(From October.)
I stopped at a truck stop on my way across Kentucky and noticed a hot dog stand across the highway.
Normally this would mean little--hot dogs are not at the top of my list when I want a nice snack. But this one looked interesting for some reason. So I strolled across and ordered a couple of hot dogs and a drink.
Tiny booth. Doesn't take plastic ("They want 3.5% of EVERY SALE!" he said.) But what the hey, I had cash.
The dogs were okay. The chili on the chili-cheese dog wasn't bad. But the sauerkraut dog--
HE MAKES HIS OWN SAUERKRAUT!
Now, I've had homemade sauerkraut before, and liked it a LOT better than anything I've seen in a store. But it tended to be almost sweet-and-sour. This wasn't sweet. More like the stuff you get in the store.
Done right.
I probably wouldn't like it as much on a plate. But it works very well on a hot dog.
The owner is a truck driver himself. Or has been. And is about to be again, he thinks. He was doing fairly well for a while, he said, but the economy has hurt his local business. So he plans to drive awhile, to save up some capital, to open a few more booths. I hope he gets it over with quick. Next time I drive that way, I'd really like to see him there.
If you happen to take I-64 through Kentucky and pass by Mt Sterling (exit 113), drop by. If he's there, and you like hot dogs, I think you'll approve.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Friday, December 7, 2012
Mind your business
I did say I'd try to catch up here. This is a note I found on the phone from July 2...
Today I unhooked from a trailer in the usual manner. Detached the pigtail and the glad hands*, lowered the landing gear, started to pull out--and heard the pigtail pop loose. I stopped barely in time to keep from ruining the air lines--or worse.
What saved me?
Two things. First, I always pull out s-l-o-w-l-y. And I usually bear left, so I can see the trailer fittings as soon as possible. Paranoia is sometimes a useful thing to cultivate.
Second, I still had the flashers going from when I was checking the trailer lights. When I noticed the trailer lights flashing even though I wasn't hooked to it anymore, a little warning bell went off softly. When the pigtail popped loose I was ready to hit the brakes quick.
How did I get into this mess in the first place?
Well, I unhooked the lines. Then I went back and hooked them up again. Apparently part of me forgot that I was dropping the trailer instead of picking it up. Just did the next thing without thinking about it.
Because I was thinking about something else. Distraction: it's not just for cell phones anymore.
In this case, I was thinking about the relative impact of sociological, political, psychological, and theological factors in the founding of the Roman Catholic Church. Don't ask. I don't know where that came from either. I'm not even Catholic.
I suspect centerfolds are a more common problem in the industry, anyway...
-----
*I occurs to me I may never have used those terms before. Oh, boy. Well, here goes.
A tractor-trailer is way too heavy to stop easily with the hydraulic brakes cars use. Instead, they use compressed air--at something like 100-150 psi. The truck includes an air compressor and big tanks to store the stuff, and a set of hoses to carry air to the tanks on the trailer.
The connectors that join those air lines to the ones on the trailer work under some peculiar requirements. They have to be strong enough and airtight enough to handle 150+ psi of air pressure. And they have to do it in all kinds of conditions--which include a lot of shaking, yanking, and general abuse. But they can't be TOO strong, or they might end up damaging the truck or the trailer in some odd situation (like I describe above) where the air lines stretch a bit more than they should.
In addition, the connectors have to be easy and quick to connect and disconnect. You might have to do it several times in a day, and if you have to have a wrench and plenty of free time--well, let's just say productivity goes down, and finding a way to cheat might be tempting. And cheating on a safety issue is a Bad Thing.
What the engineers came up with was a widget that uses two rubber washers, squeezed together, to form an airtight seal. The washers are squeezed together by metal housings and sheetmetal flanges that sort of act like cams. You put the "washers" together, then twist the fitting. The flanges engage matching fittings on the other connector and the whole thing is wedged into a tight connection--that will nevertheless pop loose if the stress on the fitting gets too high.
Most of the time. It only messes up the truck or the trailer about one time in ten, maybe. Better than nothing, I guess.
Thing is, the "washers" aren't "on the end" of the hoses--they're at right angles, on those fittings. That's what makes them easy(er) to pull apart if something screws up. When you put them together right, it kind of looks like a pair of robots shaking hands. Thus the nickname "glad hands."
Picture below...
This is a view of the front of the trailer, with everything hooked up. The two widgets on the left and right are the glad hands--the blue one carries the air that controls the brakes, the red one carries the air that powers them. (By the way: If the red line fails or the pressure gets too low, a backup system locks the brakes down--the movies always do that wrong. You can have brake failures on a truck, but they don't happen because the air runs out when you're not looking,,.)
That big thing in the middle is the connector for the power cable--the one that lets the truck power the trailer's electrical system. The cable-and-connector assembly is called a "pigtail." I THINK that's because they were using coiled wire for that job long before they could do it for air lines. And for a cable that big it used big coils--curly like a pig's tail.
There. Done.
Today I unhooked from a trailer in the usual manner. Detached the pigtail and the glad hands*, lowered the landing gear, started to pull out--and heard the pigtail pop loose. I stopped barely in time to keep from ruining the air lines--or worse.
What saved me?
Two things. First, I always pull out s-l-o-w-l-y. And I usually bear left, so I can see the trailer fittings as soon as possible. Paranoia is sometimes a useful thing to cultivate.
Second, I still had the flashers going from when I was checking the trailer lights. When I noticed the trailer lights flashing even though I wasn't hooked to it anymore, a little warning bell went off softly. When the pigtail popped loose I was ready to hit the brakes quick.
How did I get into this mess in the first place?
Well, I unhooked the lines. Then I went back and hooked them up again. Apparently part of me forgot that I was dropping the trailer instead of picking it up. Just did the next thing without thinking about it.
Because I was thinking about something else. Distraction: it's not just for cell phones anymore.
In this case, I was thinking about the relative impact of sociological, political, psychological, and theological factors in the founding of the Roman Catholic Church. Don't ask. I don't know where that came from either. I'm not even Catholic.
I suspect centerfolds are a more common problem in the industry, anyway...
-----
*I occurs to me I may never have used those terms before. Oh, boy. Well, here goes.
A tractor-trailer is way too heavy to stop easily with the hydraulic brakes cars use. Instead, they use compressed air--at something like 100-150 psi. The truck includes an air compressor and big tanks to store the stuff, and a set of hoses to carry air to the tanks on the trailer.
The connectors that join those air lines to the ones on the trailer work under some peculiar requirements. They have to be strong enough and airtight enough to handle 150+ psi of air pressure. And they have to do it in all kinds of conditions--which include a lot of shaking, yanking, and general abuse. But they can't be TOO strong, or they might end up damaging the truck or the trailer in some odd situation (like I describe above) where the air lines stretch a bit more than they should.
In addition, the connectors have to be easy and quick to connect and disconnect. You might have to do it several times in a day, and if you have to have a wrench and plenty of free time--well, let's just say productivity goes down, and finding a way to cheat might be tempting. And cheating on a safety issue is a Bad Thing.
What the engineers came up with was a widget that uses two rubber washers, squeezed together, to form an airtight seal. The washers are squeezed together by metal housings and sheetmetal flanges that sort of act like cams. You put the "washers" together, then twist the fitting. The flanges engage matching fittings on the other connector and the whole thing is wedged into a tight connection--that will nevertheless pop loose if the stress on the fitting gets too high.
Most of the time. It only messes up the truck or the trailer about one time in ten, maybe. Better than nothing, I guess.
Thing is, the "washers" aren't "on the end" of the hoses--they're at right angles, on those fittings. That's what makes them easy(er) to pull apart if something screws up. When you put them together right, it kind of looks like a pair of robots shaking hands. Thus the nickname "glad hands."
Picture below...
That big thing in the middle is the connector for the power cable--the one that lets the truck power the trailer's electrical system. The cable-and-connector assembly is called a "pigtail." I THINK that's because they were using coiled wire for that job long before they could do it for air lines. And for a cable that big it used big coils--curly like a pig's tail.
There. Done.
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Fish traps
I was going to go for a walk this morning, but it kind of got wet.
"Kind of" is the really annoying part. It's raining--just enough of a mist to make a long walk unpleasant, but not enough to be worth putting anything waterproof on. If I were going somewhere I wouldn't mind--I actually like walking in this kind of thing. But not two or three miles just for exercise. I could use the exercise, but hey...
I've been at this truck stop, on and off, for over a week now. The Company has some customers that expect a stable of drivers to carry just their loads--dedicated accounts, they're called. And the Christmas holiday is stretching some of those stables a bit. So I've become a Dedicated Driver for a month. Which means parking here, near a huge warehouse, and hauling trailers to any of their stores within a 300-or-so-mile radius. Reliable, but repetitive. I haven't made up my mind whether I like it.
One thing about it, I spend a lot of time slipping into store docks in the wee hours. The other night, I was near DC, earnestly following my directions, and sure enough, there was the store. So I pulled in the front drive--and discovered it didn't go straight in. Over the last week or so, I'd noticed that most of these stores had their service drive on the right side, so that's the way I turned.
Not this time.
I got to the end of the drive, looked left, and saw a curb with a car parked in front of it. Then I got out and strolled along the drive. There were four different places where you could turn into the parking lot above me. All four were sized for cars. All four were flanked with shopping cart racks, strategically placed for maximum property damage if I were foolish enough to try slipping in.
Below me was another parking lot. Two entrances were much like the four above (but with trees instead of shopping-cart racks). I might could get through the third, if I was careful. And there'd be enough room to turn around once I got in there.
All I'd have to do is back up a couple of hundred feet.
Backing up on a street is outright illegal. Technically, this was a driveway, so I suppose I might not get arrested--but the laws are there because backing one of these things is a major undertaking. If nothing else, you're never sure when someone will casually pull up behind you, stop, and patiently wait for you to run over them.
There is a whole class of fish traps, in all sizes and made of all kinds of materials (all the way back to the Stone Age, made of sticks stuck in the mud) that work on the same principle: guide the fish down a channel until he reaches a point he can't get out of without backing up. A lot of fish have serious trouble swimming backwards. I'd never thought I'd sympathise so thoroughly with a fish.
Fortunately, this was one of the times that I'd gotten to a store at a reasonable hour. It was open. I found an assistant manager who had a few minutes. He watched the traffic while I backed. And that one entrance was big enough and angled right. Barely. Five minutes later I was around back looking for a dock door. I felt much better.
Then I swapped trailers and swam home.
p.s.
Sorry bout the drought. Now that I have to sit around a little more, I'll try to get a few of the posts I've got sitting on the phone into readable form.
"Kind of" is the really annoying part. It's raining--just enough of a mist to make a long walk unpleasant, but not enough to be worth putting anything waterproof on. If I were going somewhere I wouldn't mind--I actually like walking in this kind of thing. But not two or three miles just for exercise. I could use the exercise, but hey...
I've been at this truck stop, on and off, for over a week now. The Company has some customers that expect a stable of drivers to carry just their loads--dedicated accounts, they're called. And the Christmas holiday is stretching some of those stables a bit. So I've become a Dedicated Driver for a month. Which means parking here, near a huge warehouse, and hauling trailers to any of their stores within a 300-or-so-mile radius. Reliable, but repetitive. I haven't made up my mind whether I like it.
One thing about it, I spend a lot of time slipping into store docks in the wee hours. The other night, I was near DC, earnestly following my directions, and sure enough, there was the store. So I pulled in the front drive--and discovered it didn't go straight in. Over the last week or so, I'd noticed that most of these stores had their service drive on the right side, so that's the way I turned.
Not this time.
I got to the end of the drive, looked left, and saw a curb with a car parked in front of it. Then I got out and strolled along the drive. There were four different places where you could turn into the parking lot above me. All four were sized for cars. All four were flanked with shopping cart racks, strategically placed for maximum property damage if I were foolish enough to try slipping in.
