Well at least I didn't strain anything permanently.
Yesterday was what you might call eventful. One of the more interesting events was a landing gear that jammed. I strained something in my shoulder trying to crank it up. But I'm in a good bit less pain this evening than this morning, so it doesn't seem to've been permanent.
So I won't talk about that.
In fact, I guess I won't talk about yesterday much at all. It was what you might call one thing after another--not boring, but neither entertaining nor edifying. Today was a bit more relaxing. But I did run into something interesting.
I stopped for fuel this morning, and another truck belonging to the same company I drive for pulled in behind me. After I had fueled and pulled forward he pulled in and started to fuel his own truck. I went in to get something at the convenience store (convenience stores are dangerous that way). When I got back, the other driver waved, and then motioned me to come talk.
Turned out he wanted help sliding his tandems. I've talked about that part of this job before, so I won't go into too much detail here. But it is the kind of thing that's easier with two people--one moving the truck while the other watches to make sure he doesn't move it too far.
But that's not what he needed. He wanted me to help figure out how much to move it.
He had his scale ticket, and it told him how much too heavy his tandem wheels were. But he couldn't figure out how much to move the wheels to make it balance. I told him a few of the rules of thumb we use for that, and then about how much they said to move it. Then I watched while he did--as I said, two people does make it easier.
I also suggested he should scale it again just to make sure--the rules of thumb are not that reliable. I don't know whether he did that or not--I had to roll. I hope so.
The scary thing is, he was a lease operator. Translation: he rents a truck from the company, and pays the rent out of his own profits. I get paid a price per mile. He gets paid a considerably larger price from which he buys fuel, scale tickets, repairs, and whatever else the truck needs.
In other words, where I am an employee, he's running his own business.
Several people have tried to talk me into doing that. My response is always the same: "if I were that good a businessman, I'd be in another business." Maybe he is that good a businessman. I don't know. What I do know is that he hasn't bothered to learn some of the basics of operating a truck. If you don't know how to balance the load, and have to call a friend when it doesn't scale properly, something is wrong.
I worry about that guy.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Monday, July 4, 2011
A trucker's holiday
I drove under a parade today.
I didn't know what it was at first. I had just passed an exit with a large (and permanent) "NO TRUCKS" sign, and noticed that it was closed to EVERYBODY today. Orange cones across the opening, and a police car with bright flashing lights and a uniformed gentleman leaning on the hood with his arms crossed. Obviously something was going on.
Then I looked at the overpass coming up and saw a big ol' truck pullng a big ol' flatbed trailer. Flashing lights all over the truck, as if it normally spent its time pulling oversize loads. Something bulky on the trailer, though I could't make it out at first.
So what was a big ol' truck doing pulling a big ol' trailer across the expressway on a street that was posted "NO TRUCKS"? Hmm...
That was when I noticed that the railings on that particular overpass were noticeably more colorful than the norm. And that the extra colors were reds, whites, and blues. And about that time I noticed that the top of the trailer was waving. With several hands. In different directions.
Fourth of July in Massachusetts. Kind of charming.
Taking the coward's way
And it made me feel a little better about a decision I'd already made an hour or so before. I had two sets of instructions about how to get to today's customer. The directions on file with Dispatch said to follow expressways all the way to a certain exit, then take the exit and the warehouse was right there. The Fuel Department said take a shortcut that involved about fifteen miles of two-lane road. Now normally I'll do what I'm told about those shortcuts. Unless the directions make no sense coming from that direction. Or unless I know the road in question isn't usable. You know, like straight up a mountain, or over a bridge that'll barely hold a Cadillac.
And normally, I would have taken this one. But a two lane road through at least two small-town business districts? On the biggest day of the year for small-town parades? I MIGHT have gotten away with it, but...
And I felt still better when I brazenly followed the expressway and got off at the specified exit. There on the right was the turnoff to the customer. And there on the left was a road that led to a state park. And a sign saying the state park was "FULL."
Yeah, I think today was a special case...
An hour or so later
I pulled up to the guard shack at a large chain-store Distribution Center (warehouse writ large) and showed them my bills. They looked at them and asked for an appointment number.
"Any other kind of load, we could look it up," they said. But this one wasn't going to the warehouse. It was going to about two dozen different stores in their chain, and they had shipment numbers for ALL of them. No way they could negotiate their computer maze and find the appointment number for themselves.
So I sent a message to my dispatcher. Long pause. Then, "Fax us the Bills of Lading, and I'll try to get you an appointment number."
They'd sent me more than a thousand miles, giving me three days to get there. I was supposed to negotiate the place on a holiday. And they hadn't done the paperwork yet.
It took me half an hour to figure out how to use the fax machine at the guard shack. (They didn't know how to use it either...) And another two hours to get an answer after they got the faxes. But I did get the number. And I did get the trailer dropped. And picked up an empty.
Whereupon I was told where to pick up my next load. Tomorrow morning. Still in New England.
I may have mentioned how hard it is to park in New England.
I don't really think they try to keep us out, but they do make it hard to stay overnight. In this case, there wasn't a truck stop listed within 75-100 miles of the shipper.
Fortunately, the people at this Distribution Center understand. When I came in, they gave me a map of their yard. On the back was a list of places to park. Not all of them official.
So here I am,
hiding in the back corner of a commuter park'n'ride lot. There are four or five other trucks back here, and the police came by an hour ago without comment, so I think I'm all right. There's a drug store across the street, and a WalMart© down the road, so I'm actually better set up than I often am. I do wish I had a shower nearby, but other than that I'm pretty well off.
I don't know if I'll see any fireworks tonight. The lady in the drug store said they're talking about some at a park a few miles down the road. They may be visible, they may not.
But what the heck. I saw a few seconds of a parade, anyhow.
I didn't know what it was at first. I had just passed an exit with a large (and permanent) "NO TRUCKS" sign, and noticed that it was closed to EVERYBODY today. Orange cones across the opening, and a police car with bright flashing lights and a uniformed gentleman leaning on the hood with his arms crossed. Obviously something was going on.
Then I looked at the overpass coming up and saw a big ol' truck pullng a big ol' flatbed trailer. Flashing lights all over the truck, as if it normally spent its time pulling oversize loads. Something bulky on the trailer, though I could't make it out at first.
So what was a big ol' truck doing pulling a big ol' trailer across the expressway on a street that was posted "NO TRUCKS"? Hmm...
That was when I noticed that the railings on that particular overpass were noticeably more colorful than the norm. And that the extra colors were reds, whites, and blues. And about that time I noticed that the top of the trailer was waving. With several hands. In different directions.
Fourth of July in Massachusetts. Kind of charming.
Taking the coward's way
And it made me feel a little better about a decision I'd already made an hour or so before. I had two sets of instructions about how to get to today's customer. The directions on file with Dispatch said to follow expressways all the way to a certain exit, then take the exit and the warehouse was right there. The Fuel Department said take a shortcut that involved about fifteen miles of two-lane road. Now normally I'll do what I'm told about those shortcuts. Unless the directions make no sense coming from that direction. Or unless I know the road in question isn't usable. You know, like straight up a mountain, or over a bridge that'll barely hold a Cadillac.
And normally, I would have taken this one. But a two lane road through at least two small-town business districts? On the biggest day of the year for small-town parades? I MIGHT have gotten away with it, but...
And I felt still better when I brazenly followed the expressway and got off at the specified exit. There on the right was the turnoff to the customer. And there on the left was a road that led to a state park. And a sign saying the state park was "FULL."
Yeah, I think today was a special case...
An hour or so later
I pulled up to the guard shack at a large chain-store Distribution Center (warehouse writ large) and showed them my bills. They looked at them and asked for an appointment number.
"Any other kind of load, we could look it up," they said. But this one wasn't going to the warehouse. It was going to about two dozen different stores in their chain, and they had shipment numbers for ALL of them. No way they could negotiate their computer maze and find the appointment number for themselves.
So I sent a message to my dispatcher. Long pause. Then, "Fax us the Bills of Lading, and I'll try to get you an appointment number."
They'd sent me more than a thousand miles, giving me three days to get there. I was supposed to negotiate the place on a holiday. And they hadn't done the paperwork yet.
It took me half an hour to figure out how to use the fax machine at the guard shack. (They didn't know how to use it either...) And another two hours to get an answer after they got the faxes. But I did get the number. And I did get the trailer dropped. And picked up an empty.
Whereupon I was told where to pick up my next load. Tomorrow morning. Still in New England.
I may have mentioned how hard it is to park in New England.
I don't really think they try to keep us out, but they do make it hard to stay overnight. In this case, there wasn't a truck stop listed within 75-100 miles of the shipper.
Fortunately, the people at this Distribution Center understand. When I came in, they gave me a map of their yard. On the back was a list of places to park. Not all of them official.
So here I am,
hiding in the back corner of a commuter park'n'ride lot. There are four or five other trucks back here, and the police came by an hour ago without comment, so I think I'm all right. There's a drug store across the street, and a WalMart© down the road, so I'm actually better set up than I often am. I do wish I had a shower nearby, but other than that I'm pretty well off.
I don't know if I'll see any fireworks tonight. The lady in the drug store said they're talking about some at a park a few miles down the road. They may be visible, they may not.
But what the heck. I saw a few seconds of a parade, anyhow.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
The scariest non-event of my career (so far)
This afternoon I dropped off a trailer at a rail yard,* the last bit of business before taking the truck to the Atlanta terminal and myself home.
Traffic on I-285** was moderate-to-heavy, and moving well. Since I wasn't going to pick up another load, the dispatcher didn't try to find an empty for me. So this was one of those rare times when I didn't have a 53-foot tail to wag in traffic. This simplifies driving quite a bit. And in a few more miles, I would be getting into a compact car, which would simplify things even more. For some reason, I was cheerful all of a sudden.
I have to remember not to be cheerful while on the job.
About a hundred yards or two ahead of me, a car spun out and blew a tire--or blew a tire and spun out. Hard to tell when you're in a hurry. What I noticed was that he lurched, whirled, and ended up sideways in the lane, not moving. Right in front of me.
Fortunately, even when I am preoccupied with happy thoughts, I'm still paranoid about following distance. Even with the surprise of it, and the uncertainty of which lane he'd end up in, I was still on the brakes in plenty of time. There shouldn't have been any problem stopping.
Except for the fact that I was bobtail. I mentioned once, I believe, that a tractor without a trailer has practically no weight on the rear wheels. I may have even mentioned the picture I saw of one braking too hard and turning a front somersault. It makes me less enthusiastic on the subject of brake pedal pressure, for some reason.
And then there was the fully loaded tractor trailer behind me. Don't want to stop TOO quick.
And the lanes on both sides were full of cars. Cars that were now moving considerably faster than I was. Translation: Changing lanes to dodge wasn't an option.
So there I sat, trying to feel how close I was to losing traction on the back wheels. And how much luck the fellow behind me was having matching me. And watching the fellow in the car watch me (the driver's seat was right in front of my bumper--of course). It was an interesting few seconds. But at length, I came to a stop--a good three feet from the driver's door--and waited for the big fellow behind me to arrive. I wondered idly how hard he'd hit.
Two or three seconds went by, and no bump. So I stopped scrunching and looked in the mirror again. And there he was.
I'd been right--he hadn't had time to stop. So he'd started a lane change instead. Had he seen an opening? Or taken a chance that nobody was going to argue the point? Fine by me, either way--he'd come to a stop about six feet past the back of my truck, slanting across both right lanes of the Interstate. He'd missed me by a good ten inches.
Well, we were both stopped. And we were blocking all the traffic in both those lanes. So we just sat there with our flashers on until the fellow in the car got his head together, his engine started, and his car off onto the shoulder. Then we both went on our way. As the other truck passed me, he grinned and waved and shrugged. I did the same.
And I went on to the terminal. And from there home.
Scary, huh?
Um, not really.
And that scares me.
I came closer to actually hurting someone today than I have the whole time I've been driving these things, I think. But it's not that different from the kind of thing that happens to me pretty much every day. Between drivers who think they can dance with elephants, weather that makes the road invisible and untouchable at the same time, schedules that put me behind a wheel when my brain insists on dreaming, and a hundred other things, those ten seconds may have been one of the more straightforward problems I've had thrown at me from out of nowhere. Both I and (I think) the other driver were as amused as we were relieved.
Just another day on the job.
Now THAT's scary.
-----
*The reason I was thinking--hypothetically, of course--about the ethical conundrum of the previous entry.
**The Dreaded Perimeter Highway, that loops clear around metropolitan Atlanta. Said to have been built as a last line of defense in case of another Northern invasion--just let them get on it and they'd never figure out where they were. If so, it won't work--I've seen the D. C. Beltway. But it was a good try...
Traffic on I-285** was moderate-to-heavy, and moving well. Since I wasn't going to pick up another load, the dispatcher didn't try to find an empty for me. So this was one of those rare times when I didn't have a 53-foot tail to wag in traffic. This simplifies driving quite a bit. And in a few more miles, I would be getting into a compact car, which would simplify things even more. For some reason, I was cheerful all of a sudden.
