welcome to them.

Just don't ask my advice.

05.26.2013 - Too Big To Be Accountable?

Too Big To Be Accountable?

Some time back, I took a state agency to task on why I was paying nearly 3 times the rate of others in my industry. As the answer never satisfied me, I reiterated my complaint every quarter when the bill came due. The account manager assured me they were forwarding my documentation and argument to the appropriate department, as the clock ticked down on the Statute of Limitations for filing a grievance. Following the events of 9-11-2001, public entities cut their workforce by a large percentage, and the agent's workload increased. While I understood, I was watching that window close.

With only weeks left to appeal, that agent abruptly dummied up and professed to know nothing of any complaint whatsoever, offering to send documents to fill out if I wanted to file (again). I was stunned, the truth that she had not acted at all suddenly dawning on me. I was out of time.

I had to close the business at the peak of the season. 40-something people, out of a job, 200-plus contractors set adrift. A thriving business now DOA.

So I started fresh. New biz. New name. New software, equipment, contractors. New workforce, union this time. And guess who wound up in charge of my account again?

6 months in, I was working full time for a client when I got a call from my business bank that this agency had seized my accounts. Then within days, my truck was ransacked. The business and I both became the target of ID theft.

Visiting the local office of this megalithic entity was the only means of resolving the issue, and reversing the seizure. Armed with reams of documentation outlining my years-long petition for relief and justice, we discovered to the astonishment of both of us that the original account manager had falsified documents blending my original business with the new one, submitted an estimated tax-due report, and triggered the seizure.

The person across the table me immediately wanted to reverse the seizure. But couldn't, because ID theft had forced me to close all accounts, business and personal. And while a phone call could return the funds to my account, there seemed no means available to seize from one account and re-deposit to a new one. 

The branch Director couldn't be bothered, didn't care. And said so. For weeks. (Insert gratuitous film clip of Harrison Ford and Tommy Lee Jones in the “I don't care” scene from The Fugitive.) Once more, they were taking my business down.

About the time I was voicing my opinion regarding this egregious treatment, my eye fell upon a notice on the wall: “It is against Washington State law to harass, intimidate or threaten a public employee.” (RCW 9A.76.180)

***

I flashed back to a scene years before, when I was transported by the Idaho State Patrol to Coeur d'Alene for failure to purchase a trip permit. (Evidently the Idaho public servant found a Western Union Money Order not legal tender for the sale.)

Along the way, the driver would report in his location every 5 minutes, on the nose. So I was curious enough to ask why. The answer froze my blood.

“It's a new state law whenever we have female passengers,” he informed me.

It's a cinch that law wasn't created in a vacuum, but in response to a compelling event, a lawsuit. And suddenly I realized I was in Idaho, home of covert and overt White Supremacist clans, survivalist and isolationist factions, and nobody had any idea I was here.

I could vanish.

***

Washington State's prominent display of their notice, combined with a distinct lack of camera or recording device, meant the State's interpretation of such a perceived danger rested entirely with the agency that had already knocked me down twice. And wiped their collective feet on my carcass.

Baited with the leading “Are you threatening?” I responded with a prophecy, a promise that if my second company folded due to their departmental lack of oversight, responsibility and failure to carry out their duty, I would have nothing but Time on my hands, and invited them to speculate on exactly how and where I planned to spend it. 

Five months later, I sent a courier to retrieve my money from Olympia, and they returned my seized funds in a check labeled, infuriatingly, “Petty Funds.” Three and a half years later, they proffered a paltry percentage of my original claim – as a credit. Although it spoke to their culpability, my business was already circling the drain.

***

Which raises the question: Why is a State agency too big to take on?

Surely I'm not the sole casualty of that account manager's outright cover-up. Short of being a disgruntled former employee of mine, I can find no reason to single out my company. Twice. So I can only surmise this happened to many businesses under her purview.

And why can I readily find legal advisers of every stripe to take on the IRS, insurance lawsuits, and myriad other complex cases yet balking at any dealing with an agency that has outgrown it's boundaries?

Retaliation is reserved for those inside the safe confines of this outsized department, forbidden by decree to you and me.

I recognize a bully.