Below me was another parking lot. Two entrances were much like the four above (but with trees instead of shopping-cart racks). I might could get through the third, if I was careful. And there'd be enough room to turn around once I got in there.
All I'd have to do is back up a couple of hundred feet.
Backing up on a street is outright illegal. Technically, this was a driveway, so I suppose I might not get arrested--but the laws are there because backing one of these things is a major undertaking. If nothing else, you're never sure when someone will casually pull up behind you, stop, and patiently wait for you to run over them.
There is a whole class of fish traps, in all sizes and made of all kinds of materials (all the way back to the Stone Age, made of sticks stuck in the mud) that work on the same principle: guide the fish down a channel until he reaches a point he can't get out of without backing up. A lot of fish have serious trouble swimming backwards. I'd never thought I'd sympathise so thoroughly with a fish.
Fortunately, this was one of the times that I'd gotten to a store at a reasonable hour. It was open. I found an assistant manager who had a few minutes. He watched the traffic while I backed. And that one entrance was big enough and angled right. Barely. Five minutes later I was around back looking for a dock door. I felt much better.
Then I swapped trailers and swam home.
p.s.
Sorry bout the drought. Now that I have to sit around a little more, I'll try to get a few of the posts I've got sitting on the phone into readable form.
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Adventures in communication, part two
Truck stop chains tend to blur after a while.
Not surprising. The essence of a chain is to blur the experience. Not only is it cheaper to run all your stores the same way, it actually sells better. However much people complain, they go back because they know what they'll get. Consistency is a virtue. Really.
That said, variety is good, too. I bitterly regret the disappearance of several truck stops in
the last year or two. Even though there's a perfectly good place to park and eat right there--sometimes in the same building. It's just not the same. Or perhaps it IS the same--the same as the place 20 miles back, or the one 35 miles ahead. There can be too much consistency.
Today I'm enjoying something in between. Most Flying J(tm) truck stops have a Denny's(tm) attached nowadays.* But there are exceptions. A few are run by an outfit that include a restaurant called Patriot Farms(tm). I'm having a late breakfast at one now.**
The theme is Revolutionary War, with pictures of re-enactors and bits of 1700's food trivia in the menu. Mostly, it's just a good "home cookin'" restaurant, which is a good enough reason to stop in when I find one. But there's one standout.
Johnny cakes, they call them. Where I grew up, they called them corn fritters. Pancakes made with cornmeal. I remember them fondly, and these are the only places I've ever found them on a menu. They'll even give you a couple of little ones with any breakfast, free. Mmmm...
I have some need for comfort food right now. I just heard something a little nervous-making.
My satcom has been down for several weeks now. This has made getting in touch with my dispatcher interesting. Details later (from notes made earlier--I am so organized). But this was such a fine example I couldn't wait to write it up.
As I mentioned earlier, I just drove about 800 miles with a load, and was promptly told to turn around and go back to where I started--empty.
Well, okay, I thought, and asked where I should fuel.
Uhh, said my (weekend) dispatcher, and stared in consternation at his computer.***
It was telling him I'd never left Atlanta.
Or picked up a load there.
After all, I'd never filled out the official email forms, right?
And since I never picked up the load, or left Atlanta, obviously I shouldn't be paid for delivering it, now should I?
He swears he'll get it fixed. And of course I trust him.
And in the meantime there's comfort food.
-----
*They used to operate their own restaurants in most of them, but they apparently decided to outsource. Not necessarily a bad decision…
**11:00 am--I don't always post when I write. Or even often.
***I assume that's what he did. His comments seemed to suggest it.
Not surprising. The essence of a chain is to blur the experience. Not only is it cheaper to run all your stores the same way, it actually sells better. However much people complain, they go back because they know what they'll get. Consistency is a virtue. Really.
That said, variety is good, too. I bitterly regret the disappearance of several truck stops in
the last year or two. Even though there's a perfectly good place to park and eat right there--sometimes in the same building. It's just not the same. Or perhaps it IS the same--the same as the place 20 miles back, or the one 35 miles ahead. There can be too much consistency.
Today I'm enjoying something in between. Most Flying J(tm) truck stops have a Denny's(tm) attached nowadays.* But there are exceptions. A few are run by an outfit that include a restaurant called Patriot Farms(tm). I'm having a late breakfast at one now.**
The theme is Revolutionary War, with pictures of re-enactors and bits of 1700's food trivia in the menu. Mostly, it's just a good "home cookin'" restaurant, which is a good enough reason to stop in when I find one. But there's one standout.
Johnny cakes, they call them. Where I grew up, they called them corn fritters. Pancakes made with cornmeal. I remember them fondly, and these are the only places I've ever found them on a menu. They'll even give you a couple of little ones with any breakfast, free. Mmmm...
I have some need for comfort food right now. I just heard something a little nervous-making.
My satcom has been down for several weeks now. This has made getting in touch with my dispatcher interesting. Details later (from notes made earlier--I am so organized). But this was such a fine example I couldn't wait to write it up.
As I mentioned earlier, I just drove about 800 miles with a load, and was promptly told to turn around and go back to where I started--empty.
Well, okay, I thought, and asked where I should fuel.
Uhh, said my (weekend) dispatcher, and stared in consternation at his computer.***
It was telling him I'd never left Atlanta.
Or picked up a load there.
After all, I'd never filled out the official email forms, right?
And since I never picked up the load, or left Atlanta, obviously I shouldn't be paid for delivering it, now should I?
He swears he'll get it fixed. And of course I trust him.
And in the meantime there's comfort food.
-----
*They used to operate their own restaurants in most of them, but they apparently decided to outsource. Not necessarily a bad decision…
**11:00 am--I don't always post when I write. Or even often.
***I assume that's what he did. His comments seemed to suggest it.
Haulin' air
I haven't seen a pager in a while.
Some of you may remember those--the gadgets that would beep plaintively if someone was trying to contact you. A victim of the cell-phone tsunami, they are now relegated to bars in crowded restaurants, where they sit ignonomously under your drink until your table is ready.
This one is old-school, with a belt clip and everything. When it goes off, I will push a button on the side and it will tell me what door to back into. A clever use of old technology.
("Old technology"! Lord!)
Once I get unloaded, I will then do something I have never done before. Well, not on this scale. I've been told, as soon as I'm unloaded, to start south to our terminal in Atlanta.
About 800 miles.
With an empty trailer.
If the Company had its way, trailers would never move at all unless some shipper was paying for the privilege. An empty trailer moving means a truck is towing it. Burning fuel. Wearing out parts. Being driven by someone they have to pay.* They don't like that.
So why are they paying for 800 miles worth of it?
My best guess is, they're getting ready for Christmas. Too many trailers in the Northeast, not enough down South, and National Shopping Day on the horizon. So I'm hauling a load of New Jersey air to Atlanta so they can trade it for some toys for WalMart(tm). Better than defaulting on a contract because they didn't have enough trailers.
No matter. Long as they're paying.
*That last part varies from company to company. It's still not that uncommon for a driver to eat any time he spends not UNDER a load. But the one I work for pays for every mile I'm TOLD to drive. If I unload at Point A and they send me to Point B for my next load, I get paid for driving there.
Some of you may remember those--the gadgets that would beep plaintively if someone was trying to contact you. A victim of the cell-phone tsunami, they are now relegated to bars in crowded restaurants, where they sit ignonomously under your drink until your table is ready.
This one is old-school, with a belt clip and everything. When it goes off, I will push a button on the side and it will tell me what door to back into. A clever use of old technology.
("Old technology"! Lord!)
Once I get unloaded, I will then do something I have never done before. Well, not on this scale. I've been told, as soon as I'm unloaded, to start south to our terminal in Atlanta.
About 800 miles.
With an empty trailer.
If the Company had its way, trailers would never move at all unless some shipper was paying for the privilege. An empty trailer moving means a truck is towing it. Burning fuel. Wearing out parts. Being driven by someone they have to pay.* They don't like that.
So why are they paying for 800 miles worth of it?
My best guess is, they're getting ready for Christmas. Too many trailers in the Northeast, not enough down South, and National Shopping Day on the horizon. So I'm hauling a load of New Jersey air to Atlanta so they can trade it for some toys for WalMart(tm). Better than defaulting on a contract because they didn't have enough trailers.
No matter. Long as they're paying.
*That last part varies from company to company. It's still not that uncommon for a driver to eat any time he spends not UNDER a load. But the one I work for pays for every mile I'm TOLD to drive. If I unload at Point A and they send me to Point B for my next load, I get paid for driving there.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
A LITTLE tight...
(Wayback machine setting--July 21, 2011...)
When I was a very small boy, I picked cotton a few times. Occasionally I'd ride to the cotton gin (Forget your hayride—sink into a trailer full of fresh cotton sometime. Now THAT's cushy!) and watch it being sold, and vacuumed out of the trailer, and run through the gin and baled. It was noisy and strange and lots of fun.
Today I took my truck to a cotton gin in the middle of nowhere. There I backed into a dock and walked past a row of strange noisy machines looking for the office. In the office I got my bills of lading and returned to the truck, walking past those noisy things again on the way.
The gin machinery looks more or less the way it did when I was far younger. I wasn't expecting that. Granted the technology is nearly 200 years old now, but I was still a bit surprised. It really hasn't changed much at all in the last 50.
They wrap the bales in plastic now. In my youth they used a sort of cloth covering, so coarse you couldn't tell whether it was more like a tow sack* or a net. That seems to be the biggest change in the last generation or so.
I recognized it all. And I'd forgotten it until today.
Especially I'd forgotten the smell. Freshly-picked cotton has a pleasant smell. Kind of like a bakery, in some ways. But not quite.
Getting there was an adventure. I've discussed the joys of GPS forever. I may have mentioned that the customer directions can be almost as much fun. Sometimes this is because they don't know what they're talking about. Other times they don't know how to get it across.
Then there are the times when they forget I'm not coming in a car.
It never occurs to most people that a road looks very different when you're in a vehicle that's 80 feet long, 8 ½ feet wide, 13 ½ feet tall, and weighs anywhere from 15 to 40 tons. Sometimes this leads them to lead you under 12-foot overpasses, or around hairpin turns, or through peaceful residential neighborhoods with watchful police officers.
In this case, it led me up a two-lane county road in which each lane was EXACTLY the width of my tractor-trailer. As in, my wheels were touching the painted stripes on both sides of the truck. And there wasn't a shoulder to speak of
And that was on the straightaways. A truck takes up more of the road on a curve.
Then, just about the time I had gotten used to watching the mailboxes skim by in mute terror, and the cars and farm tractors trying to find enough shoulder to give me a wide berth, I saw the bridge.
Ordinary looking little thing. The interesting part was the sign that said “WEIGHT LIMIT: Tractor-trailers, 27 tons.”
Empty, I weigh between fifteen and twenty tons.** No problem. But when I came out, I was going to be closer to forty.
It bore thinking on.
Fortunately, the nice lady in the gin office knew a more sensible way out. She said she didn't even give the route I'd followed to cars—at certain times of the day you spend all your time stuck behind John Deere's.
(So who had given it to us? I wondered. But since it obviously hadn't been her, I didn't ask.)
I thanked her politely and went back to the truck. Walking slowly. Breathing in fresh cotton.
-
*Tow is a material made from what's left over after you've turned flax into linen. It's strong, rough, and scratchy. Nobody wants to wear the stuff, but it makes a pretty good material for heavy-duty bags. Old-fashioned potato sacks or feed bags, for instance...
**I mean, the tractor, the trailer, and I. Honest, that's what I mean...
When I was a very small boy, I picked cotton a few times. Occasionally I'd ride to the cotton gin (Forget your hayride—sink into a trailer full of fresh cotton sometime. Now THAT's cushy!) and watch it being sold, and vacuumed out of the trailer, and run through the gin and baled. It was noisy and strange and lots of fun.