I have to remember not to be cheerful while on the job.
About a hundred yards or two ahead of me, a car spun out and blew a tire--or blew a tire and spun out. Hard to tell when you're in a hurry. What I noticed was that he lurched, whirled, and ended up sideways in the lane, not moving. Right in front of me.
Fortunately, even when I am preoccupied with happy thoughts, I'm still paranoid about following distance. Even with the surprise of it, and the uncertainty of which lane he'd end up in, I was still on the brakes in plenty of time. There shouldn't have been any problem stopping.
Except for the fact that I was bobtail. I mentioned once, I believe, that a tractor without a trailer has practically no weight on the rear wheels. I may have even mentioned the picture I saw of one braking too hard and turning a front somersault. It makes me less enthusiastic on the subject of brake pedal pressure, for some reason.
And then there was the fully loaded tractor trailer behind me. Don't want to stop TOO quick.
And the lanes on both sides were full of cars. Cars that were now moving considerably faster than I was. Translation: Changing lanes to dodge wasn't an option.
So there I sat, trying to feel how close I was to losing traction on the back wheels. And how much luck the fellow behind me was having matching me. And watching the fellow in the car watch me (the driver's seat was right in front of my bumper--of course). It was an interesting few seconds. But at length, I came to a stop--a good three feet from the driver's door--and waited for the big fellow behind me to arrive. I wondered idly how hard he'd hit.
Two or three seconds went by, and no bump. So I stopped scrunching and looked in the mirror again. And there he was.
I'd been right--he hadn't had time to stop. So he'd started a lane change instead. Had he seen an opening? Or taken a chance that nobody was going to argue the point? Fine by me, either way--he'd come to a stop about six feet past the back of my truck, slanting across both right lanes of the Interstate. He'd missed me by a good ten inches.
Well, we were both stopped. And we were blocking all the traffic in both those lanes. So we just sat there with our flashers on until the fellow in the car got his head together, his engine started, and his car off onto the shoulder. Then we both went on our way. As the other truck passed me, he grinned and waved and shrugged. I did the same.
And I went on to the terminal. And from there home.
Scary, huh?
Um, not really.
And that scares me.
I came closer to actually hurting someone today than I have the whole time I've been driving these things, I think. But it's not that different from the kind of thing that happens to me pretty much every day. Between drivers who think they can dance with elephants, weather that makes the road invisible and untouchable at the same time, schedules that put me behind a wheel when my brain insists on dreaming, and a hundred other things, those ten seconds may have been one of the more straightforward problems I've had thrown at me from out of nowhere. Both I and (I think) the other driver were as amused as we were relieved.
Just another day on the job.
Now THAT's scary.
-----
*The reason I was thinking--hypothetically, of course--about the ethical conundrum of the previous entry.
**The Dreaded Perimeter Highway, that loops clear around metropolitan Atlanta. Said to have been built as a last line of defense in case of another Northern invasion--just let them get on it and they'd never figure out where they were. If so, it won't work--I've seen the D. C. Beltway. But it was a good try...
Ethical conundrum
For those of you considering this career, here is a test question that won't be on any of the state tests, and probably won't come up in your interviews (assuming you interview for a position like this). Nevertheless, it is a problem that might well come up in the course of your duties. It hasn't happened to me, of course...
You drive to the shipper,* drop the empty trailer you brought with you, and pick up the trailer the shipper has thoughtfully pre-loaded for you to carry away. From previous experience with this customer (as well as the way the truck strains to move this thing), you know the load is probably heavy--perhaps as heavy as you're allowed to haul. You are therefore pleased to see that the customer has their own scale on-site.
It's a simple small-platform single scale, so you pull your steering tires up on the platform and make a note of your weight. No problem there, not that you usually have one. The steer tires mostly carry the weight of the engine and such--much of the weight of the tractor, in other words.
So you pull up further and make a note of the weight on your drive wheels. Again, no problem. A good two or three thousand pounds light, in fact
Not so good--that weight has to be somewhere.
So you pull up further and make a note of the weight on the trailer's tandem wheels. And sure enough. You're WAY over.
Far enough over, you decide after a few moments of calculating, that you can't adjust the wheel spacing enough to make the thing legal for Georgia roads. You'll either be half a ton too heavy on the tandem wheels, or the distance between the drive wheels and the tandems will be a foot or two past the legal limits.** And the DOT will come after you for either one.
At this point, the problem would be simple enough. Give the customer the bad news and let them glare at you as they take the trailer back and rearrange the load. You won't be popular, but you won't (technically) be in trouble with the customer, or your employer. And you GUARANTEED won't be in trouble with the DOT. The others might get you fired. The DOT will fine you***--and if you do this too often you might lose your license. And then where'll you be?
Like I said. Simple, if not painless. But no, you have to be thorough. And, technically, you're not really taking this load through much of Georgia. You're taking it to a rail yard, where the nice people will put it on a special flatcar and haul it to Chicago. From whence some other driver will take it the rest of the way to its destination. Which, you notice, is still in Illinois. So you pull out your handy "trucker's road atlas"--the one with the section on weight restrictions from various states. And sure enough--Illinois has different "bridge laws" than Georgia does. The wheels can be a good foot and a half further back there.
Quick calculation. Yep. That is enough to get the back wheels down to a legal weight. You won't be legal in Georgia, but the other guy will be legal in Illinois.
Additional information: There are no government scale houses between you and the rail yard. Unless somebody has a brainstorm and sets up a portable scale on the way, nobody will ever notice that your back wheels are overweight. On the other hand, a sufficiently alert state trooper MIGHT notice that the wheels are too far back. Not likely, but possible. And you are, after all, knowingly breaking the law.
So. Do you---
a)
Tick off the customer?
Go back to the manager and tell him you can't take the load unless they completely rearrange the 20-plus tons of stuff they've already loaded and sealed inside the trailer?
b)
Split the risk?
If you set the wheels to Georgia's legal limits, you'll be way overweight on the trailer wheels. But the chances of your getting caught are real close to zero. And if the guy in Illinois takes it past a scale without weighing it first, that's his problem, right?****
c)
Pick up the bomb?
If you set your wheels so it'll be legal in Illinois, you're breaking the law in Georgia. The chances of getting caught are bigger than in option b) (a policeman with a sharp set of eyes would be enough), but they're still small. And the guy in Chicago will be just fine.
Please answer a), b), or c). Then turn the page...
This question will not be graded--now. But I can just about guarantee you'll run into things like this at least once a week.
Don't you hate word problems?
-----
*We will not, at this time, discuss the turn you missed on the way, or the "no trucks allowed" road you were forced to follow to find a place to get back to the main highway, or how odd it was that the "no trucks allowed" sign was a good half mile past the last possible side road that would have allowed you to escape this necessity.
**I think I've mentioned that the "bridge laws" that regulate weight and balance on these trucks also regulates wheelbase. I'm not sure why having the back wheels too far from the drive wheels threatens a bridge, but there it is...
***Technically, the DOT fines the company you work for. If you can persuade the company you had no way of knowing about the problem, they MIGHT not dock your pay to cover the fine. But we've already eliminated that option here, haven't we?
****Adding to the complications here is the nature of the guy picking up the load in Chicago. On the one hand, it may be a local driver. They have a tendency (or so I've been told--by some of THEM) to simply go around the scales and ignore any possible weight problems. After all, they know where all of the scales are--and the good detours. On the other hand, it might not be a local driver. I've been sent to pick up trailers at rail yards myself--just because I happened to be handy when the local drivers were already spoken for. And if it were me on the other end...
You drive to the shipper,* drop the empty trailer you brought with you, and pick up the trailer the shipper has thoughtfully pre-loaded for you to carry away. From previous experience with this customer (as well as the way the truck strains to move this thing), you know the load is probably heavy--perhaps as heavy as you're allowed to haul. You are therefore pleased to see that the customer has their own scale on-site.
It's a simple small-platform single scale, so you pull your steering tires up on the platform and make a note of your weight. No problem there, not that you usually have one. The steer tires mostly carry the weight of the engine and such--much of the weight of the tractor, in other words.
So you pull up further and make a note of the weight on your drive wheels. Again, no problem. A good two or three thousand pounds light, in fact
Not so good--that weight has to be somewhere.
So you pull up further and make a note of the weight on the trailer's tandem wheels. And sure enough. You're WAY over.
Far enough over, you decide after a few moments of calculating, that you can't adjust the wheel spacing enough to make the thing legal for Georgia roads. You'll either be half a ton too heavy on the tandem wheels, or the distance between the drive wheels and the tandems will be a foot or two past the legal limits.** And the DOT will come after you for either one.
At this point, the problem would be simple enough. Give the customer the bad news and let them glare at you as they take the trailer back and rearrange the load. You won't be popular, but you won't (technically) be in trouble with the customer, or your employer. And you GUARANTEED won't be in trouble with the DOT. The others might get you fired. The DOT will fine you***--and if you do this too often you might lose your license. And then where'll you be?
Like I said. Simple, if not painless. But no, you have to be thorough. And, technically, you're not really taking this load through much of Georgia. You're taking it to a rail yard, where the nice people will put it on a special flatcar and haul it to Chicago. From whence some other driver will take it the rest of the way to its destination. Which, you notice, is still in Illinois. So you pull out your handy "trucker's road atlas"--the one with the section on weight restrictions from various states. And sure enough--Illinois has different "bridge laws" than Georgia does. The wheels can be a good foot and a half further back there.
Quick calculation. Yep. That is enough to get the back wheels down to a legal weight. You won't be legal in Georgia, but the other guy will be legal in Illinois.
Additional information: There are no government scale houses between you and the rail yard. Unless somebody has a brainstorm and sets up a portable scale on the way, nobody will ever notice that your back wheels are overweight. On the other hand, a sufficiently alert state trooper MIGHT notice that the wheels are too far back. Not likely, but possible. And you are, after all, knowingly breaking the law.
So. Do you---
a)
Tick off the customer?
Go back to the manager and tell him you can't take the load unless they completely rearrange the 20-plus tons of stuff they've already loaded and sealed inside the trailer?
b)
Split the risk?
If you set the wheels to Georgia's legal limits, you'll be way overweight on the trailer wheels. But the chances of your getting caught are real close to zero. And if the guy in Illinois takes it past a scale without weighing it first, that's his problem, right?****
c)
Pick up the bomb?
If you set your wheels so it'll be legal in Illinois, you're breaking the law in Georgia. The chances of getting caught are bigger than in option b) (a policeman with a sharp set of eyes would be enough), but they're still small. And the guy in Chicago will be just fine.
Please answer a), b), or c). Then turn the page...
This question will not be graded--now. But I can just about guarantee you'll run into things like this at least once a week.
Don't you hate word problems?
-----
*We will not, at this time, discuss the turn you missed on the way, or the "no trucks allowed" road you were forced to follow to find a place to get back to the main highway, or how odd it was that the "no trucks allowed" sign was a good half mile past the last possible side road that would have allowed you to escape this necessity.
**I think I've mentioned that the "bridge laws" that regulate weight and balance on these trucks also regulates wheelbase. I'm not sure why having the back wheels too far from the drive wheels threatens a bridge, but there it is...
***Technically, the DOT fines the company you work for. If you can persuade the company you had no way of knowing about the problem, they MIGHT not dock your pay to cover the fine. But we've already eliminated that option here, haven't we?
****Adding to the complications here is the nature of the guy picking up the load in Chicago. On the one hand, it may be a local driver. They have a tendency (or so I've been told--by some of THEM) to simply go around the scales and ignore any possible weight problems. After all, they know where all of the scales are--and the good detours. On the other hand, it might not be a local driver. I've been sent to pick up trailers at rail yards myself--just because I happened to be handy when the local drivers were already spoken for. And if it were me on the other end...
Sunday, May 15, 2011
The man in the middle
I've said it before, but Texas has some really nice rest areas.
Not all of them, mind you. On the average, they're ok, but often a bit on the small side. Finding a parking space can be interesting at a lot of them—at least for something the size of an eighteen-wheeler. The free wi-fi makes up for a lot, though, once you squeeze in.
And then there are the "Safety Rest Areas."
There's one just north of Laredo, where I first learned how nice a rest area can be. Another is at the border of Texas and Louisiana (where it doubles as a welcome center. I suspect there are several more that do that...). That one is built out over a swamp, with a nature-trail boardwalk that meanders above the marshy ground.
They all have a huge (relatively speaking) main building with exhibits showing you how neat the local history/ecology/people/what-have-you is, large and thoroughly landscaped grounds, and all the other stuff that you might need to ENJOY your rest stop.
The one I'm sitting in now is an hour or so east of San Antonio: the "Guadalupe County Safety Rest Area." There's a nice playground to my left (it's getting dark enough the kids are reluctantly being shepherded back to their cars), three or four lofty and lovely stone picnic pavilions, and a fair bit of woods and bushes.
