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!
Monday, February 11, 2013
02.11.2013 Driver Licensing Made Pleasant: Morton, WA
Sunday, February 10, 2013
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.'”
Thursday, January 31, 2013
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.
Saturday, January 26, 2013
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.
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.
Sunday, December 9, 2012
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'.
...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'.
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
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.
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.
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