Today I took my truck to a cotton gin in the middle of nowhere. There I backed into a dock and walked past a row of strange noisy machines looking for the office. In the office I got my bills of lading and returned to the truck, walking past those noisy things again on the way.
The gin machinery looks more or less the way it did when I was far younger. I wasn't expecting that. Granted the technology is nearly 200 years old now, but I was still a bit surprised. It really hasn't changed much at all in the last 50.
They wrap the bales in plastic now. In my youth they used a sort of cloth covering, so coarse you couldn't tell whether it was more like a tow sack* or a net. That seems to be the biggest change in the last generation or so.
I recognized it all. And I'd forgotten it until today.
Especially I'd forgotten the smell. Freshly-picked cotton has a pleasant smell. Kind of like a bakery, in some ways. But not quite.
Getting there was an adventure. I've discussed the joys of GPS forever. I may have mentioned that the customer directions can be almost as much fun. Sometimes this is because they don't know what they're talking about. Other times they don't know how to get it across.
Then there are the times when they forget I'm not coming in a car.
It never occurs to most people that a road looks very different when you're in a vehicle that's 80 feet long, 8 ½ feet wide, 13 ½ feet tall, and weighs anywhere from 15 to 40 tons. Sometimes this leads them to lead you under 12-foot overpasses, or around hairpin turns, or through peaceful residential neighborhoods with watchful police officers.
In this case, it led me up a two-lane county road in which each lane was EXACTLY the width of my tractor-trailer. As in, my wheels were touching the painted stripes on both sides of the truck. And there wasn't a shoulder to speak of
And that was on the straightaways. A truck takes up more of the road on a curve.
Then, just about the time I had gotten used to watching the mailboxes skim by in mute terror, and the cars and farm tractors trying to find enough shoulder to give me a wide berth, I saw the bridge.
Ordinary looking little thing. The interesting part was the sign that said “WEIGHT LIMIT: Tractor-trailers, 27 tons.”
Empty, I weigh between fifteen and twenty tons.** No problem. But when I came out, I was going to be closer to forty.
It bore thinking on.
Fortunately, the nice lady in the gin office knew a more sensible way out. She said she didn't even give the route I'd followed to cars—at certain times of the day you spend all your time stuck behind John Deere's.
(So who had given it to us? I wondered. But since it obviously hadn't been her, I didn't ask.)
I thanked her politely and went back to the truck. Walking slowly. Breathing in fresh cotton.
-
*Tow is a material made from what's left over after you've turned flax into linen. It's strong, rough, and scratchy. Nobody wants to wear the stuff, but it makes a pretty good material for heavy-duty bags. Old-fashioned potato sacks or feed bags, for instance...
**I mean, the tractor, the trailer, and I. Honest, that's what I mean...
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Not as tough as you think
2012/09/06
Northbound on the West Virginia Turnpike, I passed a truck that had been hauling bricks on a flatbed.
HAD been hauling bricks.
HAD been a truck.
Apparently it had sideswiped a granite wall. Brick dust all over the highway, intact bricks mixed in like chunks of carrot in a bowl of soup. The trailer was on its side, half its load still strapped in place.
Ahead of it, something that might have been a truck once. I couldn't tell. Behind it, a long trail of clothes, knick-knacks, and scraps of canary-yellow fiberglass that I have to assume had once been a sleeper.
God, I hope nobody was taking a nap in it.
In the movies, eighteen-wheelers are juggernauts. Unstoppable THINGS that crush hapless vacationers like bugs while their drivers grin maniacally. Truth is, they're just big. Armor plate would be that much less weight they could haul. So they're actually flimsier for their weight than a car. And most of that weight is in a lump behind you, still moving when the truck has abruptly stopped. Ready to turn your vehicle into an accordion.
Or, in this case, to scrape the cab off the frame with the side of a mountain.
Maybe they got out all right.
Northbound on the West Virginia Turnpike, I passed a truck that had been hauling bricks on a flatbed.
HAD been hauling bricks.
HAD been a truck.
Apparently it had sideswiped a granite wall. Brick dust all over the highway, intact bricks mixed in like chunks of carrot in a bowl of soup. The trailer was on its side, half its load still strapped in place.
Ahead of it, something that might have been a truck once. I couldn't tell. Behind it, a long trail of clothes, knick-knacks, and scraps of canary-yellow fiberglass that I have to assume had once been a sleeper.
God, I hope nobody was taking a nap in it.
In the movies, eighteen-wheelers are juggernauts. Unstoppable THINGS that crush hapless vacationers like bugs while their drivers grin maniacally. Truth is, they're just big. Armor plate would be that much less weight they could haul. So they're actually flimsier for their weight than a car. And most of that weight is in a lump behind you, still moving when the truck has abruptly stopped. Ready to turn your vehicle into an accordion.
Or, in this case, to scrape the cab off the frame with the side of a mountain.
Maybe they got out all right.
Monday, August 13, 2012
Home time, of a sort
08/11/2012
I saw my father yesterday.
This is no small thing. In the four years I've been driving, I've taken enough time off to go home three times. One of those was for my wife's funeral.
I simply don't have the money to take that much time off ("paid vacation" is not a phrase most trucking companies understand). So seeing the family means either--
A)
They come to see me.
It has happened. But simple arithmetic tends to work against that.
--400 miles.
--80+ year old driver.
--2 chances in 14 I'll be home.*
Do the math.
B)
I have a load that takes me into the neighborhood.
Weirdly enough, this is almost as unlikely as them dropping in on me. I-40 between Nashville and Memphis is not precisely on the way from Atlanta to much of anywhere. As a normal thing, any time I'm within a hundred miles of home, I'm either in Nashville and headed toward Chicago, or I've arrived in Memphis by way of Birmingham and my destination is further west.
Yesterday, though, I had a load for a plant in Jackson, Tennessee. And there aren't a lot of ways to get there that don't involve that stretch of I-40.
Nevertheless, I was worried. They COULD have routed me through Birmingham and then north on two-lanes for a hundred-plus miles. Fuel efficiency, y'know.
But they didn't. And so I found myself pulling into a truck stop within twenty miles of home, with a good three hours to waste before I had to move on to the customer.
Enough time for my father and his wife to come and meet me at a restaurant across the street from the truck stop. Enough time for us to decide whether to eat breakfast or lunch and then eat it, slow and easy.
Enough time to catch up on family news, a little (When did my nephew become a pastor?!).
Enough time to see them off and still let the food and the memories settle before I had to drive again.
There are a number of reasons I don't update this blog as often as I used to.** One of them is that I've been having quite a few days lately that I don't especially want to talk about. I want you to enjoy reading this. So I try to write about things I can think about and smile.
Like today.
-----
*And that's optimistic. Once upon a time my schedule was slightly predictable. That's changed in the last year..
**I discuss a few more here.
I saw my father yesterday.
This is no small thing. In the four years I've been driving, I've taken enough time off to go home three times. One of those was for my wife's funeral.
I simply don't have the money to take that much time off ("paid vacation" is not a phrase most trucking companies understand). So seeing the family means either--
A)
They come to see me.
It has happened. But simple arithmetic tends to work against that.
--400 miles.
--80+ year old driver.
--2 chances in 14 I'll be home.*
Do the math.
B)
I have a load that takes me into the neighborhood.
Weirdly enough, this is almost as unlikely as them dropping in on me. I-40 between Nashville and Memphis is not precisely on the way from Atlanta to much of anywhere. As a normal thing, any time I'm within a hundred miles of home, I'm either in Nashville and headed toward Chicago, or I've arrived in Memphis by way of Birmingham and my destination is further west.
Yesterday, though, I had a load for a plant in Jackson, Tennessee. And there aren't a lot of ways to get there that don't involve that stretch of I-40.
Nevertheless, I was worried. They COULD have routed me through Birmingham and then north on two-lanes for a hundred-plus miles. Fuel efficiency, y'know.
But they didn't. And so I found myself pulling into a truck stop within twenty miles of home, with a good three hours to waste before I had to move on to the customer.
Enough time for my father and his wife to come and meet me at a restaurant across the street from the truck stop. Enough time for us to decide whether to eat breakfast or lunch and then eat it, slow and easy.
Enough time to catch up on family news, a little (When did my nephew become a pastor?!).
Enough time to see them off and still let the food and the memories settle before I had to drive again.
There are a number of reasons I don't update this blog as often as I used to.** One of them is that I've been having quite a few days lately that I don't especially want to talk about. I want you to enjoy reading this. So I try to write about things I can think about and smile.
Like today.
-----
*And that's optimistic. Once upon a time my schedule was slightly predictable. That's changed in the last year..
**I discuss a few more here.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Running on empty
(Just so you know I haven't retired, here's a little something that's been waiting for Copious Free Time. I'll try to find some more…)
2012/07/16
This last trip covered about 900 miles. This was a good thing.
You're paid bt the mile, not by the hour, so any time you spend on paperwork, tiptoeing around a parking lot, backing into dock doors, waiting on your next assignment, etc, is time you didn't spend driving (i.e. making money). It follows, then, that one long trip is better than two or three short ones that add up to the same mileage. Thousand-mile runs are good.
I was downright cheerful when I started out this morning. Then I looked at my fuel gauge.
As I said, this was about a 900-mile run. I fueled up right after loading up.
These trucks have a range of, oh, let's say about--
900 miles.
My fuel reserve was below 25%.
Strictly speaking, this was not my fault. The Company decides when and where I fuel, based on some sweetheart deals it has with certain truck stop chains. The Home Office computer looks at how much fuel I report having and where I've been told to go, and picks out a Favored Truck Stop for me to visit.
Or two. This trip, it should have been two. The computer choked, apparently.
So, strictly speaking, it was their fault. But they speak VERY strictly to drivers who run out of fuel. For whatever reason. The first sentence tends to be something like, "You're fired." And other petential employers tend not to be sympathetic. They'd've said the same thing if it'd been them. You're supposed to be paying attention…
In this case, I wasn't too worried. According to my Handy Truck Stop Guide, there was an Approved Fuel Supplier within ten miles of the customer. I'd deliver the load, hop back an exit, and request a fuel stop. No problem.
Then I passed the mile marker where the Approved Fuel Supplier was.
It was a mile marker.
No exit. Much less a truck stop. Least of all an Approved Fuel Supplier.
Oh, boy.
When I got to the customer I pulled out my Handy Truck Stop Guide. And sure enough, there was the Approved Fuel Supplier. At the exit I remembered.
On the facing page. In the listing for a different Interstate.
On THIS Interstate, the nearest Approved Fuel Supplier was over fifty miles away.
And my fuel gauge was below 1/8 and dropping fast.
In the end I lost my nerve. I stopped at a Non-Approved Fuel Supplier and bought 10-12 gallons with my own money. That got me to a place where the Company would buy the rest.
You're not gonna tell on me, are you?
2012/07/16
This last trip covered about 900 miles. This was a good thing.
You're paid bt the mile, not by the hour, so any time you spend on paperwork, tiptoeing around a parking lot, backing into dock doors, waiting on your next assignment, etc, is time you didn't spend driving (i.e. making money). It follows, then, that one long trip is better than two or three short ones that add up to the same mileage. Thousand-mile runs are good.
I was downright cheerful when I started out this morning. Then I looked at my fuel gauge.
As I said, this was about a 900-mile run. I fueled up right after loading up.
These trucks have a range of, oh, let's say about--
900 miles.
My fuel reserve was below 25%.
Strictly speaking, this was not my fault. The Company decides when and where I fuel, based on some sweetheart deals it has with certain truck stop chains. The Home Office computer looks at how much fuel I report having and where I've been told to go, and picks out a Favored Truck Stop for me to visit.
Or two. This trip, it should have been two. The computer choked, apparently.
So, strictly speaking, it was their fault. But they speak VERY strictly to drivers who run out of fuel. For whatever reason. The first sentence tends to be something like, "You're fired." And other petential employers tend not to be sympathetic. They'd've said the same thing if it'd been them. You're supposed to be paying attention…
In this case, I wasn't too worried. According to my Handy Truck Stop Guide, there was an Approved Fuel Supplier within ten miles of the customer. I'd deliver the load, hop back an exit, and request a fuel stop. No problem.