One fellow lost his family, home, job and any future he might have realized, attempting to force them to be responsible, responsive, to the people they profess to serve. He painstakingly vetted each decision he made, every step he took, as he sought to bring his case to the attention of a cowardly press and a disinterested justice department. This was no maladjusted, hypersensitive sort, but an educated man who was wronged. He wasn't in it for the money. He wanted the agency to operate within their own rules.

No legal adviser would take his case. Not one publication or media source would investigate his tale. Nor mine. And we are not alone.

Something is broken in Washington State. Will anyone heed the call?

04.09.2013 - Pink Potato Salad

Pink Potato Salad

Potato salad is a staple of every summertime gathering, traditional recipes and creative variations competing for attention. I didn't learn to cook until I left the house, relying on a single volume of Betty Crocker to instruct me in the culinary arts.

I tiptoed cautiously through one item at a time, working a recipe over several times to calibrate cooking times, methods and temperatures, ingredients, adaptability to crock-pots, ambient humidity, etc.

Can you tell my dad was an engineer?

Remember Photo-mats? And film? Years passed before I grasped that most finished glossies emerged from an exponential number of outtakes, pictures that never made the cut. Good cooking, too, results from trial and error. I wanted to get to the prizewinning dish via the shortest route so I grabbed my behemoth comprehensive cookbook that every kitchen has like a dictionary or reference book, looked up all the potato salad recipes, reduced the ingredients to common denominators and went to the pantry.

Potatoes. Mayo. Vinegar. Salt. Pepper. Seasonings. These formed the foundation with myriad add-ins and regional preferences. So I went to work. Large potatoes would take an hour to bake, longer to cool, so I sped up the process by boiling cubed spuds, then cooling 15 minutes in the fridge. Hard-boiled eggs at the ready, radishes, celery, onion. For the dressing, 2 tablespoons of prepared relish and mustard added to great scoops of mayo. Vinegar: apple cider seemed appropriate, and I could economically dispose of the tiny bit of plum vinegar left by my Japanese friend at the last potluck. Excavate the large stainless bread bowl and stir.

Something wasn't gelling. Seeking a gourmand's opinion and mouthing my disclaimer about still-warm potatoes melting the mayo while a mere teaspoon or less of plum vinegar tinted the results, I presented the dish to my critic who gazed stunned into the pink liquefied vortex that was the culmination of the afternoon's efforts.

A story I once heard best described my hypersensitivity about cooking – all my endeavors, really. In the days when cooking was the crucial fabric that bound families together at the dinner table, a new bride prepared a simple sheet of cookies for her husband. Burnt. New home, unfamiliar appliance, factors outside her experience. Placating his tearful young wife, the spouse uttered those fateful words: “Oh, don't cry, honey. I like them that way.” Instinctively I recognized the far-reaching implications, for not only was this man now doomed to forever eat burnt cookies, he could never be seen eating unburned ones.

My critic knew this story, and understood his next words could establish a lifetime of generous capitulation or abstention from one of life's simple pleasures. Several seconds stretched into long moments before he spoke. Finally he said, “I've never seen anything like it!”

We collapsed into laughter, delicate feelings assuaged. Actually, the flavor was wonderful but I was the only taster. When I discovered purple potatoes some years later, I prepared those for dinner one evening and he got the first fork-full right up to his open mouth but could go no further.

03.19.2013 - Narrating A Life Written On The Road – Longshoring

Coming of age in the 70's, I grew up overlooking the shipping lanes in Puget Sound. This view afforded me a working understanding of transportation and international commerce when Japanese technology was surpassing the United States in quality, price and sheer volume. Trade was high.

College was never an option for me. I dropped out of high school before I finished 10^th grade with above-average intelligence and below-average grades because, according to my report cards, I never “applied” myself. I just didn't believe in the school system. Even a high school diploma wouldn't assure me anything more than minimum wage, so I saw no reason to hack away for 3 more years. By the time I was 18 years old, with the Women's Movement gaining ground, I recognized that men would not work so cheaply and the answer to my future lay in blue-collar.