Lots of birds. A rabbit that froze and stared at me as I stepped out the front door (I slipped in and went out the back, just to be nice).
And evidence that people live and work nearby (at least I assume somebody must work at that stockyard I faintly smell...)
All that is nice, but I'll admit I stopped mainly for the free wi-fi. If nothing else, I need to check on what the Mississippi is doing to Louisiana. I-10 and I-12 in particular. I've got to go through there tomorrow.
Hmm. Doesn't look too scary at the moment. We'll see.
Meanwhile, I prepare to relax. I've got 'til Wednesday morning to make about 800-900 miles, so I don't have to start at the crack of dawn tomorrow. I intend to take advantage. The last three days have made me eager for rest.
Friday morning, in Atlanta, I got assigned a load that was due to deliver at 1:00 pm the next morning. In Laredo, Texas.
1100 miles in 24 hours. Less the legally-required 10-hour break. Do the math.
Normally this kind of load would be assigned to a team. With one driving while the other sleeps, it's not a problem. For a solo driver, it's not a problem, either. It's an impossibility.
My dispatcher told me he thought the delivery could be rescheduled. Said to just go get the load and run with it. So I did.
About the time I got the load, my dispatcher called back. The load was hot, he said. The load info used the work three times, in fact. So forget rescheduling. Run as far with it as you can tonight, he said. We'll get somebody to repower it when you shut down.
So I started driving, and I didn't stop until midnight. Then I sent my (night) dispatcher a message telling him where to find me.
Half an hour later, I got a message asking me why we were repowering this load.
I called in and explained what I'd been told. An hour or so later I was told to just get up in the morning and get it to Texas as quick as I can.
O-kayyy...
600-plus miles in 11 hours of driving left me a full hour from my destination last night. So I got up this morning and came the rest of the way bright and early. And the local office said "Where the #%&& have you been?"
Turned out that load was even hotter than I'd known. As in "the factory will shut down if this load doesn't get there quick" kind of hot. I explained what I'd been told, and they said, "We'll have to have a long talk with someone."
Gulp.
I don't think I'm in trouble. I did ask all the right questions. But I still don't like being in the crossfire.
Driving into flood country is actually a bit more comfortable.
And in the meantime, this rest area sure is pretty.
Not all of them, mind you. On the average, they're ok, but often a bit on the small side. Finding a parking space can be interesting at a lot of them—at least for something the size of an eighteen-wheeler. The free wi-fi makes up for a lot, though, once you squeeze in.
And then there are the "Safety Rest Areas."
There's one just north of Laredo, where I first learned how nice a rest area can be. Another is at the border of Texas and Louisiana (where it doubles as a welcome center. I suspect there are several more that do that...). That one is built out over a swamp, with a nature-trail boardwalk that meanders above the marshy ground.
They all have a huge (relatively speaking) main building with exhibits showing you how neat the local history/ecology/people/what-have-you is, large and thoroughly landscaped grounds, and all the other stuff that you might need to ENJOY your rest stop.
The one I'm sitting in now is an hour or so east of San Antonio: the "Guadalupe County Safety Rest Area." There's a nice playground to my left (it's getting dark enough the kids are reluctantly being shepherded back to their cars), three or four lofty and lovely stone picnic pavilions, and a fair bit of woods and bushes.
Lots of birds. A rabbit that froze and stared at me as I stepped out the front door (I slipped in and went out the back, just to be nice).
And evidence that people live and work nearby (at least I assume somebody must work at that stockyard I faintly smell...)
All that is nice, but I'll admit I stopped mainly for the free wi-fi. If nothing else, I need to check on what the Mississippi is doing to Louisiana. I-10 and I-12 in particular. I've got to go through there tomorrow.
Hmm. Doesn't look too scary at the moment. We'll see.
Meanwhile, I prepare to relax. I've got 'til Wednesday morning to make about 800-900 miles, so I don't have to start at the crack of dawn tomorrow. I intend to take advantage. The last three days have made me eager for rest.
Friday morning, in Atlanta, I got assigned a load that was due to deliver at 1:00 pm the next morning. In Laredo, Texas.
1100 miles in 24 hours. Less the legally-required 10-hour break. Do the math.
Normally this kind of load would be assigned to a team. With one driving while the other sleeps, it's not a problem. For a solo driver, it's not a problem, either. It's an impossibility.
My dispatcher told me he thought the delivery could be rescheduled. Said to just go get the load and run with it. So I did.
About the time I got the load, my dispatcher called back. The load was hot, he said. The load info used the work three times, in fact. So forget rescheduling. Run as far with it as you can tonight, he said. We'll get somebody to repower it when you shut down.
So I started driving, and I didn't stop until midnight. Then I sent my (night) dispatcher a message telling him where to find me.
Half an hour later, I got a message asking me why we were repowering this load.
I called in and explained what I'd been told. An hour or so later I was told to just get up in the morning and get it to Texas as quick as I can.
O-kayyy...
600-plus miles in 11 hours of driving left me a full hour from my destination last night. So I got up this morning and came the rest of the way bright and early. And the local office said "Where the #%&& have you been?"
Turned out that load was even hotter than I'd known. As in "the factory will shut down if this load doesn't get there quick" kind of hot. I explained what I'd been told, and they said, "We'll have to have a long talk with someone."
Gulp.
I don't think I'm in trouble. I did ask all the right questions. But I still don't like being in the crossfire.
Driving into flood country is actually a bit more comfortable.
And in the meantime, this rest area sure is pretty.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
How things improve in this job
My very first post in this blog dealt with the importance of windshield washer fluid. At the time I didn't consider the dark side of that.
Come to think of it, this particular dark side didn't exist at the time.
In their never-ending attempt to make themselves feel better by bankrupting ordinary citizens, the EPA raised the bar yet again on diesel truck emissions standards a year or two ago. I've described the previous round of technical "improvements" and how they've made my life more interesting here. The latest standards were far more than that approach could easily handle.* So the standard approach has gone from not making the Bad Stuff in the first place, to destroying it before it gets out of the exhaust pipe.
This involves something kind of like a catalytic converter. But it's doing a completely different job, in a completely different way. And part of the process is injecting a chemical into the exhaust as it goes into the converter. "Diesel Exhaust Fluid," it's called, and its active ingredient is urea.
So what does all this have to do with windshield washers? I'm getting to that.
Diesel Exhaust Fluid, as sold in truck stops, is a pale blue fluid, almost transparent. In truck stops it's sold in fancy bottles at equally fancy prices. At many trucking company terminals, it's delivered in large translucent plastic tanks. They look a lot like the tanks those same companies use to dispense windshield washer solvent. And in the last two or three months, I've had two trucks where someone put the stuff in the windshield washer tanks.
News flash. Diesel Exhaust Fluid doesn't clean a windshield too well.
When it dries, it forms crystals all over what you spray it on. The first time this happened, it cleaned the road salt and dirt off the windshield, then covered it with something even harder to see through. It took two or three tries before I began to realize the problem wasn't with the road.
Two days driving in wet snowy weather. Afraid to use the washer to clean the stuff off the windshield. Less than fun.
And neither truck even uses the stuff. They aren't new enough.
Thus the government improves our lives.
This post exists primarily to let you know I added another back-post, for 03/28/2011. But as long as I was typing, why not say something?
-----
*I read somewhere that one company did do it the hard way. Because the government had decreed that the chemical approach I'm about to describe wasn't acceptable. Then, after they'd spent huge amounts of money doing it the EPA's way, the EPA changed its mind--possibly because of lobbying from the other truck makers, who didn't want to spend huge amounts of money. Last I heard, lawyers had entered the infected area...
Come to think of it, this particular dark side didn't exist at the time.
In their never-ending attempt to make themselves feel better by bankrupting ordinary citizens, the EPA raised the bar yet again on diesel truck emissions standards a year or two ago. I've described the previous round of technical "improvements" and how they've made my life more interesting here. The latest standards were far more than that approach could easily handle.* So the standard approach has gone from not making the Bad Stuff in the first place, to destroying it before it gets out of the exhaust pipe.
This involves something kind of like a catalytic converter. But it's doing a completely different job, in a completely different way. And part of the process is injecting a chemical into the exhaust as it goes into the converter. "Diesel Exhaust Fluid," it's called, and its active ingredient is urea.
So what does all this have to do with windshield washers? I'm getting to that.
Diesel Exhaust Fluid, as sold in truck stops, is a pale blue fluid, almost transparent. In truck stops it's sold in fancy bottles at equally fancy prices. At many trucking company terminals, it's delivered in large translucent plastic tanks. They look a lot like the tanks those same companies use to dispense windshield washer solvent. And in the last two or three months, I've had two trucks where someone put the stuff in the windshield washer tanks.
News flash. Diesel Exhaust Fluid doesn't clean a windshield too well.
When it dries, it forms crystals all over what you spray it on. The first time this happened, it cleaned the road salt and dirt off the windshield, then covered it with something even harder to see through. It took two or three tries before I began to realize the problem wasn't with the road.
Two days driving in wet snowy weather. Afraid to use the washer to clean the stuff off the windshield. Less than fun.
And neither truck even uses the stuff. They aren't new enough.
Thus the government improves our lives.
This post exists primarily to let you know I added another back-post, for 03/28/2011. But as long as I was typing, why not say something?
-----
*I read somewhere that one company did do it the hard way. Because the government had decreed that the chemical approach I'm about to describe wasn't acceptable. Then, after they'd spent huge amounts of money doing it the EPA's way, the EPA changed its mind--possibly because of lobbying from the other truck makers, who didn't want to spend huge amounts of money. Last I heard, lawyers had entered the infected area...
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Return of adventures in navigation
Diner Dela in Pierceton, Indiana serves large hamburgers.
They're a sandwich and Mexican place, but I'd had Mexican a day or two ago, so I ordered a cheeseburger. A double cheeseburger, to be precise. With fries.
Big mistake. And I should have known better. They had a poster on their wall advertising their “Dela Dine-o.” As in “dino.” A five pound burger. They had a picture of the only customer who'd managed to get through one in an hour (and therefore didn't have to pay for it), and a “Wall of Shame” for those who'd tried and failed.
Their standard burger isn't that bad, but it was big enough. The double was wretched excess. For me, anyway.
What the heck. I earned it.
This was not a weekend for freight in Ohio. I sat around all day yesterday (though I was technically under a load—long story). And when they finally found something for me last night, it was a load that was two hours away and didn't pick up until midnight tonight. I've discussed me and driving all night, so I won't do it again. Let's just say I'm not looking forward to it. But I figured it would be a little better if I could sleep right up to the appointment time. So I headed out there this morning.
Ideally, they'd let me sit on their property and wait. Park before 2pm, and I could get a full 10-hour break in and then get my trailer loaded. If not, I could always backtrack to the nearest truck stop. And I'd know how to get there when it was time to come back. It's always easier to find a place in daylight.
Boy, howdy, was that ever the right decision.
Following my directions like a good boy, I turned onto the road that runs through downtown Pierceton. Two streets down, turn right. Yep, there was the sign for the proper street. And there was a “NO TRUCKS” sign, just beyond it.
Houses and kids playing, and trees with large branches less than 13'6” off the ground, and a one-lane right-angle turn that would have made me nervous with a large delivery van. This was not the way to the factory. Not for me, anyway.
And no other street going in the right direction was any better. I crawled through the tiny downtown, finally turning right on the only road wide enough to take the tractor-trailer. I still don't know for sure whether I was supposed to be on it, but I only brushed a tree branch twice.
Seven miles and two towns later, I found another right turn big enough to accommodate an eighteen-wheeler. One more right turn, and I was on the main highway, heading back toward Pierceton for another try.
This time I ignored both GPS and directions. I knew the name of the street. I'd seen the factory on an earlier pass. I knew where I had to be. And there HAD to be a street off this highway that went there—there sure wasn't a way in from town!
I finally did see something promising. The street name I was looking for, in about the right place. I turned in, gingerly followed it around, and found the plant. And the NO TRUCKS sign just beyond it. The directions I had would have been fine, if I'd been in a car...
I sent some corrected directions to my dispatcher and spoke to the nice people in the plant. They said sure, park over there and you'll be out of the way. So I did. Then I walked into town and looked for some comfort food.
And now, overstuffed and torpid, I think I can sleep all day. So I will.
G'nite. Sort of.
They're a sandwich and Mexican place, but I'd had Mexican a day or two ago, so I ordered a cheeseburger. A double cheeseburger, to be precise. With fries.
Big mistake. And I should have known better. They had a poster on their wall advertising their “Dela Dine-o.” As in “dino.” A five pound burger. They had a picture of the only customer who'd managed to get through one in an hour (and therefore didn't have to pay for it), and a “Wall of Shame” for those who'd tried and failed.