Then I passed the mile marker where the Approved Fuel Supplier was.
It was a mile marker.
No exit. Much less a truck stop. Least of all an Approved Fuel Supplier.
Oh, boy.
When I got to the customer I pulled out my Handy Truck Stop Guide. And sure enough, there was the Approved Fuel Supplier. At the exit I remembered.
On the facing page. In the listing for a different Interstate.
On THIS Interstate, the nearest Approved Fuel Supplier was over fifty miles away.
And my fuel gauge was below 1/8 and dropping fast.
In the end I lost my nerve. I stopped at a Non-Approved Fuel Supplier and bought 10-12 gallons with my own money. That got me to a place where the Company would buy the rest.
You're not gonna tell on me, are you?
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Lucky breakdown
The truck passed me, then roared on past the truck in front of me. As it moved slowly past him, I noticed his wheels weren't on straight.
Literally.
Well, not all of them, anyway, the right rear set of trailer wheels were slanted inward, as if the axle behind were broken. And I could see sparks on the road, as if some metal thing were grinding itself down against the asphalt.
I'd gotten that far, and was cursing my lack of a CB to warn him with,* when the whole thing came off,
Two big truck wheels, still attached to their foot-deep brake drum, careening across the shoulder, bounding across the drainage ditch and up the embankment, going though a woven fence like it wasn't there, and tearing through somebody's field--leaving a rooster-tail of cornstalks for a good fifty yards before it slowed down.
Somebody's gonna be ticked off next time he plows.
On the other hand, we all got off easy, believe it or not. It could have been on the left side.
Careening across two lanes of traffic.
Bounding across the median and careening across three lanes of ONCOMING traffic.
And if it'd hit somebody, we're not talking a piece of retread. That's two complete tractor trailer tires, their wheel assemblies, and the brake drum they were bolted to. Several hundred pounds, I suspect--moving at 60+ mph, and quite possibly hitting a car going just as fast the other way.
Oh, boy.
As it was, both I and the fellow he was passing had seen it coming and slowed down plenty. The trailer in question got off the road in good order--the other set of wheels on that side were still there, and held the weight that long.
And I went on about my business.
I watched my wheels a lot in the mirror, though..
-----
*One of the few times I've missed it.
Literally.
Well, not all of them, anyway, the right rear set of trailer wheels were slanted inward, as if the axle behind were broken. And I could see sparks on the road, as if some metal thing were grinding itself down against the asphalt.
I'd gotten that far, and was cursing my lack of a CB to warn him with,* when the whole thing came off,
Two big truck wheels, still attached to their foot-deep brake drum, careening across the shoulder, bounding across the drainage ditch and up the embankment, going though a woven fence like it wasn't there, and tearing through somebody's field--leaving a rooster-tail of cornstalks for a good fifty yards before it slowed down.
Somebody's gonna be ticked off next time he plows.
On the other hand, we all got off easy, believe it or not. It could have been on the left side.
Careening across two lanes of traffic.
Bounding across the median and careening across three lanes of ONCOMING traffic.
And if it'd hit somebody, we're not talking a piece of retread. That's two complete tractor trailer tires, their wheel assemblies, and the brake drum they were bolted to. Several hundred pounds, I suspect--moving at 60+ mph, and quite possibly hitting a car going just as fast the other way.
Oh, boy.
As it was, both I and the fellow he was passing had seen it coming and slowed down plenty. The trailer in question got off the road in good order--the other set of wheels on that side were still there, and held the weight that long.
And I went on about my business.
I watched my wheels a lot in the mirror, though..
-----
*One of the few times I've missed it.
Saturday, June 23, 2012
Adventures in Bureaucracy
(The following actually happened a week or two ago. It took me this long to recount it in a properly lighthearted fashion...)
Part I: Quick fix
Picked up a trailer yesterday, and took it 30 miles down the road to the nearest truck stop for weighing. While I was maneuvering for a parking place, another driver told me the trailer brake lights were out.
I was parked at a truck stop with a shop. Part of a chain we do business with. But (the company said) we have a terminal in the neighborhood, so let's save money.
So I drove another thirty miles back the way I came. To a crowded terminal, just packed with ailing trucks and trailers.
Six hours later, the company mechanics looked at my trailer. Nothing wrong with the brake lights. Turned out the problem was with the connecting cable* on the truck. Ten minute fix.
But wait. The trailer had serious structural problems. It was not safe to carry a load.
After only half an hour, a Corporate Decision was made. The freight would have to be unloaded, and reloaded onto another trailer.
The guy at the terminal cussed. This (expletive deleted) freight couldn't be unloaded without special equipment, and he didn't (expletive deleted) have it.
Four hours later another Corporate Decision was made. The trailer would be taken back to the shipper, who would move the stuff to another trailer. And since no other truck was available, moving it back would be my job. Soon as I got up in the morning, since this had taken up all of my lawfully permitted day.
So this morning I got up, took the trailer another thirty miles in the wrong direction, back to the shipper. The gate guard knew about the problem, and immediately got on the phone to let the Shipping Department know I was here.
That was half an hour ago. I'm sure they'll answer their phone sometime.
The guard apologized for the delay. I told him I was used to it.
Part II: Simple answers
About half an hour after I finished the above, I was guided to the shipping department by a guard in a golf cart. An unusual honor, that. Usually they just point.
When I got there a man came out to see what was wrong with the trailer. After a few minutes he said it was just fine. I informed my company of this, and they said wait for instructions.
A couple of hours later I realized I had problems.
My reasoning was as follows:
If the shipper said there was indeed a problem with the trailer, then they were admitting they'd overlooked the problem when they'd inspected the trailer before loading it. Therefore nothing was wrong with the trailer.
And if nothing was wrong with the trailer, then by George they weren't going to waste time pulling everything off it and putting it on another trailer.
On the other hand, if my company said the trailer was all right, they were saying the mechanics at the terminal were seeing things. Therefore something was wrong with the trailer.
And if something was wrong with the trailer, then by George they couldn't allow it out on the highway.
And until somebody decided to back down, I would sit in a dusty parking lot, enjoying the Southern summer day.
Part III: Decisive action
About two hours later, the guard came back by to see why I was still hanging around, I explained things to him, and he commiserated. Then he said he'd talk to somebody and see if he could speed things up a little.
Half an hour later he returned to escort me off the property.
Apparently, when he asked about me, they decided that, since they'd already said nothing was wrong, I had no business there. And since I don't spend much of my time picking fights, I went along quietly.
At the next available stopping place I informed my employers. An hour later I got a message: "What are you doing sitting there? If there's nothing wrong with the trailer you should be rolling."
So I rolled.
Nice to have clear instructions.
(I was later told that, after I'd made the delivery (500 miles distant), I should take the trailer to the nearest terminal and leave it to be repaired. After all, it's been declared unsafe...)
-----
*Called a "pigtail, for reasons that would be obvious if you were looking at one.
Part I: Quick fix
Picked up a trailer yesterday, and took it 30 miles down the road to the nearest truck stop for weighing. While I was maneuvering for a parking place, another driver told me the trailer brake lights were out.
I was parked at a truck stop with a shop. Part of a chain we do business with. But (the company said) we have a terminal in the neighborhood, so let's save money.
So I drove another thirty miles back the way I came. To a crowded terminal, just packed with ailing trucks and trailers.
Six hours later, the company mechanics looked at my trailer. Nothing wrong with the brake lights. Turned out the problem was with the connecting cable* on the truck. Ten minute fix.
But wait. The trailer had serious structural problems. It was not safe to carry a load.
After only half an hour, a Corporate Decision was made. The freight would have to be unloaded, and reloaded onto another trailer.
The guy at the terminal cussed. This (expletive deleted) freight couldn't be unloaded without special equipment, and he didn't (expletive deleted) have it.
Four hours later another Corporate Decision was made. The trailer would be taken back to the shipper, who would move the stuff to another trailer. And since no other truck was available, moving it back would be my job. Soon as I got up in the morning, since this had taken up all of my lawfully permitted day.
So this morning I got up, took the trailer another thirty miles in the wrong direction, back to the shipper. The gate guard knew about the problem, and immediately got on the phone to let the Shipping Department know I was here.
That was half an hour ago. I'm sure they'll answer their phone sometime.
The guard apologized for the delay. I told him I was used to it.
Part II: Simple answers
About half an hour after I finished the above, I was guided to the shipping department by a guard in a golf cart. An unusual honor, that. Usually they just point.
When I got there a man came out to see what was wrong with the trailer. After a few minutes he said it was just fine. I informed my company of this, and they said wait for instructions.
A couple of hours later I realized I had problems.
My reasoning was as follows:
If the shipper said there was indeed a problem with the trailer, then they were admitting they'd overlooked the problem when they'd inspected the trailer before loading it. Therefore nothing was wrong with the trailer.
And if nothing was wrong with the trailer, then by George they weren't going to waste time pulling everything off it and putting it on another trailer.
On the other hand, if my company said the trailer was all right, they were saying the mechanics at the terminal were seeing things. Therefore something was wrong with the trailer.
And if something was wrong with the trailer, then by George they couldn't allow it out on the highway.
And until somebody decided to back down, I would sit in a dusty parking lot, enjoying the Southern summer day.
Part III: Decisive action
About two hours later, the guard came back by to see why I was still hanging around, I explained things to him, and he commiserated. Then he said he'd talk to somebody and see if he could speed things up a little.
Half an hour later he returned to escort me off the property.
Apparently, when he asked about me, they decided that, since they'd already said nothing was wrong, I had no business there. And since I don't spend much of my time picking fights, I went along quietly.
At the next available stopping place I informed my employers. An hour later I got a message: "What are you doing sitting there? If there's nothing wrong with the trailer you should be rolling."
So I rolled.
Nice to have clear instructions.
(I was later told that, after I'd made the delivery (500 miles distant), I should take the trailer to the nearest terminal and leave it to be repaired. After all, it's been declared unsafe...)
-----
*Called a "pigtail, for reasons that would be obvious if you were looking at one.
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Lessons in non-verbal communication
I dropped a load in New England the other morning and went off to find a place to park. In New England this is not a trivial exercise.
This time it wasn't too bad,though--I knew a place to start. I-95 used to be a toll road in these parts, and some of the old service plazas are still in place.* I'd stopped at one on the way in. So that's where I went to await further orders.
When I got them, there was a slightly embarrassing detail: the shipper was north of me, and I was at the southbound service plaza.
No biggie. You just go south an exit, turn left, go over or under the highway, and turn left again, right?
So I went south an exit, turned left, and--
--saw the sign beside the underpass. The one that had been invisible until I was well into the turn.
The one that said " 13' 5" "
I HAVE mentioned that modern semi's are 13' 6", haven't I?
Mind you, those sign are sometimes wrong. But the only way to know if this particular one was would have been to:
A--live around here, or--
B--drive on under, and listen for a crunch.
I chose "none of the above."
I tried to find a number for the local police department. The automated 411 service offered me five options. One was a police credit union, three were police union locals, and one was for the police department in the next major city.
I looked at the line of traffic behind me and called 911.
The emergency operator was less than pleased, but gave me the number. I was in such a hurry to stop bothering her, I rang off before I realized I hadn't gotten the area code. Rather than do that again, I looked it up online (my phone is smart--that's why it knew I didn't really want the police department).
Two nice officers came out within ten minutes to direct traffic, and help me back up and escape back onto the Interstate. But during that interval I saw many looks. And gestures.
Not all of them were directed at me. people were trying to slip past me the whole time. Past the oncoming traffic. On a two-lane street. Looks were exchanged. Sign language was in use. It was very educational.
I think I prefer books, though.
- - -
*There's one in Maryland I'm especially fond of...