My very first 40-hour-a-week job was a summer position acquired through the state employment office at the tender age of 16 years old. Building on that foundation, I analyzed and imitated the traits necessary to work in the trades – rising early, taking breakfast at 4 AM at a local roadhouse frequented by drivers, longshoremen and operating engineers – crane operators. Flannel shirts and Levi button-fronts, tiny leather-palm work gloves and black lace-up boots in boys size 4 topped off with a signature hickory-stripe railroad cap completed my ensemble.

Although I got my first blue-collar job when I hit 18, I didn't longshore until I was fired from my job at 21 years old. I returned once again to the state unemployment office where I discovered an interesting phenomenon. Hours before the office opened, men would pull up, get out and set a hard hat down in a line next to the door beneath the awning, and return about an hour-and-a-half before scheduled hours. Another man would emerge in shirt sleeves from the nearly dark office, and all the hard hat owners would line up expectantly to accept job slips, retrieve their hard hats and drive off into the predawn dark. I learned that they were “extras,” taking day jobs from the local longshoreman’s hall.

So I got a hard hat.

Follow along as my adventure unfolds.

03.14.2013 Narrating A Life Written On The Road: Hauling Ore

One of the most wretched jobs I ever had involved a broker based out of Westboro, MA. He had a truck or two, and a contract to haul huge bags of iron-rich ore in giant poly bags in dry vans from East St. Louis to Groton, CT where a big name in vitamins would extract the mineral from the sediment. Typically, each morning I was scheduled to pick up in Illinois or deliver in Connecticut, a trip of around 1,100 miles or so. Interspersed were longer trips to points to the West Coast, those 3-day ultra-marathons which rendered solo drivers comatose for 24 hours following.

The grueling pace was but one factor in making this possibly the worst job ever. Besides the 62-MPH top-out speed and lack of any radio, I found cardboard lined the interior, stuffed along the back wall of the sleeper, the front and door kick panels on both the passenger and driver sides. Removing all the paper revealed the original reason for its existence: frigid winter air whistled through the gaps in the aging cab, twisted and no longer airtight. Raising and lowering the cabover confirmed it didn't settle into the saddles without leverage. An underpowered 2-stroke 6-V Silver 92 Detroit combined with a heater that was no match for a winter in the Midwest and Northeast. That the truck topped out at 62 miles an hour guaranteed I would never make good enough time to grab more than 4-5 hours sleep. The rubber was a medley of rags and radials of varying outside diameters, featuring the spectrum of brands available for split-rims and most near their legal wear limit which cost me the precious little sleep available as I was blowing tires and caps regularly.

Since my first truck had taught me that axles out of alignment quickly ruined tires, I was up on rubber specs. Around the fourth or fifth tire I reported blown, I got a frustrated complaint about “the new set of matched tires” and the suspicion that I was trying to pull a fast one on the boss. That was my second clue something was amiss. First was a dispatcher turning the truck around within 12 miles of the office, preventing me from picking up a paycheck.

On a long trip from Los Angeles to Wyoming, empty per dispatch, the Jimmy failed to work hard enough in the -40 degree weather conditions throughout the Rockies to generate enough heat to keep frost from forming inside, compelling me to scrape the inside of the windshield frequently. Windchill factors plummeted to around -70, cars grew scarce and truckers gelled at the pump as they fueled. Running a 50/50 mix of antifreeze to water, tripling the usual dose of Power Service and adding it prior to fueling kept me on the road long after even the State Patrol in Idaho disappeared.

Buttoning up the winter-front didn't keep the radiator from overheating, the contents a green Slurpee consistency surrounding the clutch fan silhouette. Limping into an indie shop outside Pocatello, I luxuriated in the warmth of the tiny office while the radiator thawed and the truck dropped filthy icicles onto the garage floor. I left the owner/mechanic behind his closed door to break the news to my boss and get authorization for repairs. Within a few minutes, the mechanic was gesturing for me to return, holding a finger to his lips as he quietly opened the door for me, indicating I should listen to the call on speakerphone. He re-framed his question: “Do you mean, is this overheating due to driver neglect?” he asked aloud.

“That's what I asked,” replied the disembodied voice, 2300 miles distant.

“Listen,” replied the mechanic, looking right into my eyes and shaking his head, “It's 40-below out here, the windchill puts it around 70-below. Even fire trucks and ambulances aren't running. Nothing has moved for hours. The driver didn't do anything wrong. Frankly I'm amazed your driver got this far in these conditions. It's just freezing!”