Their standard burger isn't that bad, but it was big enough. The double was wretched excess. For me, anyway.
What the heck. I earned it.
This was not a weekend for freight in Ohio. I sat around all day yesterday (though I was technically under a load—long story). And when they finally found something for me last night, it was a load that was two hours away and didn't pick up until midnight tonight. I've discussed me and driving all night, so I won't do it again. Let's just say I'm not looking forward to it. But I figured it would be a little better if I could sleep right up to the appointment time. So I headed out there this morning.
Ideally, they'd let me sit on their property and wait. Park before 2pm, and I could get a full 10-hour break in and then get my trailer loaded. If not, I could always backtrack to the nearest truck stop. And I'd know how to get there when it was time to come back. It's always easier to find a place in daylight.
Boy, howdy, was that ever the right decision.
Following my directions like a good boy, I turned onto the road that runs through downtown Pierceton. Two streets down, turn right. Yep, there was the sign for the proper street. And there was a “NO TRUCKS” sign, just beyond it.
Houses and kids playing, and trees with large branches less than 13'6” off the ground, and a one-lane right-angle turn that would have made me nervous with a large delivery van. This was not the way to the factory. Not for me, anyway.
And no other street going in the right direction was any better. I crawled through the tiny downtown, finally turning right on the only road wide enough to take the tractor-trailer. I still don't know for sure whether I was supposed to be on it, but I only brushed a tree branch twice.
Seven miles and two towns later, I found another right turn big enough to accommodate an eighteen-wheeler. One more right turn, and I was on the main highway, heading back toward Pierceton for another try.
This time I ignored both GPS and directions. I knew the name of the street. I'd seen the factory on an earlier pass. I knew where I had to be. And there HAD to be a street off this highway that went there—there sure wasn't a way in from town!
I finally did see something promising. The street name I was looking for, in about the right place. I turned in, gingerly followed it around, and found the plant. And the NO TRUCKS sign just beyond it. The directions I had would have been fine, if I'd been in a car...
I sent some corrected directions to my dispatcher and spoke to the nice people in the plant. They said sure, park over there and you'll be out of the way. So I did. Then I walked into town and looked for some comfort food.
And now, overstuffed and torpid, I think I can sleep all day. So I will.
G'nite. Sort of.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Hidden dangers
This job is bad for the waistline.
Not always for the usual reasons.
The truck stop in Bucyrus, Ohio, is within easy walking distance of a Bob Evans(tm). You don't even have to cross a street. You barely have to cross a parking lot.
I had a nice big lunch already today. And the closest thing I've ever managed to a diet was to limit myself to one real meal a day. Logically speaking, I should have stayed in the truck tonight and gone in the morning. Breakfast is my favorite meal at Bob Evans(tm) anyway.
Not an option this time.
I started my day in North Carolina. I crossed Virginia, West Virginia, and half of Ohio before I stopped for a break of any kind. At which point I had a leisurely lunch* and drove the rest of the way to the customer in one jump. By the time the nice people had unloaded me, I had done my research and found the only truck stop within fifty miles. Getting here and parking more or less ended my day.
In Bucyrus, Ohio.
Bucyrus is about equidistant from every major city in Ohio. Or so it seems. Beautiful country, but not a hotbed of industrial activity. I had no idea where my next load was coming from. Or, to be more accurate, where I'd be going to to get it.
Fortunately, my dispatcher was already on top of things. I have a load tomorrow. It picks up at 7:00 am, about 50 miles from here. Which means I'd better be rolling by 5:00. Anything later than 5:30 would be insane.
The Bob Evans(tm) in Bucyrus opens at 6:00.
Sigh.
So here I am, finishing up a bowl of their famous sausage gravy. For supper. When I didn't need supper. It was that or park next to a Bob Evans(tm) and get nothing.
Svelteness is a receding goal.
This job has perils you might never have imagined.
- - -
*Unusual for me—I usually get a sandwich and eat it while driving. (I know what kind of distraction I can handle—your mileage may vary.)
Not always for the usual reasons.
The truck stop in Bucyrus, Ohio, is within easy walking distance of a Bob Evans(tm). You don't even have to cross a street. You barely have to cross a parking lot.
I had a nice big lunch already today. And the closest thing I've ever managed to a diet was to limit myself to one real meal a day. Logically speaking, I should have stayed in the truck tonight and gone in the morning. Breakfast is my favorite meal at Bob Evans(tm) anyway.
Not an option this time.
I started my day in North Carolina. I crossed Virginia, West Virginia, and half of Ohio before I stopped for a break of any kind. At which point I had a leisurely lunch* and drove the rest of the way to the customer in one jump. By the time the nice people had unloaded me, I had done my research and found the only truck stop within fifty miles. Getting here and parking more or less ended my day.
In Bucyrus, Ohio.
Bucyrus is about equidistant from every major city in Ohio. Or so it seems. Beautiful country, but not a hotbed of industrial activity. I had no idea where my next load was coming from. Or, to be more accurate, where I'd be going to to get it.
Fortunately, my dispatcher was already on top of things. I have a load tomorrow. It picks up at 7:00 am, about 50 miles from here. Which means I'd better be rolling by 5:00. Anything later than 5:30 would be insane.
The Bob Evans(tm) in Bucyrus opens at 6:00.
Sigh.
So here I am, finishing up a bowl of their famous sausage gravy. For supper. When I didn't need supper. It was that or park next to a Bob Evans(tm) and get nothing.
Svelteness is a receding goal.
This job has perils you might never have imagined.
- - -
*Unusual for me—I usually get a sandwich and eat it while driving. (I know what kind of distraction I can handle—your mileage may vary.)
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Intuitively obvious
The weather is starting to annoy me.
April is not supposed to be a month for snow. Or 30-degree nights. Yeah, I know, I'm in the mountains. In Pennsylvania. Ski resorts surround me. But still.
On the other hand, I was more annoyed an hour ago. And last night, my mood was downright hostile. Toward an inanimate object, fortunately. And maybe its designers.
One of the reasons for the relatively thin-on-the-ground posts lately has been mechanical. I've been averaging one or two breakdowns a week for the past month or so. The climax occurred this week, when my time off was up (or so I thought). I called in to learn the status of the truck I was supposed to take out, and was told--
1—it was in the shop,
2—there wasn't much telling when it would be out,
3—meanwhile, I had been assigned another truck
4—but it was in the shop, too,
5—and there wasn't much telling when it would be out, either.
A day or so later my dispatcher lost patience and found a third truck to assign me to. One of the later models. Which means it's equipped with a bunk heater. The night looked to be a bit chilly, so I spent a little while figuring out the controls, turned it on, and curled up for the night.
I woke up shivering.
It never did a thing. Heck of a note.
But, being a good employee, I bucked up and drove another day. That night, I looked at the snow falling on the hood and played with the bunk heater some more. No joy.
Finally I gave it up and called a friend to vent before sleeping.. Said friend listened sympathetically, then said “Hmm” and pulled up Google. After several minutes of typing in various keywords, he decided there were no manuals online for operating the thing. But he did find a manual for installing it. And partway through the schematics and instructions on what tools you needed, he found a note:
WARNING: Before using the auxiliary heater, Let the truck run with the heater turned all the way up.
Turns out the bunk heater has a heater core that's connected to the truck engine's heater system. And it uses some of that coolant to “store the heat” it's generating with its burner. So if you don't run the engine with the heat all the way up, the bunk heater won't have any coolant in its heater core. And a safety switch will keep it from coming on at all.
But you knew that already, didn't you? Doesn't everybody?
No matter. I'm warm now. No complaints.
April is not supposed to be a month for snow. Or 30-degree nights. Yeah, I know, I'm in the mountains. In Pennsylvania. Ski resorts surround me. But still.
On the other hand, I was more annoyed an hour ago. And last night, my mood was downright hostile. Toward an inanimate object, fortunately. And maybe its designers.
One of the reasons for the relatively thin-on-the-ground posts lately has been mechanical. I've been averaging one or two breakdowns a week for the past month or so. The climax occurred this week, when my time off was up (or so I thought). I called in to learn the status of the truck I was supposed to take out, and was told--
1—it was in the shop,
2—there wasn't much telling when it would be out,
3—meanwhile, I had been assigned another truck
4—but it was in the shop, too,
5—and there wasn't much telling when it would be out, either.
A day or so later my dispatcher lost patience and found a third truck to assign me to. One of the later models. Which means it's equipped with a bunk heater. The night looked to be a bit chilly, so I spent a little while figuring out the controls, turned it on, and curled up for the night.
I woke up shivering.
It never did a thing. Heck of a note.
But, being a good employee, I bucked up and drove another day. That night, I looked at the snow falling on the hood and played with the bunk heater some more. No joy.
Finally I gave it up and called a friend to vent before sleeping.. Said friend listened sympathetically, then said “Hmm” and pulled up Google. After several minutes of typing in various keywords, he decided there were no manuals online for operating the thing. But he did find a manual for installing it. And partway through the schematics and instructions on what tools you needed, he found a note:
WARNING: Before using the auxiliary heater, Let the truck run with the heater turned all the way up.
Turns out the bunk heater has a heater core that's connected to the truck engine's heater system. And it uses some of that coolant to “store the heat” it's generating with its burner. So if you don't run the engine with the heat all the way up, the bunk heater won't have any coolant in its heater core. And a safety switch will keep it from coming on at all.
But you knew that already, didn't you? Doesn't everybody?
No matter. I'm warm now. No complaints.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Timing is everything
I-68 in West Virginia. They made us stop at the top of the mountain to check our brakes. They warned us of the steep downhill grade. They proclaimed a 50-mph speed limit for heavy commercial vehicles.
A mile or three down the road, they posted a sign telling us about the runaway truck ramp just ahead. The runaway truck ramp was duly found and passed.
And a little way after that, I saw a sign telling me I should be in a lower gear.
Fortunately, I already was.
(Footnote:
(One of the things I was taught in CDL school was to never try to upshift on a steep uphill grade--and never, never, NEVER try to downshift on a steep downhill grade. It's almost impossible to get the rpm's to match. Which means you will—almost guaranteed—miss the shift. And there you are, on a steep grade, with the truck in neutral. Freewheeling down a hill in an 40-ton truck is a Bad Thing.
(In either direction.
(But climbing the hill, at least you're moving slowly. You might get the brakes locked down in time. Downhill? If you're trying to downshift, you're already moving too fast...)
Oh, well. At least they warned us...
A mile or three down the road, they posted a sign telling us about the runaway truck ramp just ahead. The runaway truck ramp was duly found and passed.
And a little way after that, I saw a sign telling me I should be in a lower gear.
Fortunately, I already was.
(Footnote:
(One of the things I was taught in CDL school was to never try to upshift on a steep uphill grade--and never, never, NEVER try to downshift on a steep downhill grade. It's almost impossible to get the rpm's to match. Which means you will—almost guaranteed—miss the shift. And there you are, on a steep grade, with the truck in neutral. Freewheeling down a hill in an 40-ton truck is a Bad Thing.
(In either direction.
(But climbing the hill, at least you're moving slowly. You might get the brakes locked down in time. Downhill? If you're trying to downshift, you're already moving too fast...)
Oh, well. At least they warned us...
Monday, March 28, 2011
Quick touristy note
US 250 between Dover, Ohio and Wheeling, West Virginia is a beautiful drive. Up and around and over and through the mountains. Along the way you can stop in Cadiz, Ohio and see the Clark Gable museum (he was born there).
The map marks it as a scenic route, and I believe them. Can't tell you myself, though. It's hard to admire the scenery in the dark.
The map marks it as a scenic route, and I believe them. Can't tell you myself, though. It's hard to admire the scenery in the dark.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
The machine stops
This motel room has all the latest amenities you expect to find for the price. Including a hair dryer, a coffeemaker, and free wi-fi for your computer. Even an iron.
All you have to do is find a place to plug them in.
The architect obviously didn't see the Information Age coming. There are three outlets in this room. The tv, the alarm clock, and the wall lamps use every socket on two of them. The third is in that clever little alcove outside the bathroom. You know, the one that lets you shave while the wife's taking a shower? Well placed for the hair dryer, ok for the iron. A little odd for the coffeemaker, but it'll do.
But that's why I'm typing this next to the sink. Hope there isn't a splash on the power supply...
Three days ago I got to the terminal
and found out my truck was in the shop. Some problems with the exhaust system. Since problems with the exhaust are potentially lethal, I decided I could live with that.
Two days ago I went back,
and hung around 'til after lunch. At which time the truck was running again and I could start north with a load. Fueling a hundred miles later, I noticed the tractor took an awful lot of starting--but it did start. And it ran fine once it did start. And I'd already lost one day of driving. So I went on.
Yesterday I got up and turned the key.