This time it wasn't too bad,though--I knew a place to start. I-95 used to be a toll road in these parts, and some of the old service plazas are still in place.* I'd stopped at one on the way in. So that's where I went to await further orders.
When I got them, there was a slightly embarrassing detail: the shipper was north of me, and I was at the southbound service plaza.
No biggie. You just go south an exit, turn left, go over or under the highway, and turn left again, right?
So I went south an exit, turned left, and--
--saw the sign beside the underpass. The one that had been invisible until I was well into the turn.
The one that said " 13' 5" "
I HAVE mentioned that modern semi's are 13' 6", haven't I?
Mind you, those sign are sometimes wrong. But the only way to know if this particular one was would have been to:
A--live around here, or--
B--drive on under, and listen for a crunch.
I chose "none of the above."
I tried to find a number for the local police department. The automated 411 service offered me five options. One was a police credit union, three were police union locals, and one was for the police department in the next major city.
I looked at the line of traffic behind me and called 911.
The emergency operator was less than pleased, but gave me the number. I was in such a hurry to stop bothering her, I rang off before I realized I hadn't gotten the area code. Rather than do that again, I looked it up online (my phone is smart--that's why it knew I didn't really want the police department).
Two nice officers came out within ten minutes to direct traffic, and help me back up and escape back onto the Interstate. But during that interval I saw many looks. And gestures.
Not all of them were directed at me. people were trying to slip past me the whole time. Past the oncoming traffic. On a two-lane street. Looks were exchanged. Sign language was in use. It was very educational.
I think I prefer books, though.
- - -
*There's one in Maryland I'm especially fond of...
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Adventures in weighing redux again
(5/20/2012)
I saw the Batmobile today.
The original, I mean. Twin bubble tops, tailfins, and all. Sitting on a flatbed wrecker, passing through the intersection in front of me as I waited for a green light.
In the parking lot on the opposite corner was a sign:
CAR SHOW TODAY!
SEE THE ORIGINAL BATMOBILE!
1/4 MI -- >
That's how I knew I wasn't hallucinating. Making sure of things like that can be reassuring, sometimes.
Last night I picked up a load at one of our terminals. When I got the paperwork, I found two extra items. One was a note from the previous driver, saying the load was heavy but legal. The other was a scale ticket that called him a liar.
According to the scale ticket, the total weight wouldn't get me in trouble.* but the weight on the trailer wheels was more than 250 lbs over the legal limit. Those wheels would have to move back at least one notch. Maybe two.
Trouble is, those wheels were already a good foot further back than the law allowed.
How the previous driver got that trailer past the weigh stations in three states I'm not sure. They're not all open all the time, and the lack of humor varies from station to station anyway. So I suppose he didn't have to be TOO lucky. Just luckier than I ever assume I'll be.
Problem is, I'd picked this load up because that other driver had run out of hours out of hours moving it this far north. And it had to be at the customer's dock by midnight. So if I was going to have the load pulled out of that trailer, rearranged, and put back in at this hour, I was gonna need a real good reason.
And the nearest scale I could find was on the border, about a mile from the first Wisconsin weigh station. And about fifty miles from the terminal.
Sigh.
So I headed north to the truck stop in question, there to learn which note was a lie.
Turns out they both were.
According to the certified scale at that truck stop, my rig was a good ton lighter than the other ticket had said. And the trailer's tandem wheels weren't 250 lbs overweight.
But the truck's drive wheels were too heavy by more than 1500.
This led to all sorts of questions in the back of my mind. Like, how did that guy get THIS though weigh stations in three states? And where the heck did he find a scale that far off? Or was it some kind of a joke?
No matter. i had a correct weight now. And the cure for a nose-heavy trailer is to move the woeels forward. The wheels that were presently too far back to be legal anyway.
Don't you love it when a plan comes together?
A few adjustments and another weighing to make sure it all worked, and I was cruising past the only weigh station between me and the customer.
It was closed, of course.
- - -
*(Assuming, of course, that my truck, with its present load of fuel, weighed no more than his truck with the fuel it was carrying when he scaled. Not always a good bet...)
I saw the Batmobile today.
The original, I mean. Twin bubble tops, tailfins, and all. Sitting on a flatbed wrecker, passing through the intersection in front of me as I waited for a green light.
In the parking lot on the opposite corner was a sign:
CAR SHOW TODAY!
SEE THE ORIGINAL BATMOBILE!
1/4 MI -- >
That's how I knew I wasn't hallucinating. Making sure of things like that can be reassuring, sometimes.
Last night I picked up a load at one of our terminals. When I got the paperwork, I found two extra items. One was a note from the previous driver, saying the load was heavy but legal. The other was a scale ticket that called him a liar.
According to the scale ticket, the total weight wouldn't get me in trouble.* but the weight on the trailer wheels was more than 250 lbs over the legal limit. Those wheels would have to move back at least one notch. Maybe two.
Trouble is, those wheels were already a good foot further back than the law allowed.
How the previous driver got that trailer past the weigh stations in three states I'm not sure. They're not all open all the time, and the lack of humor varies from station to station anyway. So I suppose he didn't have to be TOO lucky. Just luckier than I ever assume I'll be.
Problem is, I'd picked this load up because that other driver had run out of hours out of hours moving it this far north. And it had to be at the customer's dock by midnight. So if I was going to have the load pulled out of that trailer, rearranged, and put back in at this hour, I was gonna need a real good reason.
And the nearest scale I could find was on the border, about a mile from the first Wisconsin weigh station. And about fifty miles from the terminal.
Sigh.
So I headed north to the truck stop in question, there to learn which note was a lie.
Turns out they both were.
According to the certified scale at that truck stop, my rig was a good ton lighter than the other ticket had said. And the trailer's tandem wheels weren't 250 lbs overweight.
But the truck's drive wheels were too heavy by more than 1500.
This led to all sorts of questions in the back of my mind. Like, how did that guy get THIS though weigh stations in three states? And where the heck did he find a scale that far off? Or was it some kind of a joke?
No matter. i had a correct weight now. And the cure for a nose-heavy trailer is to move the woeels forward. The wheels that were presently too far back to be legal anyway.
Don't you love it when a plan comes together?
A few adjustments and another weighing to make sure it all worked, and I was cruising past the only weigh station between me and the customer.
It was closed, of course.
- - -
*(Assuming, of course, that my truck, with its present load of fuel, weighed no more than his truck with the fuel it was carrying when he scaled. Not always a good bet...)
Friday, May 18, 2012
The hammer was big enough
I was worried when I parked tonight.
The only parking space left when I got to this truck stop was at the end of a row, next to the lane everyone has to use to leave the fuel islands. I've had to take too many sharp corners to really trust anyone else doing it.*
I feel better now, though. Somebody else just parked next to me. That isn't really a space over there. Which means he's taking a much bigger chance than I was. It also means I'm no longer the one playing corner post.
Fine by me.
I was supposed to be relaxing about 80 miles north of here. I shut down early this afternoon about 20 miles from my destination--which I was forbidden to approach before tomorrow morning. That much time to myself is a rare and glorious thing, and I was prepared to enjoy it.
Two and a half hour later, the phone rang. How many hours did I have left? Oh, good. They needed me to take over somebody else's load. Just run down to this other truck stop, switch trailers with him, and go pick up some extra freight over here.
i really should forget how to relax.
I said yes like a good fellow, threaded 30-40 miles of two-lane highway, and found the other guy. Got his trailer, did my paperwork, got something cold to drink, and got ready to roll.
It was about that time I noticed that my emergency fiashers had stopped flashing.
A moment's checking showed the turn signals had gone the same way. They came on just fine. They just wouldn't flash.
With less than two hours on the clock and another 30 miles of two-lane to traverse, I really didn't need this. No way I could call Breakdown, get a serviceman out here, and still make the pickup. And an 18-wheeler that doesn't use turn signals gets NOTICED.
Time to pretend I was the mechanic my father spent many frustrating years trying to turn me into.
Fortunately, logic gave me a good head start on this one. All the lights worked. They just didn't flash. And it had happened all at once. So the likeliest culprit was...
It took me another five minutes to search the truck and find the fusebox, another minute or two to figure out how to open it. As I'd hoped, there was a diagram on the inside cover. And--yes, there it was.
Not the fuse, silly. A bad fuse would have kept the lights from coming on at all. No, I was looking for the relay.
Yes, this truck is that old-fashioned. An electro-mechanical widget that turns the lights on and off while making cute little clicky sounds. If that wasn't the problem, I was going to have to yell for help.
And I might have to anyway. It's not as if I was carrying any spares.
Time for the high-tech solution.
i jiggled it.
I whacked it.
I called it a few names.
And then I tried the flashers again.
No worries. It was as if nothing had ever been wrong.
So I started the truck and headed off to the shipper. Sophisticated troubleshooting techniques had won out again.
Hey, if it was good enough sor the Apollo astronauts...
-----
*I once saw a gentleman looking for a parking space take a corner a little too tight and a little too fast. He caved in the end truck's fender and crushed its radiator. The discussions went on far into the night...
The only parking space left when I got to this truck stop was at the end of a row, next to the lane everyone has to use to leave the fuel islands. I've had to take too many sharp corners to really trust anyone else doing it.*
I feel better now, though. Somebody else just parked next to me. That isn't really a space over there. Which means he's taking a much bigger chance than I was. It also means I'm no longer the one playing corner post.
Fine by me.
I was supposed to be relaxing about 80 miles north of here. I shut down early this afternoon about 20 miles from my destination--which I was forbidden to approach before tomorrow morning. That much time to myself is a rare and glorious thing, and I was prepared to enjoy it.
Two and a half hour later, the phone rang. How many hours did I have left? Oh, good. They needed me to take over somebody else's load. Just run down to this other truck stop, switch trailers with him, and go pick up some extra freight over here.
i really should forget how to relax.
I said yes like a good fellow, threaded 30-40 miles of two-lane highway, and found the other guy. Got his trailer, did my paperwork, got something cold to drink, and got ready to roll.
It was about that time I noticed that my emergency fiashers had stopped flashing.
A moment's checking showed the turn signals had gone the same way. They came on just fine. They just wouldn't flash.
With less than two hours on the clock and another 30 miles of two-lane to traverse, I really didn't need this. No way I could call Breakdown, get a serviceman out here, and still make the pickup. And an 18-wheeler that doesn't use turn signals gets NOTICED.
Time to pretend I was the mechanic my father spent many frustrating years trying to turn me into.
Fortunately, logic gave me a good head start on this one. All the lights worked. They just didn't flash. And it had happened all at once. So the likeliest culprit was...
It took me another five minutes to search the truck and find the fusebox, another minute or two to figure out how to open it. As I'd hoped, there was a diagram on the inside cover. And--yes, there it was.
Not the fuse, silly. A bad fuse would have kept the lights from coming on at all. No, I was looking for the relay.
Yes, this truck is that old-fashioned. An electro-mechanical widget that turns the lights on and off while making cute little clicky sounds. If that wasn't the problem, I was going to have to yell for help.
And I might have to anyway. It's not as if I was carrying any spares.
Time for the high-tech solution.
i jiggled it.
I whacked it.
I called it a few names.
And then I tried the flashers again.
No worries. It was as if nothing had ever been wrong.
So I started the truck and headed off to the shipper. Sophisticated troubleshooting techniques had won out again.
Hey, if it was good enough sor the Apollo astronauts...
-----
*I once saw a gentleman looking for a parking space take a corner a little too tight and a little too fast. He caved in the end truck's fender and crushed its radiator. The discussions went on far into the night...
Thursday, May 3, 2012
Home Office knows best.
Looks like it's gonna rain again.
I'm in Georgia at the moment.* Seems like it's raining all over the world. Classical reference aside, it's comfortable enough. Right now, anyway,
I'm supposed to be spending some time at home, starting early Sunday morning. It's Thursday night, and I'm about a hundred miles from home. So of course they're sending me to Kentucky. Might as well get some more use out of me before they let me go, right? And it's only 3-400 miles. They'll just set me up with a load coming back this way, and I'll be home in plenty of time. No problem.