To which the far-away voice pleaded:”Can't you pin it on the driver somehow?”

The rest of that conversation was moot. The mechanic ventured his opinion. “It's none of my business,” he exclaimed, “but you need a new boss!”

I holed up in a tiny ancient motel, turned the heat up, drained the hot water tank in the shower and caught up on some badly needed sleep.

Back on the road, I consulted my fellow truck drivers via CB radio for my best case scenario to escape this job without stranding myself in the wilderness – in other words, how to drive to my next job. One recommended I hold onto whatever paperwork I still retained in exchange for my over-due pay.

No dice. Either the previous driver was creative enough to sell his matched set of new tires and wheels (as if anyone would spend good money on that wreck of a truck) to recoup some of his losses, or they never existed. The truck died in Fort Smith Arkansas a day or so following my ultimatum to pay up or else, saving me headache over the broker calling the authorities on me as a truck thief.

They probably hadn't paid a driver in eons.  

03.13.2013 Narrating A Life Written On The Road: Jigsaw Puzzler

Why Aren't You Writing?

03.13.2013 Narrating A Life Written On The Road: Jigsaw Puzzler

Having never been further than a few hundred miles from home before I took up truck-driving, my experience with cultural and social mores outside of my narrow world was abbreviated, to say the least. Like many of my colleagues, I was a sexual intellectual – a f***ing know-it-all. Despite my ninth-grade education I read voraciously, quickly picked up skills as needed, evidence of my brilliant mind. From my lofty pinnacle of wisdom I looked down on lesser mortals with all the arrogance of the truly ignorant.

Although the dawning awareness that wisdom was not confined to books developed slowly, there were incidents in my life that completely flummoxed me. One in particular remains vivid in my memory. And all these years later, I'm uncertain whether these folks actually knew better and were having a good laugh at my expense, or really believed what they told me.

I was invited to a family gathering, either a holiday, birthday or some such get-together at a homestead somewhere in the Midwest. The dining room table was covered in homemade foods, a rare treat. Various relatives were introduced, whose faces, names and relationships I promptly forgot, as I noshed on delicacies handed down through generations of European immigrants. Furnishings that probably arrived by Conestoga wagons – the original ones – filled the house, which was also several generations old. China, silver, quilts, doilies, a treasure trove of heirlooms.

Few modern pieces intruded on the museum quality of the place, and a small folding table erected in a corner caught my eye. Smaller than a card table, larger than a TV tray table, it held jigsaw puzzle pieces. A partial outline of 2 sides had been started, lots of loose pieces in the center with the box upright against the wall to display the resulting picture. Anyone was welcome to contribute to the 500-piece project.

Except that there were nowhere near 500 pieces on that tiny table.

When I asked where the rest of the pieces were, the answer left me speechless:

“Oh, we didn't have room for all of them, so we only put out half at a time.”

03.10.2013 Narrating A Life Written On The Road: Cross Country Soap

Running for a meat hauler out of St. Paul kept me bouncing mostly between NYC and the Twin Cities, with rare trips South to Texas and the Midwest. My beau pushed paper from Wisconsin mills to NYC and points East also, and we would meet up occasionally as our paths crossed. One particular truck stop attracted many of my fellow meat haulers, including Carl, who was sweet on a waitress there.

Carl and my own beau worked together years earlier, had stayed in touch over time - as much as any over-the-road driver could maintain any social life in those pre-Facebook days. The three of us were gathered for coffee with several other drivers, discussing our next loads and destinations. The waitress topped off our coffees, asked conversationally about our destinations. Half a dozen of us were headed back to the Twin Cities to pick up loads bound for Texas, whereupon she stage-whispered to me, “Keep an eye on Carl for me!” Then she winked conspiratorially as she left.

A few days later, we were empty outside Dallas – Fort Worth, awaiting dispatch to our next destination. Company policy was to pay room charges beginning the second night, incentive for dispatchers to keep trucks loaded, and keep truckers from finding their own loads. Second day, everyone checked in at the local motel where all the meat haulers awaited dispatch.