It took a good ten or fifteen seconds of cranking and some old-fashioned pumping on the accelerator to get the truck running. But start it did. So I headed down the road. A few miles down the road, I started noticing a distinct lack of pep. As in, it lost 10 mph or more going up a hill. In southern Illinois. It'd barely lost that much climbing Monteagle in Tennessee the day before.
Something was wrong here. I'd have to get someone to look at it after I'd delivered.
Twenty miles later, it quit. Right in the middle of the highway.
You haven't had fun until you've tried to steer a 70,000 tractor-trailer off an Interstate with the last 30 mph of coasting speed. A modern one. With no engine. And therefore no power steering. If I'd had to turn the wheel more than ten degrees I'd have been in real trouble. At least the brakes run on air...
Half an hour later, the Breakdown Department answered their phone, and told me to look at the fuel filter.* I told the gentleman it was more than half full but a good ways from the top. "It's probably that," he said casually. "Drain it and you shouldn't have any more problems."
So I did. Truck started up again. Two miles later I stopped at a rest area and looked at it again. It was half full again. So I drained it again.
And two more times in the next twenty miles.
And then it quit again.
This time I'd decided I didn't want to be on a narrow (for Interstates, anyway) shoulder. So when it'd started to lose pep, I'd looked for an exit ramp. Up the ramp, across the intersection, partway down the next ramp, and I'd be well clear of anything trying to do 65+.
It quit at the intersection. Right at the stop sign.
Oh, well. At least it hadn't quit IN the intersection.
I called breakdown again with the bad news (was only on hold fifteen minutes this time), put out the reflectors, and settled down to wait for rescue.
Half an hour later the sheriff showed up.
All right, it was a deputy. But still a little hard on the nerves.
He told me I was blocking a major intersection. And since this was the middle of the rush hour (such as it was--I was a little ways into the country), he needed me to move it. Or he'd have it towed.
I think he expected me to make a fuss. At least he was primed for one. I agreed with him a little too emphatically, and he thought I was setting up for a tirade or something. Fortunately, I caught that in time and apologized quick. He grinned.
"Haven't had my coffee this morning," he said.
"I'm a little too far from a bathroom," I said.
And things were ok again.
He let me call my company again, so I could assure him we really were on this--and assure them that he was serious. I was still on hold when--
the mechanic showed up.
He got out of his pickup and went over to talk to the deputy. They had a good laugh--turns out he was the one the deputy was getting ready to call and have me towed away. "At least your company knew who to call," he grinned.
Thirty minutes later I started out again, with a new fuel filter. I drained it once more a few miles down the road, but had no trouble driving after that.
But it still didn't want to start.
After I'd made the delivery
I called Breakdown again and told them about the starting problem. They reluctantly sent me to the nearest major shop. When I got there, I was told they couldn't look at it before morning. So I went to a nearby truck stop and shivered all night.
Next morning I came back. And spent half the day in their lounge waiting for a diagnosis.
Turned out to be the fuel injectors. Once the engine was running it could force enough fuel through to keep running, but starting it from scratch was another matter.
Half a day later, they came back and told me they didn't have all the parts. I couldn't get the truck back 'til tomorrow at the earliest.
And it's hard to sleep in a truck with no engine. Locked in somebody's garage. So after another hour on the telephone, arrangements were made. And somebody at the shop gave me a ride.
And here I am.
Typing on a laptop set up next to the bathroom sink. In a warm room. After a good night's sleep. And a hot shower. In a private bathroom. In a few minutes I'll pack up and wander over to a Bob Evans for breakfast.
I'll get through it somehow.
-----
*Mostly a water separator. It has a big bowl covering the paper cartridge, so you know when it's too full of (possibly contaminated) fuel to work.
All you have to do is find a place to plug them in.
The architect obviously didn't see the Information Age coming. There are three outlets in this room. The tv, the alarm clock, and the wall lamps use every socket on two of them. The third is in that clever little alcove outside the bathroom. You know, the one that lets you shave while the wife's taking a shower? Well placed for the hair dryer, ok for the iron. A little odd for the coffeemaker, but it'll do.
But that's why I'm typing this next to the sink. Hope there isn't a splash on the power supply...
Three days ago I got to the terminal
and found out my truck was in the shop. Some problems with the exhaust system. Since problems with the exhaust are potentially lethal, I decided I could live with that.
Two days ago I went back,
and hung around 'til after lunch. At which time the truck was running again and I could start north with a load. Fueling a hundred miles later, I noticed the tractor took an awful lot of starting--but it did start. And it ran fine once it did start. And I'd already lost one day of driving. So I went on.
Yesterday I got up and turned the key.
It took a good ten or fifteen seconds of cranking and some old-fashioned pumping on the accelerator to get the truck running. But start it did. So I headed down the road. A few miles down the road, I started noticing a distinct lack of pep. As in, it lost 10 mph or more going up a hill. In southern Illinois. It'd barely lost that much climbing Monteagle in Tennessee the day before.
Something was wrong here. I'd have to get someone to look at it after I'd delivered.
Twenty miles later, it quit. Right in the middle of the highway.
You haven't had fun until you've tried to steer a 70,000 tractor-trailer off an Interstate with the last 30 mph of coasting speed. A modern one. With no engine. And therefore no power steering. If I'd had to turn the wheel more than ten degrees I'd have been in real trouble. At least the brakes run on air...
Half an hour later, the Breakdown Department answered their phone, and told me to look at the fuel filter.* I told the gentleman it was more than half full but a good ways from the top. "It's probably that," he said casually. "Drain it and you shouldn't have any more problems."
So I did. Truck started up again. Two miles later I stopped at a rest area and looked at it again. It was half full again. So I drained it again.
And two more times in the next twenty miles.
And then it quit again.
This time I'd decided I didn't want to be on a narrow (for Interstates, anyway) shoulder. So when it'd started to lose pep, I'd looked for an exit ramp. Up the ramp, across the intersection, partway down the next ramp, and I'd be well clear of anything trying to do 65+.
It quit at the intersection. Right at the stop sign.
Oh, well. At least it hadn't quit IN the intersection.
I called breakdown again with the bad news (was only on hold fifteen minutes this time), put out the reflectors, and settled down to wait for rescue.
Half an hour later the sheriff showed up.
All right, it was a deputy. But still a little hard on the nerves.
He told me I was blocking a major intersection. And since this was the middle of the rush hour (such as it was--I was a little ways into the country), he needed me to move it. Or he'd have it towed.
I think he expected me to make a fuss. At least he was primed for one. I agreed with him a little too emphatically, and he thought I was setting up for a tirade or something. Fortunately, I caught that in time and apologized quick. He grinned.
"Haven't had my coffee this morning," he said.
"I'm a little too far from a bathroom," I said.
And things were ok again.
He let me call my company again, so I could assure him we really were on this--and assure them that he was serious. I was still on hold when--
the mechanic showed up.
He got out of his pickup and went over to talk to the deputy. They had a good laugh--turns out he was the one the deputy was getting ready to call and have me towed away. "At least your company knew who to call," he grinned.
Thirty minutes later I started out again, with a new fuel filter. I drained it once more a few miles down the road, but had no trouble driving after that.
But it still didn't want to start.
After I'd made the delivery
I called Breakdown again and told them about the starting problem. They reluctantly sent me to the nearest major shop. When I got there, I was told they couldn't look at it before morning. So I went to a nearby truck stop and shivered all night.
Next morning I came back. And spent half the day in their lounge waiting for a diagnosis.
Turned out to be the fuel injectors. Once the engine was running it could force enough fuel through to keep running, but starting it from scratch was another matter.
Half a day later, they came back and told me they didn't have all the parts. I couldn't get the truck back 'til tomorrow at the earliest.
And it's hard to sleep in a truck with no engine. Locked in somebody's garage. So after another hour on the telephone, arrangements were made. And somebody at the shop gave me a ride.
And here I am.
Typing on a laptop set up next to the bathroom sink. In a warm room. After a good night's sleep. And a hot shower. In a private bathroom. In a few minutes I'll pack up and wander over to a Bob Evans for breakfast.
I'll get through it somehow.
-----
*Mostly a water separator. It has a big bowl covering the paper cartridge, so you know when it's too full of (possibly contaminated) fuel to work.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Playing catchup again
No excuses.
I could tell you all about the fun I've had finding wi-fi on the road, but I've had it at home.
I could go on about how if you're making money you don't have time to write. But I've already done that. and I was keeping up then.
There are probably three or four other excuses I could make. And they'd all be true. But never mind. Let's just start catching up, shall we?
I'm in a company terminal--one of the few places I can easily get Internet on the road. So we'll take advantage.
The following are new:
12/31/2010
1/1/2011
2/12/2011
2/13/2011
2/25/2011
2/26/2011
I'll try to get a few more up soon--I was taking notes, at least.
Sorry. Really.
I could tell you all about the fun I've had finding wi-fi on the road, but I've had it at home.
I could go on about how if you're making money you don't have time to write. But I've already done that. and I was keeping up then.
There are probably three or four other excuses I could make. And they'd all be true. But never mind. Let's just start catching up, shall we?
I'm in a company terminal--one of the few places I can easily get Internet on the road. So we'll take advantage.
The following are new:
12/31/2010
1/1/2011
2/12/2011
2/13/2011
2/25/2011
2/26/2011
I'll try to get a few more up soon--I was taking notes, at least.
Sorry. Really.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Yer gonna pay f'r that, pilgrim.
Today I solved yet another mystery that I never wondered about before.
You know how cowboys walk in the movies? That slow, relaxed, slightly stiff-legged, swaggering strut that makes the spurs jingle so nicely?
Hollywood didn't make it up. At least I don't think so. I think cowboys really move like that.
It's the only comfortable way to walk in those boots.
I delivered a load this morning, only nine and a half hours late.* As it turns out, due to oddities in their receiving hours, this wasn't too much of a disaster. And I ingratiated myself by helping one of their customers back her pickup and trailer out of a dead end she'd accidentally trapped herself in.** So everyone was friendly as I pulled out of the parking lot and headed west to my next pickup.
When I got there the gate guard smiled, and looked at my papers, and went over the company rules with me. At which point I realized I was in trouble.
I started this week in a hurry. Five days ago I called in and said “When do I take the truck out tomorrow?” And they said “You take it out today.” It was after lunch when this happened. So I did a lot of throwing things in the duffel bag and rushing out to the car. And I just KNEW I'd forgotten something.
Turns out it was shoes.
When I got in the truck in Atlanta, the weather was warm and pleasant. River sandals were most comfortable. And the weather has been mostly pleasant this week. Even in Pennsylvania, I could walk on top of the packed snow in above-freezing temperatures, wearing a pair of socks under the sandal straps. Those sandals are more comfortable than almost any pair of shoes I've ever owned, in these conditions.
But some places require you to wear something over your toes. Leather, at the very least.
I can't say I blame them—I've actually thought about a pair of steel-toed shoes myself, just to be overly careful. After all, I spend a lot of time in warehouses and lumberyards and things, just full of forklifts and jacks and piles of really heavy stuff that sometimes fall over and squash things. Like toes. So when a shipper or a receiver insists I put on real shoes, I smile and rummage in the duffel.
And usually I pull the shoes out and put them on.
Not this time.
After a few minutes poking into every corner of the truck, I faced the truth. And considered my options. There weren't many. After all, how many shoe stores have parking for eighteen-wheelers?
The only place I was sure would have both shoes and a parking space was a truck stop a couple of miles down the road. I'd never been there, but it was part of a chain I frequent; and their truck stops almost always have shoes in the travel store. In fact, last time I was in one, they'd had some inexpensive running/hiking shoes on sale.
So I made my apologies to the nice people at the shipper and made my way to the truck stop. And sure enough, they had shoes. They even had reasonably priced shoes.
Just not in my size.
They didn't even have unreasonably priced shoes in my size.
The only thing they had in my size was cowboy boots.
It took me something like thirty minutes to find even those. Cowboy boots don't fit the same way the shoes I usually buy do. It took some experimenting to find something I could walk in. And when I'd managed it, I found I had three styles to choose from:
A black pair with some kind of silver cap-like thing on the toe, that make me look like I was going to a Dwight Yoakam concert
The same style, in a color they called “black cherry”
And a more-or-less undecorated pair with low tops and zippers on the side.
I went for low profile. They cost a bit more (the other two pairs were on sale), but I was paying way too much anyway, so what the heck.
A hundred dollars to pick up a trailer-full of scrap metal. The things I do for this job.
At length I got back to the shipper, put my new boots on, and got out to walk to the shipping office. And within two steps I found myself frantically adjusting my stride several ways at once.
I mustn't bend the ankle much, I quickly discovered. Between the high heels and the high tops, flexing the ankle dug the boot-tops into my shins while throwing me slightly off balance. And if I didn't flex the ankle (much), I couldn't take as quick a step as I was used to. Not to mention the heel driving straight into the asphalt and jarring me clear through the knees and into the hips. So within ten feet I found myself walking at about half the speed I usually do.