Cynical acquaintances might point to their track record over the past few months when I talk about getting home on time. Me, I'd scoff at such defeatism--I really don't think they're trying to keep me out here.
My doubts come from another direction. Perhaps the simplest way to explain would be to describe what happened after the diesel fuel thing I described in my last post.**
After I'd recovered from the embarrassment, I spent another hour or so getting to the town I was supposed to deliver in. Previously I had looked the map over; and I was pretty sure I knew where I was going.
This is not always the case. The big Road Atlases we carry don't have infinite detail--you can only show so much about 49 states (and some Canadian provinces) in a carry-able book. And the Company has its own notions about fuel-efficient routing. In this case they had me entering town from a different direction than the customer's directions called for,
Nothing new there. And the road the customer was on actually appeared on the map! State highways are so much easier to deliver to...
So I followed my directions like a good boy. Entered town from the east and turned north, instead of coming in from the north like those fuel-wasting locals wanted me to. Threaded my way through town and continued northward, past the school and the fire station and toward the railroad overpass.
The one marked "CLEARANCE 13' 3"."
Have I mentioned that a modern tractor-trailer is 13' 6" tall?
I glanced around quickly, saw a driveway that offered my only hope of escape, and expertly swung my vehicle up into the parking lot of a deserted market. No longer required to choose between blocking traffic or backing over it, I now had the time to meditate on the reason those fuel-wasting locals had wanted me to come in from the north.
The Company's fuel-efficient routes are laid out by computer. And the computer routes you from city to city. If I'd been delivering downtown, this would've been a great route. But I was delivering NORTH of the city. And I don't know if their program even knows about that bridge.
The locals obviously did, though. So...
The nice lady who answered the phone passed me on to a man who knew more about the roads. He called in a consultant.*** Between the three of us, we worked out a way around the low bridge that wouldn't require me to backtrack thirty miles or bulldoze through any residential neighborhoods.
Thus reassured, I found a way out of the parking lot and started once more toward the customer. I did run into one snag--the left turn they told me to make was darn near a U-turn. I had to skip it, then spend half an hour finding a place to turn around and come back to take it safely. But I did get there.
Eventually.
I wonder how much extra fuel I burned.
And these are the people who will find me a timely way home after sending me 3-400 miles in the other direction.
I don't have to be cynical.
*****
*(The other entry with today's date would have been dated yesterday if I'd had a cell tower handy. The traffic stop it described happened the day before.
(Confused yet? Don't worry--you will be...)
**(Yep. This post actually was written today. But it should have been posted yesterday, since I'm talking about something that happened the day before. NOW are you confused?)
***("You're where?" one of them said. "You saved yourself a lot of trouble, ducking off the road like that. Nice move!"
(It's always pleasant to be appreciated...)
I'm in Georgia at the moment.* Seems like it's raining all over the world. Classical reference aside, it's comfortable enough. Right now, anyway,
I'm supposed to be spending some time at home, starting early Sunday morning. It's Thursday night, and I'm about a hundred miles from home. So of course they're sending me to Kentucky. Might as well get some more use out of me before they let me go, right? And it's only 3-400 miles. They'll just set me up with a load coming back this way, and I'll be home in plenty of time. No problem.
Cynical acquaintances might point to their track record over the past few months when I talk about getting home on time. Me, I'd scoff at such defeatism--I really don't think they're trying to keep me out here.
My doubts come from another direction. Perhaps the simplest way to explain would be to describe what happened after the diesel fuel thing I described in my last post.**
After I'd recovered from the embarrassment, I spent another hour or so getting to the town I was supposed to deliver in. Previously I had looked the map over; and I was pretty sure I knew where I was going.
This is not always the case. The big Road Atlases we carry don't have infinite detail--you can only show so much about 49 states (and some Canadian provinces) in a carry-able book. And the Company has its own notions about fuel-efficient routing. In this case they had me entering town from a different direction than the customer's directions called for,
Nothing new there. And the road the customer was on actually appeared on the map! State highways are so much easier to deliver to...
So I followed my directions like a good boy. Entered town from the east and turned north, instead of coming in from the north like those fuel-wasting locals wanted me to. Threaded my way through town and continued northward, past the school and the fire station and toward the railroad overpass.
The one marked "CLEARANCE 13' 3"."
Have I mentioned that a modern tractor-trailer is 13' 6" tall?
I glanced around quickly, saw a driveway that offered my only hope of escape, and expertly swung my vehicle up into the parking lot of a deserted market. No longer required to choose between blocking traffic or backing over it, I now had the time to meditate on the reason those fuel-wasting locals had wanted me to come in from the north.
The Company's fuel-efficient routes are laid out by computer. And the computer routes you from city to city. If I'd been delivering downtown, this would've been a great route. But I was delivering NORTH of the city. And I don't know if their program even knows about that bridge.
The locals obviously did, though. So...
The nice lady who answered the phone passed me on to a man who knew more about the roads. He called in a consultant.*** Between the three of us, we worked out a way around the low bridge that wouldn't require me to backtrack thirty miles or bulldoze through any residential neighborhoods.
Thus reassured, I found a way out of the parking lot and started once more toward the customer. I did run into one snag--the left turn they told me to make was darn near a U-turn. I had to skip it, then spend half an hour finding a place to turn around and come back to take it safely. But I did get there.
Eventually.
I wonder how much extra fuel I burned.
And these are the people who will find me a timely way home after sending me 3-400 miles in the other direction.
I don't have to be cynical.
*****
*(The other entry with today's date would have been dated yesterday if I'd had a cell tower handy. The traffic stop it described happened the day before.
(Confused yet? Don't worry--you will be...)
**(Yep. This post actually was written today. But it should have been posted yesterday, since I'm talking about something that happened the day before. NOW are you confused?)
***("You're where?" one of them said. "You saved yourself a lot of trouble, ducking off the road like that. Nice move!"
(It's always pleasant to be appreciated...)
Small humilities
(Warning: Long, even for me...)
Rain is less fun when you don't have bugs on your windshield.
I'm sitting in front of a "portable" loading ramp (this company doesn't put loading docks in their stores for some reason), enjoying the breakfast I got damp for (it wasn't wet when I started, honest!) and feeling the trailer dance when the forklift comes. The lady driving that is worse off than I--climbing a metal ramp in the rain is an exercise in wheel-spinning frustration, and the lightning had her nervous till it went away.
At least I'm out of it. Now.
If I'd carried my umbrella when I went to get breakfast I'd probably be more charitable. When it's not a downpour (it's not) and I'm protected a bit, I like walking in the rain. I even wrote a poem about it once.* But walking through a drizzle with a coffee cup and a breakfast burrito that you want to keep warm is slightly different.
Ah, well, at least it didn't happen yesterday.
Yesterday I began my journey here with plenty of time to spare--enough that I wasted an hour on a shower.** Three or four hours later I stopped for fuel. Then into the wilds of New Jersey.
I am ashamed to say I was surprised the first time I realized not all of New Jersey is like Newark. Like New York away from Manhattan it's a nice drive through the country, except the towns are cleser together than I'm used to. Plenty of stoplights, stop signs, etc. And for some reason, the drive wheels were slipping every time I started moving. Not much, just enough to be annoying. And puzzling, on a dry road.
Then the siren blipped behind me, and I had other things on my mind.
When a police car wants you to pull over in the middle of a small town, it can be a challenge. For some reason, the locals don't tend to leave 80 feet of clear curb downtown very often. Oddly enough, though, there was such a spot just a little ways ahead. Looking back on it, I wonder if that's why the officer picked that place to get my attention.
At the time, I had other things on my mind. There is no such thing as a minor traffic stop when you're a commercial driver. Points count BIG. And even if you don't get a ticket, there are other things. Things the officer is free to look for, that can mess up your career as much as the ticket could. The Feds seem to add more of them every day.
Not to mention the question: why WAS he stopping me? As far as I knew, I was doing everything right. I hadn't seen any "NO TRUCKS" signs. What had I missed?
Well, I'd know soon enough. Here he was at the door.
Young. Thin. Tall. Earnest. And both polite and friendly. Odd attitude in the middle of a traffic stop,
Some people had called the police about me, he said.
Uh-oh, I thought.
It seemed that every time I stopped at an intersection the truck started leaking something. Brake fluid, maybe, they thought. Perhaps I ought to be warned, they'd said.
Perhaps they were right, I thought.
But brake fluid? Given that all the brakes on an 18-wheeler work on compressed air, that didn't seem likely. On the other hand, leaking ANYTHING is bad on a vehicle like this. So I thanked the officer for the warning and swung down to look for the problem.
"Now that I'm standing next to you," the officer said helpfully, "I can smell something."
So could I. Oh, this was embarrassing. Nothing for it, though.
I sighed.
Said, "Me,too. And judging by the smell, this will be easy to fix,"
And went to both sides of the truck and put the caps back on the fuel tanks.
That explained the slippery starts, too, I thought. Diesel fuel is a fairly good lubricant. And the fuel tanks are right in front of the drive wheels.
The officer was politely amused, and glad to know I wasn't about to break down or worse. He waited until I was rolling again and went on about his business. No harm, no foul, I guess.
And no water in the fuel. It wasn't raining.
*(In college. Two or three pages long. I doubt you'd be interested.)
**(In a manner of speaking. I didn't think it was wasted. If you' been close enough to get a whiff of me, you might not have either.)
Rain is less fun when you don't have bugs on your windshield.
I'm sitting in front of a "portable" loading ramp (this company doesn't put loading docks in their stores for some reason), enjoying the breakfast I got damp for (it wasn't wet when I started, honest!) and feeling the trailer dance when the forklift comes. The lady driving that is worse off than I--climbing a metal ramp in the rain is an exercise in wheel-spinning frustration, and the lightning had her nervous till it went away.
At least I'm out of it. Now.
If I'd carried my umbrella when I went to get breakfast I'd probably be more charitable. When it's not a downpour (it's not) and I'm protected a bit, I like walking in the rain. I even wrote a poem about it once.* But walking through a drizzle with a coffee cup and a breakfast burrito that you want to keep warm is slightly different.
Ah, well, at least it didn't happen yesterday.
Yesterday I began my journey here with plenty of time to spare--enough that I wasted an hour on a shower.** Three or four hours later I stopped for fuel. Then into the wilds of New Jersey.
I am ashamed to say I was surprised the first time I realized not all of New Jersey is like Newark. Like New York away from Manhattan it's a nice drive through the country, except the towns are cleser together than I'm used to. Plenty of stoplights, stop signs, etc. And for some reason, the drive wheels were slipping every time I started moving. Not much, just enough to be annoying. And puzzling, on a dry road.
Then the siren blipped behind me, and I had other things on my mind.
When a police car wants you to pull over in the middle of a small town, it can be a challenge. For some reason, the locals don't tend to leave 80 feet of clear curb downtown very often. Oddly enough, though, there was such a spot just a little ways ahead. Looking back on it, I wonder if that's why the officer picked that place to get my attention.
At the time, I had other things on my mind. There is no such thing as a minor traffic stop when you're a commercial driver. Points count BIG. And even if you don't get a ticket, there are other things. Things the officer is free to look for, that can mess up your career as much as the ticket could. The Feds seem to add more of them every day.
Not to mention the question: why WAS he stopping me? As far as I knew, I was doing everything right. I hadn't seen any "NO TRUCKS" signs. What had I missed?
Well, I'd know soon enough. Here he was at the door.
Young. Thin. Tall. Earnest. And both polite and friendly. Odd attitude in the middle of a traffic stop,
Some people had called the police about me, he said.
Uh-oh, I thought.
It seemed that every time I stopped at an intersection the truck started leaking something. Brake fluid, maybe, they thought. Perhaps I ought to be warned, they'd said.