The heart of Texas gets their fair share of winter weather, with drifting snow and temperatures either side of zero. Heading out to warm up the rig following next morning's dispatch, I noticed Carl's truck already running. I knocked on his room door, and he let me inside where it was warm while he finished with the hairdryer. I watched the weather forecast on the muted TV. The phone rang.

Trucker motels don't always attract the Knights of the Road. In fact, some rather unsavory characters traveled the highways in the days before reciprocity between agencies eliminated multiple drivers licenses and tracked felons a bit better. Trucker motels weren't the place to stop with your family, if you get my point. So the motel maids would call the room next door as they worked to ensure that the room was empty before arriving to clean.

I picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Who is THIS?!” demanded the Anglo voice at the other end.

I introduced myself, asked who I was addressing.

“This is his WIFE! Where's CARL?!” she demanded.

“Oh, I didn't know he had a wife,” I said, remembering the waitress. “He's drying his hair. I'll get him for you.”

Carl put down the hairdryer, and I left the room so he could speak privately to his wife. As several of us were headed to the packing plant some 250 miles distant, we traveled in a herd in case of breakdown on a remote stretch.

Carl finished up and off we went.

A week or two later, I crossed paths with my beau, and he told me a tale.

Now, I thrived on Agatha Christie mysteries, Clive Cussler novels and assorted other works of fiction. Of absolutely no interest to me were romances or TV soaps. I never read supermarket tabloids or celebrity rags, just wasn't interested in non-fiction outside the occasional biography. But many people adore soap operas.

My beau, traveling between Wisconsin and the East Coast on his regular runs stopped for coffee at that truck stop, where Carl's waitress poured coffee and filled him in on her version of the conversation between us. According to her, “that little b****” answered the phone in Carl's room, obviously after a wild night with Carl, and that waitress was going to get even by propositioning one of Carl's friends.

My beau turned her down (he said), but the next chapter featured her victory in this endeavor. Carl, for his part, felt that the score was NOT even (at least, not where I was concerned) and set out to even things up with one of her coworkers, in yet another installment of this drama.

Last I heard, they were still writing that tale, somewhere between scoring more points against each other and make-up encounters. To no one's surprise, I decided to take my coffee elsewhere, to avoid spit in my cup.

02.11.2013 Driver Licensing Made Pleasant: Morton, WA

02.11.2013
A rave to Laurie at the Driver Licensing agency in Morton! I opted for a
smaller venue to update my license last week, and she answered all my
questions on the phone in clear terms, chatted with me at the office on
changes in the industry, and finished with my first-ever smiling drivers 
license photo.

Besides the gorgeous drive from Toledo on a fine day and lunch locally,
Laurie made this otherwise odious task a great excuse for an afternoon
away from the daily routine. The entire State Department of Driver 
Licensing could take lessons from her and vastly improve their image.

Two thumbs up!

02.10.2013 Narrating A Life Written On The Road: O-Rings versus Washers - Mt Vernon WA

02.10.2013

"I could never own a truck," said one woman, shaking her head. "I don't know enough about the mechanical side." Which, coincidentally, was how I learned about the mechanics of big rigs. I bought a truck.

Performing my own repairs and signing off on the mechanics line wasn't popular at the scalehouse in Vacaville and other California coops, but ultimately they had to set me free. I collected shop manuals for various engines, read them like novels, and scrutinized any diagnosis proffered by unscrupulous garages. I had, while still driving for my first truck boss, replaced a shift tower, front axle bearings, trailer brakes, run the bottom end and generally got acquainted with the rig I bought by combing it for loose or missing screws, nuts and bolts. I had been encouraged to explore and ferret out any squeak, rattle or whine, chasing the culprit to ground. I felt competent.

I had a set of second-hand coveralls which I would don over my ripped jeans and haltertop, and crawl around under the truck. Occasionally some courageous soul would venture to ask if I needed assistance, his eyes glazing over as I cited the specifics of what went wrong and how I intended to remedy the situation, then watched him saunter off, head down.

When the number one head started pushing antifreeze, the shop manual said "cap screws," or head bolts. These were sometimes re-used by shops looking to charge for new by pocketing the difference, and would often be adequate for awhile. But the daily strain they undergo stretches them, like the links of chains used for binding or lifting, and ultimately they fail. By purchasing the parts at the local big name truck dealer in town, I saved myself from that fate.