Usually, I walk more or less flatfooted, my soles skimming the ground. Now the heel came down well before anything else, and I had to “roll” the foot forward to get the rest of the shoe on the pavement. And I soon figured out that the knee had to be in the right place, too, or I would feel it in the tendons along the side. To keep the knee lined up, I had to use the hips a little differently. And so on.
By the time I'd reached the office, I was walking in a slow, steady rhythm, slightly stiff-legged, with the tiniest twist to the hips with each step. I could almost hear it.
Ching. Ching. Ching. Ching...
The things you learn being a trucker.
- - - - -
*See here if you're really curious about why. Don't if you're not.
**Backing a trailer is something I do a fair bit of (surprise), and it's harder than it looks.
As it turned out, I was caught a little off guard myself. All the problems are more or less the same, but that tiny trailer could come around a lot quicker than the 53-foot monsters I'm used to. And if I'd jack-knifed it instead of her--
--come to think of it, maybe I didn't back her trailer out of that spot. If the Company's lawyers ask you about this, you imagined it...
You know how cowboys walk in the movies? That slow, relaxed, slightly stiff-legged, swaggering strut that makes the spurs jingle so nicely?
Hollywood didn't make it up. At least I don't think so. I think cowboys really move like that.
It's the only comfortable way to walk in those boots.
I delivered a load this morning, only nine and a half hours late.* As it turns out, due to oddities in their receiving hours, this wasn't too much of a disaster. And I ingratiated myself by helping one of their customers back her pickup and trailer out of a dead end she'd accidentally trapped herself in.** So everyone was friendly as I pulled out of the parking lot and headed west to my next pickup.
When I got there the gate guard smiled, and looked at my papers, and went over the company rules with me. At which point I realized I was in trouble.
I started this week in a hurry. Five days ago I called in and said “When do I take the truck out tomorrow?” And they said “You take it out today.” It was after lunch when this happened. So I did a lot of throwing things in the duffel bag and rushing out to the car. And I just KNEW I'd forgotten something.
Turns out it was shoes.
When I got in the truck in Atlanta, the weather was warm and pleasant. River sandals were most comfortable. And the weather has been mostly pleasant this week. Even in Pennsylvania, I could walk on top of the packed snow in above-freezing temperatures, wearing a pair of socks under the sandal straps. Those sandals are more comfortable than almost any pair of shoes I've ever owned, in these conditions.
But some places require you to wear something over your toes. Leather, at the very least.
I can't say I blame them—I've actually thought about a pair of steel-toed shoes myself, just to be overly careful. After all, I spend a lot of time in warehouses and lumberyards and things, just full of forklifts and jacks and piles of really heavy stuff that sometimes fall over and squash things. Like toes. So when a shipper or a receiver insists I put on real shoes, I smile and rummage in the duffel.
And usually I pull the shoes out and put them on.
Not this time.
After a few minutes poking into every corner of the truck, I faced the truth. And considered my options. There weren't many. After all, how many shoe stores have parking for eighteen-wheelers?
The only place I was sure would have both shoes and a parking space was a truck stop a couple of miles down the road. I'd never been there, but it was part of a chain I frequent; and their truck stops almost always have shoes in the travel store. In fact, last time I was in one, they'd had some inexpensive running/hiking shoes on sale.
So I made my apologies to the nice people at the shipper and made my way to the truck stop. And sure enough, they had shoes. They even had reasonably priced shoes.
Just not in my size.
They didn't even have unreasonably priced shoes in my size.
The only thing they had in my size was cowboy boots.
It took me something like thirty minutes to find even those. Cowboy boots don't fit the same way the shoes I usually buy do. It took some experimenting to find something I could walk in. And when I'd managed it, I found I had three styles to choose from:
A black pair with some kind of silver cap-like thing on the toe, that make me look like I was going to a Dwight Yoakam concert
The same style, in a color they called “black cherry”
And a more-or-less undecorated pair with low tops and zippers on the side.
I went for low profile. They cost a bit more (the other two pairs were on sale), but I was paying way too much anyway, so what the heck.
A hundred dollars to pick up a trailer-full of scrap metal. The things I do for this job.
At length I got back to the shipper, put my new boots on, and got out to walk to the shipping office. And within two steps I found myself frantically adjusting my stride several ways at once.
I mustn't bend the ankle much, I quickly discovered. Between the high heels and the high tops, flexing the ankle dug the boot-tops into my shins while throwing me slightly off balance. And if I didn't flex the ankle (much), I couldn't take as quick a step as I was used to. Not to mention the heel driving straight into the asphalt and jarring me clear through the knees and into the hips. So within ten feet I found myself walking at about half the speed I usually do.
Usually, I walk more or less flatfooted, my soles skimming the ground. Now the heel came down well before anything else, and I had to “roll” the foot forward to get the rest of the shoe on the pavement. And I soon figured out that the knee had to be in the right place, too, or I would feel it in the tendons along the side. To keep the knee lined up, I had to use the hips a little differently. And so on.
By the time I'd reached the office, I was walking in a slow, steady rhythm, slightly stiff-legged, with the tiniest twist to the hips with each step. I could almost hear it.
Ching. Ching. Ching. Ching...
The things you learn being a trucker.
- - - - -
*See here if you're really curious about why. Don't if you're not.
**Backing a trailer is something I do a fair bit of (surprise), and it's harder than it looks.
As it turned out, I was caught a little off guard myself. All the problems are more or less the same, but that tiny trailer could come around a lot quicker than the 53-foot monsters I'm used to. And if I'd jack-knifed it instead of her--
--come to think of it, maybe I didn't back her trailer out of that spot. If the Company's lawyers ask you about this, you imagined it...
Friday, February 25, 2011
Virtue is its own punishment
I'm adjusting to the concept of warmth again.
This is the truck without a bunk heater. And for two nights running, I didn't have to get up in the wee hours to start the truck so I could stop shivering and go back to sleep. Pleasant, but disconcerting.
This comes under the heading of counting my blessings. I might be ranting a bit otherwise.
I started driving at 9:00 this morning. This was a carefully considered decision. Any later and I might not be on time to deliver the load I picked up yesterday. Any earlier and I might not be able to deliver the load they assigned me for today. I was supposed to deliver that second load at 10:00 pm. By starting at 9:00 am, I could get there with an hour to get unloaded and find a parking space before I was in trouble with the law. Not enough, but better than nothing.
Yes, I'm going somewhere with this...
I got to my first delivery point before noon. A couple of hours later the forklifts stopped bouncing the trailer around and I got my paperwork. Whereupon I got the information for the next load.
They'd changed the delivery time. I had to have it there at 11:00 pm. Which, of course, meant that once they'd unloaded me, I'd be in violation of federal law from the moment the truck moved away from the dock door.
A mildly frantic phone call reassured me. It turned out that 11:00 pm was the LATEST time I could deliver it. Usually, they'll give you a “window” if that's true—2:00 to 11:00, for instance. But I wasn't going to argue. If they didn't mind an early delivery, I didn't mind having time to park and sleep. So I did my paperwork for the new job and drove the two or three miles to the shipper.
They didn't have my load ready, of course. So I sat around for an hour or so, after having dropped my empty in the back lot. At length they had finished shuffling things around in the trailer I was supposed to pick up.* So I hooked up, and scaled it (they have their own scale, which is handy), and did my paperwork.
In the process, I noticed that one of the tires on the trailer was messed up.
As in, it might blow out anytime.
So I sent a message to the Breakdown Department. After all, I had seven hours to go less than two hundred miles. Getting a tire replaced? No problem, right?
Two hours later I got a message back, asking me a quick procedural question. I answered it. And told my dispatcher I might be in trouble.
Two hours after that I called. On the phone. Waited about thirty minutes on hold. And learned that the fellow I'd sent the message to had gone home, and nobody else knew to follow up. The guy on the phone listened to my story, and said he'd call a service truck and send it my way. It would be there in about an hour, he said.
By this time I had exactly enough time to get the load to the customer if I started driving right now. Which, of course, I couldn't do—I had gone on record saying I had a trailer that wasn't safe. Not a good career move, driving happily through the night with a trailer you've SAID that you KNEW was potentially dangerous. So I called my dispatcher and told her I couldn't deliver the load before morning. She checked with the Customer Service people and said we weren't in trouble this time.
They were good sports about it. At least I'd warned them.
Some time into this, it occurred to me that if I'd just kept my mouth shut, I could have spent a (more or less) pleasant afternoon driving through the countryside, dropped this trailer at the customer, picked up another trailer, and gotten my next load. And that potentially dangerous tire would have been the next guy's problem.
And it occurred to me that a lot of drivers would have done precisely that.
I wonder if anybody considers me a troublemaker. Hope not.
No matter, tonight. I'll get some sleep, get up early in the morning and deliver this load as soon as I can. That's all I can do.
And at least it's warm.
-----
*At least, I presume that's what they were doing. This place has a rep for loading their trailers as heavy as they can get away with. Sometimes they get carried away, and have to take stuff out and redo it...
This is the truck without a bunk heater. And for two nights running, I didn't have to get up in the wee hours to start the truck so I could stop shivering and go back to sleep. Pleasant, but disconcerting.
This comes under the heading of counting my blessings. I might be ranting a bit otherwise.
I started driving at 9:00 this morning. This was a carefully considered decision. Any later and I might not be on time to deliver the load I picked up yesterday. Any earlier and I might not be able to deliver the load they assigned me for today. I was supposed to deliver that second load at 10:00 pm. By starting at 9:00 am, I could get there with an hour to get unloaded and find a parking space before I was in trouble with the law. Not enough, but better than nothing.
Yes, I'm going somewhere with this...
I got to my first delivery point before noon. A couple of hours later the forklifts stopped bouncing the trailer around and I got my paperwork. Whereupon I got the information for the next load.
They'd changed the delivery time. I had to have it there at 11:00 pm. Which, of course, meant that once they'd unloaded me, I'd be in violation of federal law from the moment the truck moved away from the dock door.
A mildly frantic phone call reassured me. It turned out that 11:00 pm was the LATEST time I could deliver it. Usually, they'll give you a “window” if that's true—2:00 to 11:00, for instance. But I wasn't going to argue. If they didn't mind an early delivery, I didn't mind having time to park and sleep. So I did my paperwork for the new job and drove the two or three miles to the shipper.
They didn't have my load ready, of course. So I sat around for an hour or so, after having dropped my empty in the back lot. At length they had finished shuffling things around in the trailer I was supposed to pick up.* So I hooked up, and scaled it (they have their own scale, which is handy), and did my paperwork.
In the process, I noticed that one of the tires on the trailer was messed up.
As in, it might blow out anytime.
So I sent a message to the Breakdown Department. After all, I had seven hours to go less than two hundred miles. Getting a tire replaced? No problem, right?
Two hours later I got a message back, asking me a quick procedural question. I answered it. And told my dispatcher I might be in trouble.
Two hours after that I called. On the phone. Waited about thirty minutes on hold. And learned that the fellow I'd sent the message to had gone home, and nobody else knew to follow up. The guy on the phone listened to my story, and said he'd call a service truck and send it my way. It would be there in about an hour, he said.
By this time I had exactly enough time to get the load to the customer if I started driving right now. Which, of course, I couldn't do—I had gone on record saying I had a trailer that wasn't safe. Not a good career move, driving happily through the night with a trailer you've SAID that you KNEW was potentially dangerous. So I called my dispatcher and told her I couldn't deliver the load before morning. She checked with the Customer Service people and said we weren't in trouble this time.
They were good sports about it. At least I'd warned them.
Some time into this, it occurred to me that if I'd just kept my mouth shut, I could have spent a (more or less) pleasant afternoon driving through the countryside, dropped this trailer at the customer, picked up another trailer, and gotten my next load. And that potentially dangerous tire would have been the next guy's problem.
And it occurred to me that a lot of drivers would have done precisely that.
I wonder if anybody considers me a troublemaker. Hope not.
No matter, tonight. I'll get some sleep, get up early in the morning and deliver this load as soon as I can. That's all I can do.
And at least it's warm.
-----
*At least, I presume that's what they were doing. This place has a rep for loading their trailers as heavy as they can get away with. Sometimes they get carried away, and have to take stuff out and redo it...
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Sometimes you just gotta--the sequel
Woke up this morning, blinked, and looked around vaguely. Grey sky, promising drizzle. One of the two trucks that was here when I parked last night. Three more behind me.
And a police car parked in front of me.
That'll wake you up.
As I mentioned yesterday, I wasn't really supposed to be there. The warehouse had a FOR LEASE sign on it. Private property. And no permission. I'd been told it was frequently used by out-of-hours trucker types, and nobody seemed to mind. And the fact that at least five other trucks had used it just last night seemed to bear that out.
But when you wake up and find a police car parked RIGHT THERE..
The drivers behind me were comparing notes about something. Loudly. The officer sat and watched the traffic, unconcerned. Apparently he was watching for speeders and other reckless types, and was using this lot for the same reason we were. Low profile.