Perhaps they were right, I thought.
But brake fluid? Given that all the brakes on an 18-wheeler work on compressed air, that didn't seem likely. On the other hand, leaking ANYTHING is bad on a vehicle like this. So I thanked the officer for the warning and swung down to look for the problem.
"Now that I'm standing next to you," the officer said helpfully, "I can smell something."
So could I. Oh, this was embarrassing. Nothing for it, though.
I sighed.
Said, "Me,too. And judging by the smell, this will be easy to fix,"
And went to both sides of the truck and put the caps back on the fuel tanks.
That explained the slippery starts, too, I thought. Diesel fuel is a fairly good lubricant. And the fuel tanks are right in front of the drive wheels.
The officer was politely amused, and glad to know I wasn't about to break down or worse. He waited until I was rolling again and went on about his business. No harm, no foul, I guess.
And no water in the fuel. It wasn't raining.
*(In college. Two or three pages long. I doubt you'd be interested.)
**(In a manner of speaking. I didn't think it was wasted. If you' been close enough to get a whiff of me, you might not have either.)
Friday, April 27, 2012
Parking can be fun, redux
Near Philadelphia, there is a village. There you can make make a right turn that misses a traffic-light post by a good two inches (Well, maybe four...). If you don't mind taking up the whole road you're turning into (including both oncoming lanes-- watching everyone frantically back up while inaudibly discussing your ancestry could be entertaining, I guess, if you had a certain mindset...)
You got around? Good. Now take the next right. Yeah, it's a residential street. Still easier than that first place I told you about, right?
And there's the customer on your right. Note the steep hill. And the gate. And the cars lined up on either side of the gate.
Oh, yeah, and the total lack of a place to turn around. This will be a ninety-plus degree back to your blind side. Have a good time.
What d'you mean, the street's too narrow? I got in there! And it only took me half an hour!
Well, yeah, I did pull up into the parking lot of that apartment house across the street there. Partway, anyhow--it wouldn't hold the whole truck. And I didn't tear up the truck OR the retaining wall!
(The caretaker was impressed, too. "I don't know how you got into that position," he said, "but I'm amazed that you got back out of it."
(Hmm. Maybe I won't mention that...)
Ah! You made it! Congratulations! Now you just back up to the dock so they can unload you and--
Oh, right. No loading dock. And no ramp. And no unloading equipment. All the trucks before had a lift gate.
(They were quite a bit smaller, too. Or so I was told. Apparently this is a new account for us. And I think the salesman skimped a bit on the questions...)
When I was here, they ended up borrowing a forklift from a nearby construction site. Maybe he's there this time, too. Hope so.
Don't worry. Getting out is a little safer. And you'll only tick off half as many people blocking traffic. And the customer will be glad to see you go.
And this didn't happen to you anyway. After it happened to me, I sent a message to the Company--telling them exactly how dangerous this place was. And we know they care more about safety than profit. And that they respect their drivers' judgment on matters like this.
Right?
You got around? Good. Now take the next right. Yeah, it's a residential street. Still easier than that first place I told you about, right?
And there's the customer on your right. Note the steep hill. And the gate. And the cars lined up on either side of the gate.
Oh, yeah, and the total lack of a place to turn around. This will be a ninety-plus degree back to your blind side. Have a good time.
What d'you mean, the street's too narrow? I got in there! And it only took me half an hour!
Well, yeah, I did pull up into the parking lot of that apartment house across the street there. Partway, anyhow--it wouldn't hold the whole truck. And I didn't tear up the truck OR the retaining wall!
(The caretaker was impressed, too. "I don't know how you got into that position," he said, "but I'm amazed that you got back out of it."
(Hmm. Maybe I won't mention that...)
Ah! You made it! Congratulations! Now you just back up to the dock so they can unload you and--
Oh, right. No loading dock. And no ramp. And no unloading equipment. All the trucks before had a lift gate.
(They were quite a bit smaller, too. Or so I was told. Apparently this is a new account for us. And I think the salesman skimped a bit on the questions...)
When I was here, they ended up borrowing a forklift from a nearby construction site. Maybe he's there this time, too. Hope so.
Don't worry. Getting out is a little safer. And you'll only tick off half as many people blocking traffic. And the customer will be glad to see you go.
And this didn't happen to you anyway. After it happened to me, I sent a message to the Company--telling them exactly how dangerous this place was. And we know they care more about safety than profit. And that they respect their drivers' judgment on matters like this.
Right?
Friday, April 20, 2012
Parking can be fun
It's not always the places that threaten life and limb that leave you shaking. There's also the places where nobody's in danger, but there's lots of room for lawyers if you screw up. And plenty of time to see disaster looming.
Here, for instance.
In the middle of a small mountain town's business district, you make a 120-degree turn onto Main Street. Follow it as it winds out of town, past the hillside homes whose porches don't QUITE overhang the street. Make a hard right turn onto a side street that's about ten feet longer than your truck, and stop.
No, you're not done yet. See that street right there on your left?
Yes, the one the same width as your truck. With the crushed fencepost, and the hole where other trucks have broken through the asphalt.
No, that's not some small house's neglected driveway. That's a street. And you're going to turn left on it. With your left tandems dropping gently into that pothole and your trailer frame skimming the ruins of that chain-link fence, while your right front fender barely misses that old lady's picket fence in front of you.
You DID miss it, didn't you?
Good. Now inch your way forward another hundred feet, until you're past the building on your right. Ignore the twelve-year-olds racing past you on their little dirt bikes.
Behind you is the loading dock. It's angled in about thirty degrees, so although you're backing to your blind side, you can sort of see where you're going if you jigger your mirrors just right. And if you're careful, you won't flatten the fence in front of you and run over the dog as you straighten out. In which case you'll be safely parked, blocking only about 3\4 of the street. The locals will casually drive by on the shoulder, missing you by inches.
After getting here, backing in seemed easy. Enjoy the feeling.
You still have to get back out.
You can't turn around. So when the nice gentleman finishes unloading you you'll pull out, inch forward another hundred feet, and make another left turn that doesn't QUITE knock down the fence behind you or squash the car parked in front of you.
Then an s-turn only 3/4 as tight, and a left turn back onto Main (clearing the cars in the parking lot to your left by a good two feet), and you're home free.
(Except for the hairpin turn back onto the highway, of course. But after what you've just been through, that's nothing.)
The nice lady who gave directions didn't mention those details. Maybe she didn't want to scare me off...
Here, for instance.
In the middle of a small mountain town's business district, you make a 120-degree turn onto Main Street. Follow it as it winds out of town, past the hillside homes whose porches don't QUITE overhang the street. Make a hard right turn onto a side street that's about ten feet longer than your truck, and stop.
No, you're not done yet. See that street right there on your left?
Yes, the one the same width as your truck. With the crushed fencepost, and the hole where other trucks have broken through the asphalt.
No, that's not some small house's neglected driveway. That's a street. And you're going to turn left on it. With your left tandems dropping gently into that pothole and your trailer frame skimming the ruins of that chain-link fence, while your right front fender barely misses that old lady's picket fence in front of you.
You DID miss it, didn't you?
Good. Now inch your way forward another hundred feet, until you're past the building on your right. Ignore the twelve-year-olds racing past you on their little dirt bikes.
Behind you is the loading dock. It's angled in about thirty degrees, so although you're backing to your blind side, you can sort of see where you're going if you jigger your mirrors just right. And if you're careful, you won't flatten the fence in front of you and run over the dog as you straighten out. In which case you'll be safely parked, blocking only about 3\4 of the street. The locals will casually drive by on the shoulder, missing you by inches.
After getting here, backing in seemed easy. Enjoy the feeling.
You still have to get back out.
You can't turn around. So when the nice gentleman finishes unloading you you'll pull out, inch forward another hundred feet, and make another left turn that doesn't QUITE knock down the fence behind you or squash the car parked in front of you.
Then an s-turn only 3/4 as tight, and a left turn back onto Main (clearing the cars in the parking lot to your left by a good two feet), and you're home free.
(Except for the hairpin turn back onto the highway, of course. But after what you've just been through, that's nothing.)
The nice lady who gave directions didn't mention those details. Maybe she didn't want to scare me off...
Monday, April 16, 2012
Nothing unusual
(from two or three days ago. I don't always have a connection when I think I do.,.)
Warm night ahead, I think. Not summerlike yet, but warm enough to roast in, if you sleep in a mobile solar oven. We'll see.
Was heading to Florida this morning. Not a welcome prospect if you work for my company--they don't do a lot of business there. Which means getting a load back out is sometimes iffy. But duty calls...
Then someone else called. Sent a message on the satcom, anyway. Some poor weary soul was trying to get home to Florida. Could he take my load and start in that direction?
I said okay. I'm such a nice guy.
Five hours later we met in a truck stop in south Georgia. He was properly appreciative. As we unhooked trailers and reconnected to each others, he mentioned that he'd been pre-assigned to a different load while he was waiting for me. One that would actually get him closer to home. Never heard another thing about it of course.
I commiserated, he thanked me again, I gave him his bills, and we parted. Shortly after, I got a new assignment.
Yep. The one he'd been given. It would have gotten him closer to home. It will get me further into the Florida cargo quagmire. We are so organized.
I got the info, of course, an hour after I was supposed to pick it up. Two and a half hours later, I carefully backed out of their driveway, turned around in a neighboring business' parking lot, and headed to the nearest truck stop to wait for morning. When they might be open.
Just another day at the office.
(It's okay. They did find me a load back out. Really.)
Warm night ahead, I think. Not summerlike yet, but warm enough to roast in, if you sleep in a mobile solar oven. We'll see.
Was heading to Florida this morning. Not a welcome prospect if you work for my company--they don't do a lot of business there. Which means getting a load back out is sometimes iffy. But duty calls...
Then someone else called. Sent a message on the satcom, anyway. Some poor weary soul was trying to get home to Florida. Could he take my load and start in that direction?
I said okay. I'm such a nice guy.
Five hours later we met in a truck stop in south Georgia. He was properly appreciative. As we unhooked trailers and reconnected to each others, he mentioned that he'd been pre-assigned to a different load while he was waiting for me. One that would actually get him closer to home. Never heard another thing about it of course.
I commiserated, he thanked me again, I gave him his bills, and we parted. Shortly after, I got a new assignment.
Yep. The one he'd been given. It would have gotten him closer to home. It will get me further into the Florida cargo quagmire. We are so organized.
I got the info, of course, an hour after I was supposed to pick it up. Two and a half hours later, I carefully backed out of their driveway, turned around in a neighboring business' parking lot, and headed to the nearest truck stop to wait for morning. When they might be open.
Just another day at the office.
(It's okay. They did find me a load back out. Really.)
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Sung On a Wet Freeway
I can see clearly now,
the bugs are gone!
I can see all the cars weaving
in my way!
Gone are the white splotches
that had me blind!
Gonna be a ni-i-ce,
(ni-i-ce)
ni-i-ce
(nice)
gray rainy day!
*****
We celebrate the oddest things sometimes...
the bugs are gone!
I can see all the cars weaving
in my way!
Gone are the white splotches
that had me blind!
Gonna be a ni-i-ce,
(ni-i-ce)
ni-i-ce
(nice)
gray rainy day!
*****
We celebrate the oddest things sometimes...
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Happy Easter to you all.
I actually got to church today. It's hard to get a load on a holiday weekend, so I was a stationary target when the fellow from the churoh bus came through. So I was able to be a good boy for once. (Usually Sunday Service consists of a prayer while looking through a windshield.)
Guess I'll to stretch the virtuous streak by calling the various families. Then to bed
'nite, all.
Guess I'll to stretch the virtuous streak by calling the various families. Then to bed
'nite, all.
Friday, April 6, 2012
Torqued
Pulled into a store and backed up to the dock. Stopped a few feet short and opened the doors.
Or tried to. The left door swung out just fine, but the right--the latch handle came around about halfway and stuck.
