I respect faith, but doubt is what gets you an education.
Wilson Mizner
I'm sitting in Ontario, CA tonight, at the Interstate 10 TA West Truckstop off Milliken Avenue. I made the mistake of eating the buffet at the "Fork In The Road" restaurant, which means at some point tonight, I'll probably be hanging my head out the passenger side window, paying homage to the Gods of Asphalt. (I never was a red carpet kind of guy.)
In about 15,000 miles, I'll be just over my 2 million miles. As I've said before, I'm no longer an apprentice. I'm by no means a master, but even the most experienced of drivers tells me there's no such thing as a "master driver." It's disappointing. I'd kind of hoped to claim the title of "Perfected Master," but in this business, that seems to be out of the question. There's too many changes happening too damned fast, not the least of which includes new environmental laws, as well as changes in the equipment. Some of this I can pass on, other parts, they're too important to ignore.
My first trip to LA was eventful, to say the least. I used to carry large, heavy toolboxes with me in my rig, mainly because I always seemed to run into mechanics who had better things to do than fix my broken down rig. The usual situation with one particular mechanic, "Mr. Sunshine," would run something like this:
Me: "Dude..."
Mr. Sunshine: "Yeah..."
Me: "I'm broke down."
Mr. Sunshine: "So?"
Me: "So, the truck isn't running."
Mr. Sunshine: "Well, what do you want me to do about it?"
Me: "Well, maybe you could fix it?"
Mr. Sunshine: "I ain't got time."
This, of course, would result in my sneaking parts out of the shop, and while out on the road, fixing the mess myself. I got caught a number of times sneaking out parts, but that had little effect on me. If I was going to drive a rig, it was going to be a safe rig, and if Mr. Sunshine wasn't going to take care of it, I would.
As it happened, the big boss for the outfit where I was working at the time learned of this. When we had a nine axle heavy haul trailer break down, due to a blown wheel bearing and a damaged steer axle, I was dispatched to dead head down to the Port of Long Beach, complete with tools and an empty flatbed so I could haul some extra equipment that wasn't fitting on the rest of the rigs.
I tossed my gear into the saddle boxes of the truck, grabbed a company credit card, some cash, and was on my way south, rolling towards the port. It was heady for me; no one had ever asked me to make a run like that, and particularly for such a critical situation. If we didn't get the nine axle back up and rolling, a company in Los Angeles would get the job, and we'd have all made the run for nothing.
So I'm running hard and fast, or at least as fast as the Kenworth's governed Cummins ISM engine would allow, I'm over halfway to Los Angeles, and I decide I ought to stop and get something to eat. I came up to a truck stop that had a particular fast food joint I liked, so I rolled off onto the exit, and pulled in to the truck parking area.
But, I didn't like that area. Too many other trucks. What if someone scratched the paint on my K-Dub? I looked around, saw a parking spot off in a dark corner, whipped around and parked there.
I got out of the truck, took my keys, and locked up the saddle boxes, securing all my tools. No problem, I figured, and I walked in for my burger and fries.
I had a pretty good meal that night. I was thinking what a big shot "Trucker" I was, rolling down the Interstate, heading to a major port in the United States, with my tools in my boxes, preparing to save the day for my employer. I had it figured that eventually, they'd realize just what a great asset I was, and they'd have to train me to do more. Yup, if I were riding any taller in the saddle, I'd have to wear goggles to keep the clouds out of my eyes.
I finished up my dinner, and started back to the truck. It was dark out, now, on a moonless night, with dark clouds beginning to blot out the stars. I had my hands in my pockets, and was kind of enjoying the "King of the Road" feeling I had coursing through my mind. For once in my life, I was a genuine Hero.
And that was when I felt that mammoth paw slam down on my shoulder.
In that moment, I didn't think. I simply froze. I turned slightly, enough to see that the hand on my shoulder belonged to a very large black guy with massive arms, dressed in a white t-shirt, bib overalls, steel-toed boots, all of which were very, very clean. I'm not sure how tall he really was, but at that moment, he seemed to tower over me. I wasn't sure what he wanted, but the muted violence of the moment told me that if he were out to harm me, he'd have already done it.
He took a deliberate step ahead of me, pulled a black flashlight out of his pants pocket and switched it on. He pointed it down alongside my trailer.
In that moment, I watched as three or four characters suddenly began to scramble out of the light, hiding behind trees and derelict cars. I'd been in serious trouble, and I had been completely unaware. Had this man not stopped me, they might have found my broken remains several weeks later.
I turned to the man as he turned back to face me. I started to thank him, but he began to shake his shaven head in disgust.
"Boy," he snapped, "either get smart, OR GO HOME!"
With that, he stalked off to his truck, and left me.
I was cresting the Grapevine before it all sank in: I had royally blown it. I should have locked the tool boxes before I left Sacramento. I should have parked in a well lit area. I should have been paying attention when I walked out of the restaurant. And if I'd had any doubts, I should have gotten someone to walk with me out to my truck. It was a hard lesson, and it could have been a fatal one. I was damned lucky that it wasn't.
Things have changed for me since then. I'm driving a larger truck, pulling a longer trailer, driving further. I've had to get very smart, and get there very quickly. Some guys claim that a life of prayer will see you through it all. All it's become for me is wasted words. You have to use your brain, or you damned well ought to remain at home, doing local runs, or sticking to courier work, driving a well-worn Yugo. Faith is a fine thing, but it only works when you've first used, and heeded, your mind. It's a tough lesson, but you had damned well better learn it if you want to be out on the road the next day. At one point, I didn't, and I'm lucky to still have my right hand. (Ask me the next time you see me; I'll show you the scars.)
As I've said, things have changed. I've not only learned what I can do, but what I can't. In learning my limits, I've learned why those limits exist. In some cases, I can bypass the challenges, and in others, I can work within the limits to get done what I must. If it's made me a better trucker, it's also made me a skeptic, and I'm just beginning to realize just how lucky I've been over the course of my professional life. That I'm now in a situation where I'll be buying a truck within the next year or so is more a testament to skepticism than it is to the religious dogma I clung to so desperately for so long. I've learned I need more of the former, and less of the latter. The former forces me to think, the latter is a substitute for thought.
If that means I'm on dangerous ground, I'm reminded of the foolish mistakes I have made over the past two million miles driven, and I'm forced into cognizance of just how damned dangerous those were. A life on the road is not a safe place; get used to it.
In less than 15,000 miles, I'll be over 2 million. That may be a source of pride for some, but for me, it's humbling. I didn't get there by being a big shot. I got there by learning to shut up and learn from those who'd already driven their millions, and who had a lot to teach me. Expand that above and beyond trucking, and you begin to realize just how much you have to learn beyond your own small patch of expertise.
I haven't seen the driver who saved my life in the years since. I doubt he's even thought of me once in that span of time, but I have yet to not think of the gift he gave me. As a trucker, you're a perpetual apprentice, and there's still miles and miles of lessons ahead of me. I can only hope that I'm smart enough to learn from them.
Not the least of which is to never eat from the buffet at a truck stop. Still, if I die from salmonella poisoning from the tomatoes, jalapenos and cilantro I ate tonight, at least I'll go with a full stomach, the Lords of Asphalt notwithstanding.
Stay safe.