When I pulled out, he just sat there and watched. My adrenaline level dropped noticeably.
In some places, they understand...
And a police car parked in front of me.
That'll wake you up.
As I mentioned yesterday, I wasn't really supposed to be there. The warehouse had a FOR LEASE sign on it. Private property. And no permission. I'd been told it was frequently used by out-of-hours trucker types, and nobody seemed to mind. And the fact that at least five other trucks had used it just last night seemed to bear that out.
But when you wake up and find a police car parked RIGHT THERE..
The drivers behind me were comparing notes about something. Loudly. The officer sat and watched the traffic, unconcerned. Apparently he was watching for speeders and other reckless types, and was using this lot for the same reason we were. Low profile.
When I pulled out, he just sat there and watched. My adrenaline level dropped noticeably.
In some places, they understand...
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Sometimes you just gotta
I'm sitting in the darkness, in an abandoned warehouse's parking lot.
I don't like doing this. It's a good way to get in trouble. And even when you're fairly sure nobody's going to mind, it still doesn't feel right. At least not for me.
But I was told this particular empty lot was the unofficial hidey-hole for trucks that can't make it out of town to a real truck stop. I've seen a few places like that in other towns. The police know it's done, and why; so as long as the owners don't raise a fuss they don't look too closely. At least as long as nobody abuses the privilege.
Hope I heard right. I needed it this time. Badly
Examining the omens
I got up this morning and turned the satcom on. After its usual few minutes, it came back with my email list. With no new messages.
Which meant no load info.
So I sent my dispatcher a message. And shortly got a reply: Call in for a verbal.
The need for a verbal confirmation usually means the load is hot--either high-value or you-better-get-it-there-QUICK. If not both. The perfect way to begin the day.
Oh, well. I called in, and the dispatcher made sure I could get there. This time the heat was high-value. The load was 120 miles away, but the time constraints weren't bad at all. So I jumped through the virtual-paperwork hoops and started on my merry way. In the process, I switched to navigation mode, to make sure I had the distance right.
The map screen was blank.
My GPS had fouled up again. It wasn't working. At all.
Time for the modern equivalent of slapping the cabinet. I pushed the proper buttons. The computer said it was shutting down.
It didn't.
That should have been a hint...
Communication is the key
Oh, well. The time constraints weren't bad, but sitting here wrestling with the computer still wasn't a good idea. And I knew where I was going--the directions were pretty straightforward. So, off we go.
I got to the shipper in plenty of time, and checked in with the gate guard. He asked what I was doing there.
I didn't have a pickup number, so I went back to the truck and sent a message in asking for one. But after a few minutes, a niggling suspicion crept into my mind. I had told the computer to shut down, more than two hours ago. And it hadn't. What else hadn't it done?
Virtually slapping the thing hadn't worked. Time to virtually drop-kick it.
I wormed into a back corner of the truck and physically unplugged the computer.* Then I took a quick walk across the parking lot to the nearest, um, facility. Got back, plugged the computer back in, sent the message again. And picked up the phone, just to be sure.
My dispatcher said, "What are you doing there?"
Turned out the load had been cancelled.
About the time he said that, the computer beeped. Informing me that I had an email. Telling me the load had been cancelled.
So if I'd kindly drive another 120 miles, the dispatcher said, there'd be a load ready when I got there. Oh, and while I was there, would I mind bringing the shipper a few more trailers? A customer nearby had a few to spare...
As long as we understand each other.
So I apologized to the nice people and drove and drove. Got to the shipper, dropped my empty (had to sweep it out--the shipper is a neat freak), and made my way to the other place.
"You ain't taking none of our empties!" the other people said.
They said it much more politely, of course. The gate guards hadn't made the decision any more than I had. But there it was...
So I found a parking place (running bobtail gives you a few more options) and called my dispatcher. Arguing with the customer's middle management isn't part of the job description. I'd let my people talk to their people.
An hour and a half later, I'd made a fair start on catching up with my reading. But I hadn't heard anything. So I called my dispatcher again. He hadn't heard anything either. We made sympathetic griping noises at each other and I went back to my reading. And shortly after that, I got a satcom message, telling me EXACTLY which trailers to go get.
Round and round the mulberry bush
So I went back in. The security people cheerfully let me through--their people had talked to them, too And I made a quick sweep of the parking lot, looking for the two trailers I'd been told to get.
Two hours later I hadn't found either of them.
I'd driven through every parking lot on their grounds at least twice--including the sections where no outside company's trailers were supposed to be. Nothing. Not just neither of my trailers. None of our company's trailers. At all.
There was only one more place to look. Along one fence line was a long double line of trailers. As in double-parked. No way to tell what was in that back row from the main lot. And if I found either of them, I'd have to get a yard dog to move the trailer in front before I could get it. But I'd run out of other places to look. So I got out and started worming between the rows on foot.
I still couldn't find one of them. But I finally found the other.
There was a large, brightly-colored tag hanging from an air-line connector.
NOT ROADWORTHY, it said.
No kidding,, I thought.
Did I say the tag was hanging from an air-line connector? I should have said THE air-line connector. The other one had been broken off at the fitting. The front wall of the trailer behind that fitting had a dent in it, two inches deep and about three or four feet high. In the middle of the dent was a four-inch gash in the metal.
It looked as if someone had backed the corner of another trailer into it. Hard. Couldn't have been the customer, of course. I mean, just because it was impossible to move with that particular fitting missing. And nothing could have hit there as long as it was hooked to a truck. And it was tucked into an obscure corner of the yard. With other trailers lined up in front of it. Where it was almost impossible to find. Some people have nasty, suspicious minds...
By now it was night.
The dispatcher I'd been talking to all day had certainly gone home by now. So I called in and told my night dispatcher what was going on. She said "Don't waste any more time on it.** Just go get your load."
So I Went back to the shipper and found out which trailer I was supposed to take. Hooked up, brought it around to the gate, and pulled onto the scale. This shipper has its own scales, which is a good thing. If you've got a weight problem, it's always nice to find it in a place where you DON'T have to turn around and drive ten or twenty miles back to get it fixed.
Like this time.
The load was both slightly overweight and VERY nose-heavy. No way to balance it. So I took it back to the warehouse, where they could pull a few pallets off and reshuffle the rest. Then it was back to the gate to rescale.
Legal this time. Quiet sigh of relief.
By now, I had maybe half an hour of legal clock time. The nearest truck stop was at least that far away. And, given that it was the only one for a hundred miles or so, I figured its parking lot almost had to be full by now.
At that point some nice person mentioned this parking lot. Said I wouldn't get arrested for parking there, but he could get fired for telling me about it.
Which means, of course, that nobody told me anything.
So here I am, sitting in the dark watching the traffic go obliviously by a hundred feet in front of me. And making up stories.
Guess I'll stop now.
G'nite.
-----
*I'm not supposed to know how to do that, of course. So I must have imagined doing it...
**Well, all right--the language might have been a little stronger than that...
I don't like doing this. It's a good way to get in trouble. And even when you're fairly sure nobody's going to mind, it still doesn't feel right. At least not for me.
But I was told this particular empty lot was the unofficial hidey-hole for trucks that can't make it out of town to a real truck stop. I've seen a few places like that in other towns. The police know it's done, and why; so as long as the owners don't raise a fuss they don't look too closely. At least as long as nobody abuses the privilege.
Hope I heard right. I needed it this time. Badly
Examining the omens
I got up this morning and turned the satcom on. After its usual few minutes, it came back with my email list. With no new messages.
Which meant no load info.
So I sent my dispatcher a message. And shortly got a reply: Call in for a verbal.
The need for a verbal confirmation usually means the load is hot--either high-value or you-better-get-it-there-QUICK. If not both. The perfect way to begin the day.
Oh, well. I called in, and the dispatcher made sure I could get there. This time the heat was high-value. The load was 120 miles away, but the time constraints weren't bad at all. So I jumped through the virtual-paperwork hoops and started on my merry way. In the process, I switched to navigation mode, to make sure I had the distance right.
The map screen was blank.
My GPS had fouled up again. It wasn't working. At all.
Time for the modern equivalent of slapping the cabinet. I pushed the proper buttons. The computer said it was shutting down.
It didn't.
That should have been a hint...
Communication is the key
Oh, well. The time constraints weren't bad, but sitting here wrestling with the computer still wasn't a good idea. And I knew where I was going--the directions were pretty straightforward. So, off we go.
I got to the shipper in plenty of time, and checked in with the gate guard. He asked what I was doing there.
I didn't have a pickup number, so I went back to the truck and sent a message in asking for one. But after a few minutes, a niggling suspicion crept into my mind. I had told the computer to shut down, more than two hours ago. And it hadn't. What else hadn't it done?
Virtually slapping the thing hadn't worked. Time to virtually drop-kick it.
I wormed into a back corner of the truck and physically unplugged the computer.* Then I took a quick walk across the parking lot to the nearest, um, facility. Got back, plugged the computer back in, sent the message again. And picked up the phone, just to be sure.
My dispatcher said, "What are you doing there?"
Turned out the load had been cancelled.
About the time he said that, the computer beeped. Informing me that I had an email. Telling me the load had been cancelled.
So if I'd kindly drive another 120 miles, the dispatcher said, there'd be a load ready when I got there. Oh, and while I was there, would I mind bringing the shipper a few more trailers? A customer nearby had a few to spare...
As long as we understand each other.
So I apologized to the nice people and drove and drove. Got to the shipper, dropped my empty (had to sweep it out--the shipper is a neat freak), and made my way to the other place.
"You ain't taking none of our empties!" the other people said.
They said it much more politely, of course. The gate guards hadn't made the decision any more than I had. But there it was...
So I found a parking place (running bobtail gives you a few more options) and called my dispatcher. Arguing with the customer's middle management isn't part of the job description. I'd let my people talk to their people.
An hour and a half later, I'd made a fair start on catching up with my reading. But I hadn't heard anything. So I called my dispatcher again. He hadn't heard anything either. We made sympathetic griping noises at each other and I went back to my reading. And shortly after that, I got a satcom message, telling me EXACTLY which trailers to go get.
Round and round the mulberry bush
So I went back in. The security people cheerfully let me through--their people had talked to them, too And I made a quick sweep of the parking lot, looking for the two trailers I'd been told to get.
Two hours later I hadn't found either of them.
I'd driven through every parking lot on their grounds at least twice--including the sections where no outside company's trailers were supposed to be. Nothing. Not just neither of my trailers. None of our company's trailers. At all.
There was only one more place to look. Along one fence line was a long double line of trailers. As in double-parked. No way to tell what was in that back row from the main lot. And if I found either of them, I'd have to get a yard dog to move the trailer in front before I could get it. But I'd run out of other places to look. So I got out and started worming between the rows on foot.
I still couldn't find one of them. But I finally found the other.
There was a large, brightly-colored tag hanging from an air-line connector.
NOT ROADWORTHY, it said.
No kidding,, I thought.
Did I say the tag was hanging from an air-line connector? I should have said THE air-line connector. The other one had been broken off at the fitting. The front wall of the trailer behind that fitting had a dent in it, two inches deep and about three or four feet high. In the middle of the dent was a four-inch gash in the metal.
It looked as if someone had backed the corner of another trailer into it. Hard. Couldn't have been the customer, of course. I mean, just because it was impossible to move with that particular fitting missing. And nothing could have hit there as long as it was hooked to a truck. And it was tucked into an obscure corner of the yard. With other trailers lined up in front of it. Where it was almost impossible to find. Some people have nasty, suspicious minds...
By now it was night.
The dispatcher I'd been talking to all day had certainly gone home by now. So I called in and told my night dispatcher what was going on. She said "Don't waste any more time on it.** Just go get your load."
So I Went back to the shipper and found out which trailer I was supposed to take. Hooked up, brought it around to the gate, and pulled onto the scale. This shipper has its own scales, which is a good thing. If you've got a weight problem, it's always nice to find it in a place where you DON'T have to turn around and drive ten or twenty miles back to get it fixed.
Like this time.
The load was both slightly overweight and VERY nose-heavy. No way to balance it. So I took it back to the warehouse, where they could pull a few pallets off and reshuffle the rest. Then it was back to the gate to rescale.
Legal this time. Quiet sigh of relief.
By now, I had maybe half an hour of legal clock time. The nearest truck stop was at least that far away. And, given that it was the only one for a hundred miles or so, I figured its parking lot almost had to be full by now.
At that point some nice person mentioned this parking lot. Said I wouldn't get arrested for parking there, but he could get fired for telling me about it.
Which means, of course, that nobody told me anything.
So here I am, sitting in the dark watching the traffic go obliviously by a hundred feet in front of me. And making up stories.
Guess I'll stop now.
G'nite.
-----
*I'm not supposed to know how to do that, of course. So I must have imagined doing it...
**Well, all right--the language might have been a little stronger than that...
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Maryland House has a Starbucks.