The people at the dock had seen it before. Offered me a pipe to force it with. It was nice of them, so took it politely and tried it. No go. As I expected.
Then I moved the truck a few feet, walked back around, and opened the door almost casually.
"Wow!" they said. How did you DO that?"
"Simple,' I replied modestly. "I've seen this before. There was a low spot in the pavement under one set of drive wheels.
When the tractor and the trailer are too far out of level, the weight of the tractor can twist the trailer until the doorframe is out of true. Then the latches can jam up.
All I had to do was pull up until the tractor was level with the trailer. The trailer straightened out and the door opened right up. Nothing to it."
"You're so clever." one of them said. She was kind of cute, too.
All that took about two seconds. Then I stopped daydreaming and finished backing up to the dock.
They were waiting patiently. Nobody looked especially impressed. Darn
Or tried to. The left door swung out just fine, but the right--the latch handle came around about halfway and stuck.
The people at the dock had seen it before. Offered me a pipe to force it with. It was nice of them, so took it politely and tried it. No go. As I expected.
Then I moved the truck a few feet, walked back around, and opened the door almost casually.
"Wow!" they said. How did you DO that?"
"Simple,' I replied modestly. "I've seen this before. There was a low spot in the pavement under one set of drive wheels.
When the tractor and the trailer are too far out of level, the weight of the tractor can twist the trailer until the doorframe is out of true. Then the latches can jam up.
All I had to do was pull up until the tractor was level with the trailer. The trailer straightened out and the door opened right up. Nothing to it."
"You're so clever." one of them said. She was kind of cute, too.
All that took about two seconds. Then I stopped daydreaming and finished backing up to the dock.
They were waiting patiently. Nobody looked especially impressed. Darn
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Heavy, man.
Hurried through a pre-trip inspection on the trailer. I figured I had time to get it to the customer with about half an hour to spare, if I got a quick enough start,
As I quickly checked the tires and brake shoes, I noticed the tandems were slid back a little. Not unusual--if the load was heavy enough, the driver who brought it up from Florida would've had to move the wheels to even out the weights. Or else the load before that had to be balanced, and this driver hadn't bothered to set them back. I've been seeing a lot of that lately.
Finished hooking up and swung around to the gate. There I got the Bill of Lading and started on my paperwork.
Hmm. Less than 14,000 pounds. One of these trucks can (legally) pull more than 45,000. My company doesn't expect weight-balancing problems before 37,000 or so (read: if I want to scale a load that light, I can pay for it myself). 14,000 is nothing.
Lazy driver, I decided. After all, leaving the tandems slid back doesn't HURT a light load. Makes it hard to take a tight corner, but this trip was pretty much all Interstate.
So I was lazy too. I was in a hurry, after all.
Eighty miles down the road was a weigh station. There always is. Good thing I was light--they're often backed up, and I was short on time, but this state uses PrePass(tm) to pre-screen us. Wouldn't even slow me down--
The PrePass transponder flashed red. Huh?
Pulled into the weigh station, wondering. Fortunately there wasn't a backup. Slowly I rolled over the scale, under a watchful official eye. No signal to stop, so I went on.
Sometimes they'll stop you just because...
The only other weigh station I passed was closed. So I got the rest of the way with only roadwork to slow me down. The truck seemed too be working pretty hard on the hills, though. Have to talk to the shop, I thought.
Got to the customer and handed over the paperwork. The guard did his business and gave me signed copies of the Bills of Lading.
Bills. Two of them.
One I'd already seen. The other described another 30,000 pounds.
A 44,000 pound load needs to be scaled. Fortunately, the previous driver had done that. At least I presume so. And my truck must've been about the same weight. But that's not the way to bet.
I would have scaled again. If I'd read the paperwork right, that is.
Good thing I was in too much of a hurry to "fix" the tandems, no? Sometimes I'm luckier than I deserve...
As I quickly checked the tires and brake shoes, I noticed the tandems were slid back a little. Not unusual--if the load was heavy enough, the driver who brought it up from Florida would've had to move the wheels to even out the weights. Or else the load before that had to be balanced, and this driver hadn't bothered to set them back. I've been seeing a lot of that lately.
Finished hooking up and swung around to the gate. There I got the Bill of Lading and started on my paperwork.
Hmm. Less than 14,000 pounds. One of these trucks can (legally) pull more than 45,000. My company doesn't expect weight-balancing problems before 37,000 or so (read: if I want to scale a load that light, I can pay for it myself). 14,000 is nothing.
Lazy driver, I decided. After all, leaving the tandems slid back doesn't HURT a light load. Makes it hard to take a tight corner, but this trip was pretty much all Interstate.
So I was lazy too. I was in a hurry, after all.
Eighty miles down the road was a weigh station. There always is. Good thing I was light--they're often backed up, and I was short on time, but this state uses PrePass(tm) to pre-screen us. Wouldn't even slow me down--
The PrePass transponder flashed red. Huh?
Pulled into the weigh station, wondering. Fortunately there wasn't a backup. Slowly I rolled over the scale, under a watchful official eye. No signal to stop, so I went on.
Sometimes they'll stop you just because...
The only other weigh station I passed was closed. So I got the rest of the way with only roadwork to slow me down. The truck seemed too be working pretty hard on the hills, though. Have to talk to the shop, I thought.
Got to the customer and handed over the paperwork. The guard did his business and gave me signed copies of the Bills of Lading.
Bills. Two of them.
One I'd already seen. The other described another 30,000 pounds.
A 44,000 pound load needs to be scaled. Fortunately, the previous driver had done that. At least I presume so. And my truck must've been about the same weight. But that's not the way to bet.
I would have scaled again. If I'd read the paperwork right, that is.
Good thing I was in too much of a hurry to "fix" the tandems, no? Sometimes I'm luckier than I deserve...
Odds and ends
(A few snippets from the 27th. Having a notepad in the phone has made a difference, all right.)
NCIS is distracting. (Big surprising insight there.)
***
Walking to the mall (mostly for the exercise. Really.) Cut a corner to save some steps. Almost tried to find a store entrance in the back. That seemed to be the right place to go in--next to the loading dock.
I've been driving too long.
***
(earlier)
Got a call from HQ asking how far I was from I-80. Said I might be needed for a repower. Since I was pulling into a weigh station at that precise moment, he said he'd call me back.
Since it seemed important, I started looking for a place to stop and look at the map. Saw a likely spot and pulled off.
Then saw the sign: "TRACTOR TRAILERS PROHIBITED. All others welcome."
Fortunately, there was a pull-off across the road. Unfortunately, it was full of "oversized load" rigs and their escort vehicles. Room to pull off, but not to turn around,
So I went on. Ten miles or so on a mountain-top two-lane to the next entrance ramp (fortunately, said mountain-top two-lane ran parallel to the Interstate).
Turns out I was a hundred miles or more from the repower location. And the guy never did call me back...
NCIS is distracting. (Big surprising insight there.)
***
Walking to the mall (mostly for the exercise. Really.) Cut a corner to save some steps. Almost tried to find a store entrance in the back. That seemed to be the right place to go in--next to the loading dock.
I've been driving too long.
***
(earlier)
Got a call from HQ asking how far I was from I-80. Said I might be needed for a repower. Since I was pulling into a weigh station at that precise moment, he said he'd call me back.
Since it seemed important, I started looking for a place to stop and look at the map. Saw a likely spot and pulled off.
Then saw the sign: "TRACTOR TRAILERS PROHIBITED. All others welcome."
Fortunately, there was a pull-off across the road. Unfortunately, it was full of "oversized load" rigs and their escort vehicles. Room to pull off, but not to turn around,
So I went on. Ten miles or so on a mountain-top two-lane to the next entrance ramp (fortunately, said mountain-top two-lane ran parallel to the Interstate).
Turns out I was a hundred miles or more from the repower location. And the guy never did call me back...
Thursday, March 29, 2012
As I was saying...
Sitting in a fancy steakhouse. Fancy for me, anyhow.
(Between that sentence and this one, I had a nice steak with a salad bar and a baked sweet potato. Seemed rude to interrupt...)
If the steakhouse in question were anywhere but in the middle of Pedro's South of the Border, the biggest and most shameless tourist trap I've ever seen, I might feel a tad underdressed. As it is I figure they're used to it. (Their roof is a sombrero, for Pete's sake!)
This is not the usual way to end a day, believe me. But it was a very long and fairly frustrating one. And when it was over, here the place was. And I'll have to get up DARNED early in the morning, and I was in a mood.
Excuses complete. Now on to the next set.
Some of you may have noticed a gap between this post and the last one. Like, about eight months worth? If I was embarrassed before...
The reasons are many and varied, and a few have some validity. The original one involved about three MONTHS when it seemed every post would have started, "Well, the truck broke down again..." Never anything disastrous, and I was never out of action more than a day or two, but it kind of set a mood.
And I didn't really feel like dumping my moods on you. Between the three (!) trucks and their problems and the Company's clever ways of "making things better," I had a few. And maybe some aspects of my wife's death finally caught up with me, too--I don't know. No matter. Because one of the other reasons was a GOOD thing.
Business started to pick up. I don't know if we're in some kind of recovery or not, but I can say some people are shipping stuff. Enough to keep ME busy, anyway.
If you go back far enough in this blog, you'll find me saying if I have time to write, I'm not making any money. I still ain't rich, but one symptom of prosperity is definitely with me. Time is scarce, and the time time I have tends to come in scattered bits. Don't fire up the laptop, son--they'll be calling in a minute.
So I let the blog slide. A long way. Sorry.
Still don't have time. But the truck's running, more or less. And my mood's a bit better, I think. And I've got this fancy new phone I can type on! I don't have to wait for Microsoft to decide it's a nice day, anymore!
So we'll try again. The look may change--posting from a phone is bound to be different. And I won't always be this wordy with a phone keyboard. But we'll see what happens.
Tomorrow. I've gotta be up at 0400. G'nite.
(Between that sentence and this one, I had a nice steak with a salad bar and a baked sweet potato. Seemed rude to interrupt...)
If the steakhouse in question were anywhere but in the middle of Pedro's South of the Border, the biggest and most shameless tourist trap I've ever seen, I might feel a tad underdressed. As it is I figure they're used to it. (Their roof is a sombrero, for Pete's sake!)
This is not the usual way to end a day, believe me. But it was a very long and fairly frustrating one. And when it was over, here the place was. And I'll have to get up DARNED early in the morning, and I was in a mood.
Excuses complete. Now on to the next set.
Some of you may have noticed a gap between this post and the last one. Like, about eight months worth? If I was embarrassed before...
The reasons are many and varied, and a few have some validity. The original one involved about three MONTHS when it seemed every post would have started, "Well, the truck broke down again..." Never anything disastrous, and I was never out of action more than a day or two, but it kind of set a mood.
And I didn't really feel like dumping my moods on you. Between the three (!) trucks and their problems and the Company's clever ways of "making things better," I had a few. And maybe some aspects of my wife's death finally caught up with me, too--I don't know. No matter. Because one of the other reasons was a GOOD thing.
Business started to pick up. I don't know if we're in some kind of recovery or not, but I can say some people are shipping stuff. Enough to keep ME busy, anyway.
If you go back far enough in this blog, you'll find me saying if I have time to write, I'm not making any money. I still ain't rich, but one symptom of prosperity is definitely with me. Time is scarce, and the time time I have tends to come in scattered bits. Don't fire up the laptop, son--they'll be calling in a minute.
So I let the blog slide. A long way. Sorry.
Still don't have time. But the truck's running, more or less. And my mood's a bit better, I think. And I've got this fancy new phone I can type on! I don't have to wait for Microsoft to decide it's a nice day, anymore!
So we'll try again. The look may change--posting from a phone is bound to be different. And I won't always be this wordy with a phone keyboard. But we'll see what happens.
Tomorrow. I've gotta be up at 0400. G'nite.
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