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.

12.09.2012 All I Want For Christmas...

12.09.2012

...I already have. A new range arrived just days before Thanksgiving, replacing a burned-out relic from the 1970's. A top of the line model, Electrolux's Perfect Turkey setting rescued an underdone bird while cooking 2 pies in the lower oven. Induction cooktop, convection oven, a learning curve.

Having explored the limits of a Crockpot and a counter-top rotisserie over the course of 2 years, I can bake...a cookie! Or a tuna casserole, meatloaf, bread, roast a chicken...did I mention that it's self-cleaning?

So you might find references to cooking along the way. 

Just sayin'.

10.30.2012 Narrating a Life Written On The Road: New Jersey

10.30.2012

My early trucking moved quickly from reefers and perishables to dry vans. While the freight was not subject to fluctuations in temperature, some of it was highly valuable, a target for thieves. Furs traveled in innocuous trailers, with one feature noticeable to those in the know. Furs must travel on hangers, suspended from poles built into the van, spanning the width, the round plugs running along the length of the trailer high up near the roof. These plugs identify the cargo as hanger goods. Other garments travel packed in boxes, with rare exceptions. Add to the appeal of high-priced merchandise a leased power unit and one petite blonde behind the wheel, and, well, you don't stop for anything between New York and Chicago. Period. 

Traveling at night, only the "serious" drivers are out - truckers, shift workers, bears hunting DUI's and the like. So it's easier to spot a tail. Unnerving, but pick up a couple fellow travelers along the route (you need a few, so when one stops to answer the call of nature, you still have a few spares), kept awake by mildly suggestive jokes and can-you-top-this story-telling over the CB radio, and you are less likely to get run off the road, or forced off a remote offramp. 

809 miles, according to the road atlases in use at the time. Pennsylvania was the roughest, applying sorely-needed federal funds to erecting a state-of-the-art scale house one year rather than do something about the concrete Interstate which was surely awarded to some out-of-work brother-in-law who poured 30-foot driveways for a living. Exiting onto Ohio's toll-road was such relief that one's stomach muscles would noticeably relax, and the danger of dozing off rose. 

After running two, occasionally three of these rounds a week for about 6 months, I took a few days off. Compelled, according to the boss. Chatting with the driver who would be taking over my rig, I decided to leave my radio installed rather than bother ripping it out. He would appreciate the stereo and I would save a bit of time and trouble. I was ridden hard and put up wet after maintaining this grueling schedule, including some local work around Jersey City between runs. Burned out. 

On my return to work about a week later, I discovered my radio and a few other items gone, and a detective keenly interested in my route under such valuable loads. Seems the truck had disappeared shortly after picking up a load in New York, found a few days later with the hubodometers smashed, and no trailer. Gone was the radio, and the driver's tale of attack at gunpoint was disbelieved despite numerous cuts and bruises - essentially because it beggared the imagination to think someone would stop to grab a cheap radio when they already had several million dollars worth of negotiable furs. 

Evidently the detective decided I really had nothing to do with this adventure, only clean laundry and a thin bank book testimony to my meager vacation holed up at a local motel. Who knows if that driver was involved? Perhaps I really dodged a bullet. The possibilities for misadventure on the road abound. Proof I live a charmed life, if you will.

10.08.2012 Narrating A Life Written On The Road: Sublette County, WY

10.08.2012

Those long winter nights, snow illuminated by moonlight, the feel of the road transmitted to my hands through the wheel, I spent hours entranced by the unfolding panorama before me. River valleys, narrowing, then widening into isolated ranches and fields, wildlife and livestock scarce under winter's weight, only the nocturnal denizens alert as the quiet miles passed.

So quickly did a spectre appear against that backdrop and instantly evaporate again that I momentarily pondered whether it actually happened. Sublette County, Wyoming is home to several varieties of owls, the Great Grey Owl one of the largest with a wingspan of up to 5 feet. And man, does that fill up a windshield! Silent, fleeting, startling, the owl jolted me from my revery. I instinctively clutched the wheel, broke fragile traction for a moment before I overrode the reflex and gently guided the rig back on course.