But since I didn't look like a truck driver, the parts counter guy presumed I was the runner. And he tattled on himself.

Running around the country I collected lots of horror stories about shady shop owners and incompetent wrenchers. I had even heard a story or two about how someone's cabover toppled, once past the tipping point when the cab jack failed. So I related these stories to a less-than-enthusiastic independent shop owner who replied “I've only ever seen two of 'em jump the bumper.” Which, in my opinion, seemed two too many.

Coerced into hooking a chain to the cab frame and fastening it to a forklift in the shop, he jacked the cab to the half-way point...where it lunged. The chain held, my knees buckled.

The mechanic was the first to recover, which made sense, as this sort of event wasn't new to him. I ignored his placatory prattle while I waited for my heart to descend from my throat, then proceeded to remove the cab jack pump from the frame to dissect and repair. The mechanic wisely busied himself with the engine problems while I set off to the local truck dealer for parts for the pump.

The culprit seemed to be a disintegrated washer, rotted with age. So I carefully laid out the dismantled pump, as I learned from all those shop manuals (my dad was an engineer, remember? Theory and schematics, not applied) and noted that all the washers seemed to be the same size. At the dealer, no identical washer could be found. An O-ring was produced for my inspection, then a larger diameter washer. Returning with the otherwise appropriately sized O-ring, the counter guy advised. “Just give him (the pump repair “guy,”) this one. He'll never know the difference.”

Even today I can recall the stunned look and the backpedaling when I informed that parts guy, “I'm 'him.'”

01.31.2013 Narrating a Life Written On The Road: Medford, OR

01.31.2013

It was the cook who saved me, a tiny woman no bigger than a 12 year old, when I landed gasping at the back door of the 24-hour restaurant at dusk, the screen propped open by the giant fan to cool the kitchen during that hot summer in Medford. A young man in a filthy apron arose from his chair next to a small round bar table, setting his unfinished cigarette in the ashtray as the cook turned from her chopping to face me, the knife she held made larger by her small frame. I stared from her to the busboy and back again, my chest heaving as I pointed behind me and tried to work words into my ragged panting.

Some details are a bit hazy now but I recall they sat me down at their break table, the cook heading for the back door to avenge me. My eyes grew wider at that prospect and I indicated by nodding and shaking my head in response to their questions that the police should be called instead.

While I regained my breath and awaited the arrival of the police, I saw that the 2 chairs against the wall separated by the table which served as their break area had the cash register in view so they could keep an eye on things out front as they smoked between orders. They returned to their work, casting glances my way until the cops arrived by the front door at the cash register.

The officer quizzed me about the attack, barely concealed disbelief in his face as he methodically covered the minimum number of questions necessary to appear concerned about the incident when a movement beyond his shoulder at the cash register caught my eye.

And there he was – the attacker I had fled, walking right into the restaurant and seating himself at the counter. I began hyperventilating, eyes saucers, as the officer turned to find the object of my hysteria.

I insisted the cops turn his backpack upside down to search for the weapon, though none was found. And when they told me no charges would be filed because his version proclaimed his innocence, I erupted in caustic threats and derogatory innuendos. Whereupon they offered to jail me instead.

My witness was a night worker at the McDonald's, a janitor doing the floors in the dining area in clear view of my windshield, my clipboard resting on the steering wheel as a desk for catching up my logbook. With the interior light above my left ear as my lamp, the gathering darkness outside hid the approach of the ragged transient who startled me by opening the passenger door and climbing right in, asking me if I was headed South or some such thing. I responded with an astonished “What are you doing in my truck?” He lunged across the cab, grabbed a handful of hair and began banging my head against the steering wheel.

Recounting the tale later, I was met with all manner of advice on the measures I “shoulda” taken. At such close quarters, most of those suggestions wouldn't work anyway but most people were re-creating the story in their own minds to resemble a Clint Eastwood movie or Chuck Norris maybe.

My left leg was wedged between the door and the seat, one of my more creative fidgets, preventing me from being pulled across the doghouse or into the bunk. I got my left hand tangled up in the airhorn pull, a convenient handhold that alerted the janitor at McDonald's who watched the incident unfold. Where was my right hand?

