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.
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