You don't see that a lot at truck stops.
On the other hand, this place gets a lot of buses stopping. So finding the Starbucks counter without a long, long line takes patience.
Truck stops tend to have video games. The fancy truck stops have cushy couches in front of a tv. This place has neither.
On the other hand, I don't play video games. And if I don't like what's on the tv, there may not be another place to sit down in the building. A hard chair in front of a table is certainly better than nothing. And the absence of noise can be a worthwhile thing.
In an hour I go to pick up my next load. In the meantime, I have a seat, with windows. And a Starbucks, if I can get to the counter.
Not a bad trade, I guess.
On the other hand, this place gets a lot of buses stopping. So finding the Starbucks counter without a long, long line takes patience.
Truck stops tend to have video games. The fancy truck stops have cushy couches in front of a tv. This place has neither.
On the other hand, I don't play video games. And if I don't like what's on the tv, there may not be another place to sit down in the building. A hard chair in front of a table is certainly better than nothing. And the absence of noise can be a worthwhile thing.
In an hour I go to pick up my next load. In the meantime, I have a seat, with windows. And a Starbucks, if I can get to the counter.
Not a bad trade, I guess.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Weight problems and new old maps
This section of I-95* was a toll road once, I think.
I can't see what else Maryland House is doing here. A welcome center, yes, and that's not odd this close to a state line. But it's on an island in the median of the highway. And there are restaurants. Restaurants where only people driving the Interstate can eat? I've never seen that anywhere but in toll road service plazas.
Therefore, Maryland House must be left over from a more mercenary period in this highway's history. Q. E. D., he typed smugly.
(I will have to look that up somewhere, he thought, less arrogantly...)
Be that as it may, Maryland House is a welcome thing. It's not QUITE the only truck stop anywhere near here, but it's the handiest place to park. And being able to get a hot meal at a rest area is a treat. When I pulled in here last night, it was the end of a thirteen-hour day. Ten of those behind the wheel. With two fifteen-minute restroom breaks Fueled by a pint of water, one package of peanut butter crackers, and a small cup of welcome-center coffee (thank you, ladies--I will remember the North Carolina border kindly**). A real meal before bedtime was cause for celebration.
Ten hours behind the wheel. And it could have been worse
Day before yesterday I got to the terminal and picked up my first load for the week. Filled out my paperwork, pulled out the gate and went straight to a truck stop.
I believe I've told you about weights and balances already. The load was heavy enough the company would compensate me for the scale fees, so I did that first.
Good thing. Whoever loaded that trailer put way too much weight in the back. The load wasn't overweight, but the trailer was badly tail-heavy.
I've told you the various states are picky about both weight and weight distribution. And I think I mentioned that the trailer wheels can slide back and forth, so the load can be properly divided between truck and trailer. I'm not sure if I mentioned that you can only slide those wheels so far back before you get in trouble with the law a different way. There are legal limits to a tractor-trailer's wheelbase.
I slid the wheels on this trailer as far back as I dared, and scaled it again. The weight on the rear wheels was still more than a ton over the legal limit.
If it had been too heavy in the front, there were a few things I could have tried. Moving the fifth wheel*** a little, for instance--that could transfer some of the weight from the back wheels to the front. But when a trailer's too heavy in the back, that's all she wrote. The only thing you can do is take everything out and rearrange it. Or let somebody else do it. So I went back to the terminal, where I was told to drop it and wait for another load. I suppose a local driver took it back to the customer. I didn't sit long enough to find out.
The next load I was assigned didn't look too bad, at first glance. About seven hundred miles, with a day and a half to deliver. Not a problem. Until I looked at the route I was expected to take.
The first part of the trip was pretty straightforward. Two-hundred-odd miles to the fuel stop. Given everything that had happened so far, I would get there just about in time to shut down for the night. And I did. But then I had to get up in the morning and cover about another four-hundred-and-something miles. And less than half of that was on Interstates.
On an Interstate, I typically plan for an average speed of 50 mph, and hope for 60. On a two-lane, I plan on 30 and hope for 40. Four-lanes are somewhere in between, and I've never been able to make a really good guess.
Yeah, I know the speed limits are a lot closer, but the complicating factors have nothing to do with speed limits. On an interstate, you don't have to run smack through the center of town very often. And when you do, you don't have to worry about red lights. Or pedestrians. Or cars parked within a foot of the travel lane.
And even when you're between towns, interstates don't have people pulling out of driveways, or county roads. Or slowing down to look at mailboxes. Or pulling off to get a candy bar at that convenience store that's right beside the road, just around that blind curve.
Limited access roads are beloved of travelers for a reason. When I'm going somewhere for fun, I like driving the more ordinary highways. You see more. But I don't travel for fun as much as I used to. And I usually do it with something a little smaller...
My route for the day was marked on the map as four-lane all the way. But that was still going to be a good bit slower than an expressway. In fact, I found myself wondering if I could make it in one day, period. Legally that is--I'm only allowed eleven hours behind a wheel, as I believed I mentioned.
Well, I made it with an hour to spare. But only because my map was wrong.
It appears the people who published my road atlas haven't updated their maps recently. I knew that, of course, but still...In this case, quite a bit of the road in question (US29 through North Carolina and Virginia, in case you're wondering) has been upgraded to limited-access. Maybe a third to a half of it. I saw a few signs talking about a "future I-785 corridor." Be that as it may, the surprise was a pleasant one.
So I made better time for a lot of the way than I expected.
And it STILL took me ten hours. Not counting the two restroom breaks.
Stromboli can be so comforting.
-----
*North of Baltimore, that is.
**One of the nice ladies said she wished her husband could try truck driving. I asked her if she was really that tired of his company. A nice laugh all around, and she said maybe she'd better stop saying that. "Yeah, you'd better," said the other...
***That big flat thing on the back of a semi-tractor, that the trailer sits on. It does for a tractor-trailer what the ball on a bumper hitch does for a car-and-trailer. The trailer has a "king post" that slides into the slot in the back of the "fifth wheel" and is locked in place. The fifth wheel then holds the trailer up and gives it a surface to slide on when it needs to turn. (It's usually covered with a layer of THICK, STICKY grease. Don't get it on your clothes...)
Like the trailer's tandem wheels, it's made to slide back and forth. We don't do it often, though--that's a major operation, and on a lot of trucks you can only make BIG adjustments...
I can't see what else Maryland House is doing here. A welcome center, yes, and that's not odd this close to a state line. But it's on an island in the median of the highway. And there are restaurants. Restaurants where only people driving the Interstate can eat? I've never seen that anywhere but in toll road service plazas.
Therefore, Maryland House must be left over from a more mercenary period in this highway's history. Q. E. D., he typed smugly.
(I will have to look that up somewhere, he thought, less arrogantly...)
Be that as it may, Maryland House is a welcome thing. It's not QUITE the only truck stop anywhere near here, but it's the handiest place to park. And being able to get a hot meal at a rest area is a treat. When I pulled in here last night, it was the end of a thirteen-hour day. Ten of those behind the wheel. With two fifteen-minute restroom breaks Fueled by a pint of water, one package of peanut butter crackers, and a small cup of welcome-center coffee (thank you, ladies--I will remember the North Carolina border kindly**). A real meal before bedtime was cause for celebration.
Ten hours behind the wheel. And it could have been worse
Day before yesterday I got to the terminal and picked up my first load for the week. Filled out my paperwork, pulled out the gate and went straight to a truck stop.
I believe I've told you about weights and balances already. The load was heavy enough the company would compensate me for the scale fees, so I did that first.
Good thing. Whoever loaded that trailer put way too much weight in the back. The load wasn't overweight, but the trailer was badly tail-heavy.
I've told you the various states are picky about both weight and weight distribution. And I think I mentioned that the trailer wheels can slide back and forth, so the load can be properly divided between truck and trailer. I'm not sure if I mentioned that you can only slide those wheels so far back before you get in trouble with the law a different way. There are legal limits to a tractor-trailer's wheelbase.
I slid the wheels on this trailer as far back as I dared, and scaled it again. The weight on the rear wheels was still more than a ton over the legal limit.
If it had been too heavy in the front, there were a few things I could have tried. Moving the fifth wheel*** a little, for instance--that could transfer some of the weight from the back wheels to the front. But when a trailer's too heavy in the back, that's all she wrote. The only thing you can do is take everything out and rearrange it. Or let somebody else do it. So I went back to the terminal, where I was told to drop it and wait for another load. I suppose a local driver took it back to the customer. I didn't sit long enough to find out.
The next load I was assigned didn't look too bad, at first glance. About seven hundred miles, with a day and a half to deliver. Not a problem. Until I looked at the route I was expected to take.
The first part of the trip was pretty straightforward. Two-hundred-odd miles to the fuel stop. Given everything that had happened so far, I would get there just about in time to shut down for the night. And I did. But then I had to get up in the morning and cover about another four-hundred-and-something miles. And less than half of that was on Interstates.
On an Interstate, I typically plan for an average speed of 50 mph, and hope for 60. On a two-lane, I plan on 30 and hope for 40. Four-lanes are somewhere in between, and I've never been able to make a really good guess.
Yeah, I know the speed limits are a lot closer, but the complicating factors have nothing to do with speed limits. On an interstate, you don't have to run smack through the center of town very often. And when you do, you don't have to worry about red lights. Or pedestrians. Or cars parked within a foot of the travel lane.
And even when you're between towns, interstates don't have people pulling out of driveways, or county roads. Or slowing down to look at mailboxes. Or pulling off to get a candy bar at that convenience store that's right beside the road, just around that blind curve.
Limited access roads are beloved of travelers for a reason. When I'm going somewhere for fun, I like driving the more ordinary highways. You see more. But I don't travel for fun as much as I used to. And I usually do it with something a little smaller...
My route for the day was marked on the map as four-lane all the way. But that was still going to be a good bit slower than an expressway. In fact, I found myself wondering if I could make it in one day, period. Legally that is--I'm only allowed eleven hours behind a wheel, as I believed I mentioned.
Well, I made it with an hour to spare. But only because my map was wrong.
It appears the people who published my road atlas haven't updated their maps recently. I knew that, of course, but still...In this case, quite a bit of the road in question (US29 through North Carolina and Virginia, in case you're wondering) has been upgraded to limited-access. Maybe a third to a half of it. I saw a few signs talking about a "future I-785 corridor." Be that as it may, the surprise was a pleasant one.
So I made better time for a lot of the way than I expected.
And it STILL took me ten hours. Not counting the two restroom breaks.
Stromboli can be so comforting.
-----
*North of Baltimore, that is.
**One of the nice ladies said she wished her husband could try truck driving. I asked her if she was really that tired of his company. A nice laugh all around, and she said maybe she'd better stop saying that. "Yeah, you'd better," said the other...
***That big flat thing on the back of a semi-tractor, that the trailer sits on. It does for a tractor-trailer what the ball on a bumper hitch does for a car-and-trailer. The trailer has a "king post" that slides into the slot in the back of the "fifth wheel" and is locked in place. The fifth wheel then holds the trailer up and gives it a surface to slide on when it needs to turn. (It's usually covered with a layer of THICK, STICKY grease. Don't get it on your clothes...)
Like the trailer's tandem wheels, it's made to slide back and forth. We don't do it often, though--that's a major operation, and on a lot of trucks you can only make BIG adjustments...
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Things to be thankful for
A warm New Years Day, for a start. In Alabama, anyhow.
The truck I'm on this week is the one with the bunk heater, so that's not as big a deal as it could be. But it's not nothing, even so. The bunk heater uses power, for the fans if nothing else. And the colder it is, the more power the heater pulls, if only because it runs more.
So on a cold night I expect to get up at least once, to start up the truck and recharge the batteries. This time I slept the night through.
At least until, um, another urgency woke me up.
At which point I discovered the truck stop had shut down for New Years Eve.
And wasn't going to open again for another hour.
And it was kind of urgent.
So I walked down the road a quarter-mile, to a (relatively) nearby suite hotel, where I found a sympathetic desk clerk. One who believed my tale of woe, and kindly pointed me to the lobby restrooms. As if I were a guest.
Now there's something to be grateful for.
The truck I'm on this week is the one with the bunk heater, so that's not as big a deal as it could be. But it's not nothing, even so. The bunk heater uses power, for the fans if nothing else. And the colder it is, the more power the heater pulls, if only because it runs more.
So on a cold night I expect to get up at least once, to start up the truck and recharge the batteries. This time I slept the night through.
At least until, um, another urgency woke me up.
At which point I discovered the truck stop had shut down for New Years Eve.
And wasn't going to open again for another hour.
And it was kind of urgent.
So I walked down the road a quarter-mile, to a (relatively) nearby suite hotel, where I found a sympathetic desk clerk. One who believed my tale of woe, and kindly pointed me to the lobby restrooms. As if I were a guest.
Now there's something to be grateful for.
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