I wondered how I missed hitting him. Surely an impact like that one would have taken out the windshield. I waited for my heart rate to return to normal. 

Since I left driving behind me many years ago, I have been waiting for my life to return to normal. My favorite stretch of 2-lane remains in my memory, however, beckoning me to return on 2 wheels or four, share this secret beauty with someone worthy of life's journey. It resides behind my eyelids, the familiar sanctuary from interstate traffic, the narrow ribbon of asphalt a fragile strand between rugged peaks. And each year, I promise myself, hoping against hope that my picture hasn't faded, cracked, that it's still just as I recall it, still awaiting my return, just once more.

10.07.2012 Narrating A Life Written On The Road: Are You Smarter than A 10-Year-Old?

October 7, 2012

One fellow I met on the road told me how he got involved in over-the-road driving. The lesson in logic has never left me.

Growing up on a farm in Wisconsin, he dreamt of escaping the hardscrabble existence facing the modern small farmer. Viet Nam offered only a lateral Hell, so upon returning to civilian life, he employed his skill as a truck driver. He took the first opportunity that presented itself, a route with a septic tank pump truck. 

Rural Fond Du Lac County features mid-range to large-scale farms, supplied sparsely by municipal sanitation systems. Even trailer courts operated on septic systems, and the story unfolds here.

Winter in Wisconsin means subzero temperatures for months on end, the very earth frozen to a depth of several inches or more. Emptying a cistern of several hundred gallons required removing an access cover with a heavy gaff, then breaking up the frozen surface crust with a sort of wrecking bar so the contents would fit through a large-diameter hose dropped into the hole.

As the driver went about his work, he was joined by a resident of the place, a young boy morbidly curious about the hole, as only boys can be. Observing the slow progress, the lad asked the driver, "Do you like your job?" The driver admitted "No, not particularly...what's to like?" 
Watching awhile in silence, the lad next asked, "Does it pay a lot of money?" Smiling ruefully, the driver confessed "No, not a lot." 
Some time passed. Finally the precocious youth posed that fateful last question: "Is this the only job you could get?"

That the driver went out the very next day and got a REAL job only underscores the feeling we often have that our choices are constricted. That the 10-year-old clearly saw that fallacy reminds us to risk...or rust.

04.02.2012 Narrating A Life Written On The Road: Wyoming Back Roads

04.02.2012

Between Mountain Home, Idaho & Rock Springs, Wyoming stretch 256 miles of 2-lane highway, passing south of Jackson Hole. Mountain goats, elk, deer, eagles, snowy owls, porcupines and a host of wildlife share this territory uneasily with travelers . 

On one Spring morning, dawn emerged as I drove East through the foothills. The sun had yet to crest the ridge. Alone with my thoughts, I rounded a long gradual curve. My reverie was interrupted by a horseman, a cowboy, plodding straight down the center line toward me. 

Unwavering he continued, so I backed off, began down-shifting. Still he approached, unfazed by the truck. I slowed to a stop, idling for a moment, before a Hereford appeared at some distance behind him. Another, then a veritable wall, a cattle drive. I shut the truck off. The migration moved around and past me at glacial velocity and mass.

30 minutes or more passed as the sun climbed into the sky. I pondered the possibility of another vehicle finding me stopped on the highway. I dreamt of coffee. 

Trucks make money when the wheels are turning. A crouch and steering wheel grip betray most long-haul drivers. Comfortable with solitude, they never miss the demands of 40-hour work weeks. It's not uncommon to see drivers asleep over the wheel of their rigs.

My father, a ham radio enthusiast and nine-to-fiver, engaged his narrow circle of friends via the airwaves, where participants took turns talking, simply signing out when they had enough. My father would spend endless hours in his "ham shack," which mystified my stepmother. I understood the need for time spent alone. Solitude equals sanctuary.  

Today's technology is similar to ham radios, but with no sign-out: cameras optional, texting, Tweeting, email and IM-ing, social interaction is virtual. There is no refuge from demands on one's attention.

2 or 3 cowboys brought up the rear, mute as the first, passed beyond my truck and grew small in the rear view mirrors, trampled grasses and manure the only sign of their passing. They didn't miss the 9-5 either.