I have come to recognize several instances in my life where God has spoken to me. Like Charleton Heston. I heard it plainly. Now, I didn't actually believe in God at that time, or in anything outside of my five senses for longer than anyone should admit. Over time, I identified 3 distinct experiences of this Voice, all benevolent, simple statements of truth. I didn't recall for many years that I heard that Voice earlier, before I developed an awareness of a Great Spirit, by whatever name you use. It happened in that truck.

Because a cabover Kenworth floor reaches somewhere above eye level for me, anything I want to reach inside is wedged between the door and the left-side base of the airride seat. Further in, and I can't reach it from the ground. This is where the cab jack handle resides, a 24” hunk of iron pipe with a bicycle handgrip on it.

Except that just now, for reasons I cannot recall, it was resting upright against the bunk frame and the doghouse, within easy reach of my right hand.

Although I didn't attribute it at the time, I recall the deliberate grasp as I wrapped my hand tightly around the comforting rubber grip, the tiny voice of Reason saying “You can't hit him over the head with a lead pipe! That's only in movies!” And the deep Voice filled my head, said simply, “Him or me!”

It amazes me how one can weigh options, calculate and judge, theorize almost calmly while Time seems to race or drag, only later marveling at the process. My grip firm on the cab jack, I raised it knowing I would have only one chance. I swung. He grabbed. I released the fading airhorn pull with my left hand and dropped it to the door handle, the flat spring-loaded pull-out style, my left leg popped the door open.

I bailed out, the cab jack and a handful of my hair his only trophy, made a perfect paratrooper landing, arose from my crouch and headed for The Light, the sanctuary of the diner kitchen.

01.26.2013 Narrating A Life Written On The Road: Wide-Open Wyoming - Becoming Mortal

01.26.2013

It was a 1980 KW conventional, special order, one of those new walk-in sleepers. 430 Detroit, respectable but not a genuine powerhouse. 355 rears, though, and that wasn't the clincher. Spicer resurrected the two-box transmission Browning made popular years earlier. A 6 X 4, not progressive. That gave it a reach beyond the numbers on the speedometer, and herein lies the prelude to my mortality.

A flashy rig like this one attracts competition, those who want to see what's under the hood. But it's a truck, you know, not a Maserati. Still, there's a lot of geography to put into your rear-view mirror in Wyoming, and one could grow old waiting behind the speed limit imposed by the Feds in the 1970's. 

So late one night, after pinning the speedometer needle against the peg at the end of the gauge, I left the fellow in the adjoining lane dropping back further and further, as I explored the limits of the last 2 gears. 

The Interstate gradually climbs the rolling hills of the Continental Divide, yawning 2 or 3 miles wide between crests. Collecting speed on the downslope, the rig alternately shuddered and smoothed out, the rhythm developing into a routine. Radio delta range ebbed as the headlights in my mirrors shrank to pinholes in the black night. Bottoming out, then sweeping up the next rise, I began to relax and marvel at the sheer velocity of this machine. That's when it happened.

Not abruptly, but more like a tiny voice at the back of my consciousness, suggested that nothing, absolutely nothing on this rig was designed to go this fast. 

Every truck driver's worst nightmare is blowing out a steering tire. It's the single most vulnerable component on a moving truck, the mere thought of it guaranteed to bring a strong man to his knees. 

That small voice kept at me, reasoning, reminding, as I was slowly compelled to recognize the logical outcome of such an event. And I did not want to go out under a load of of "garbage," slang for produce (given its perishability). 

Ever so gradually I let up on the accelerator, just as gently downshifted, once, twice, three times, four, until I was crawling along at about half peak speed, hovering just over the original 70 mph speed limit from before the oil wars. 

The engine ground on monotonously, mile after tedious mile, giving no indication of any overtaxing demand on the drive train, no newly-developed shuddering, wobbling or unusual noise, nothing unusual at all. My hands rested gently on the wheel, sheer will overcoming the desire to clamp onto it with a grip only death could loosen. My teeth clenched, I broke into a clammy sweat as mile upon mile of rolling landscape unfurled before me. 

**************************************************

Years later, I approached nearly the same speed, my riding buddy and I making the 2-day Lawman 1000 race along the Fraser River in British Columbia on our Hondas. Not actually a race, but he was the one motorcyclist I trusted enough to ride right on his flank - or he on mine, both of us trusting one another implicitly even in the triple-digit range. 

Coming up on a piece of highway which stretched before us for miles, he passed me, his monstrous new Valkyrie V-6 1200cc rocketing by. But the original Valkyrie had only 4 gears, while my '77 Magna had 6. 

It took me probably a minute or two to catch him as the power rise on the Magna kicked in well after 4000 RPMs. Dropping down a couple gears put the little 700cc into redline territory, where I began to gain on him.  

Just as I drew even with him, handlebar to handlebar, I backed off the throttle, and fell back in behind him. We rode thus for the remainder of the trip, drifting across the finish line ahead of the pack. The ride home was made tersely, and when Monday rolled around, he showed up at the house on his brand new Nighthawk, a 1700cc race-worthy, barely street-legal missile. 

Recalling that epiphany in Wyoming long ago, I determined immediately that those days were in my rearview mirror, to be revisited here and nowhere else.

01.26.2013 Narrating A Life Written On The Road: You Picked A Fine Time to Leave Me, Loose Wheel

01.26.2013

Concrete lasts longer than asphalt, doesn't develop the ruts blacktop is prone to, especially in the warmer climes like California. Over time the concrete develops its own personality. Newly installed slabs enjoy the buffering action of expansion strips, designed to absorb the shock of moving from one slab to the next. But these are the weak link. Heavy traffic, erosion, heaving, weather conditions, all combine to break down the smooth cruise appreciated on long trips.

This jarring causes and masks a plethora of equipment failures. Spend enough time with a machine and you get a feel for it you can't measure in gauges and dials.

Somewhere south of the Cottonwood coops, I narrowed down a disconcerting shudder in the front end to a specific range of speed, around 50-60 MPH. But it disappeared at lower or higher speeds. I had already run the truck through the tire shop, breaking down and removing the tires from the rims to check for interior damage, like nail hole plugs, splits or any breach, having lost caps to rust in the steel belts. Nobody puts anything but the best tires on the steering axle. Remembering, too, a lowly tire shop sweeper who had submerged an entire tire-and-wheel in the water tank checking for leaks, after I stopped every 100 miles or so to air up a persistent leaky soldier, and uncovering the tiniest, almost imperceptible column of air bubbles escaping from a crack in the rim invisible when halted, but which opened up under the pressure of road, load and speed.

Earlier rigs had no brakes on the front axles, riding on the arguable principle that maintaining steering in a braking emergency could allow the driver to take evasive action impossible with locked wheels. Rolling wheels can steer. During the 1970's changes in the industry pushed for brake requirements for front axles, as enormous force and weight was transferred to them during such emergencies. So manufactures heeded the trend, installing them on rigs in advance of regulatory changes. Such was the case on this rig.

When the front brake system needed expensive repairs, the company opted for simply removing the whole front axle system. But a spacer of some sort was needed to compensate for the thickness of the brake drum between the hub and the wheel. A cutting torch carved a donut-like spacer from the worn drums. Mission accomplished.

No one connected that act with the shudder I complained of until I finally pulled off the road onto the shoulder on the connector between Cottonwood and Vacaville. Once more, I ran my hand across the dusty surface of the rim, feeling for any flaw I might have missed in a dozen earlier inspections. I Windexed the wheel and rim again, the solution evaporating in the summer heat quickly, when I saw it.

I sprayed the rim repeatedly, then traced the drips to a nearly invisible line, a hairline crack that almost entirely encircled the rim, and which precisely matched the circumference of the home made brake drum spacer bolted in place behind it. Only about 2 inches of uncracked rim remained intact.

My knees buckled. I sat down in the weeds with a thud, remaining there until I felt confident I would not faint. My emotions ran the gamut.

My radio saved me a long hot walk to the nearest shop. I dropped the trailer right there on the shoulder, pulled ahead just enough to allow another company driver to come along and hook it, and awaited the tow truck sent by a passing driver. I called in, stated the what, where and why, along with a callback number, and hung up on the “Why didn't you...”

I just wasn't up to defending my miraculous salvation to Troglodytes.