Harry
03-03-2005, 11:59 AM
Editor's note: Kansas City Star projects reporter Judy L. Thomas spent nine months examining the trucking industry for a series of stories that ran Dec. 16-18. As part of the project, Thomas -- a former trucker -- drove a tractor-trailer to experience first-hand what's going on in the industry today. She and photographer Marcio Jose Sanchez traveled 6,000 miles through 15 states, sleeping and showering at truck stops and talking to truckers along the way. Their trips offer a peek inside the mysterious, sometimes seedy, sometimes romanticized subculture of a breed that many see as the last American cowboy.
I couldn't have ordered a nicer morning.
Sitting high above the concrete in the cab of my 18-wheeler, I head west on Interstate 70, the Denver skyline glimmering in the sunlight off to my left. Traffic is heavy but moving steadily, and my exit is approaching.
So far, so good.
I've spent weeks worrying about this moment. What if I get lost? What if the side streets are too narrow? What if I have to back this 70-foot rig into a narrow, cramped dock? What if...
But things are going smoothly. I've called ahead for directions, and I'm getting close. Maybe delivering a load to an urban health clinic -- my first drop in 15 years -- won't be such an ordeal after all.
I get off I-70 and turn south toward the clinic.
"Go under two railroad overpasses," the office manager had told me, "and you're almost there."
The first overpass is marked with a warning sign. Clearance: 13 feet, 11 inches. I slow the truck to a crawl, nervously looking up and out the window to make sure my 13 1/2-foot-high rig can clear it. Whew. Just inches to spare.
I move on. Then I freeze when I see the sign directly ahead.
Clearance: 13 feet, 3 inches.
Three months earlier: Saturday afternoon, May 12
I arrive at Ryder Transportation Services to pick up my 1999 Freightliner Condo cab tractor. As I climb inside and crank up the diesel engine, my heart starts pounding and I feel lightheaded. This is something I've been wanting to do for years, but now it's a reality.
Before I start a 3,000-mile East Coast run, though, I've got to drive this thing home to prepare for the trip. Once I make it out of the parking lot and onto I-70, my fears start easing. Even the shifting and double-clutching become second nature after a few miles. And by the time I make it the 23 miles home, I'm just getting warmed up.
The white, two-story monstrosity is a novelty on my cul-de-sac. Curious children and adults drop by to peek inside, impressed with the roomy cab, the 10-speed transmission and dashboard that resembles the instrument panel on a fighter jet. Behind the two air-ride seats is a walk-in sleeper with leather upholstery, bunk beds, closets and hookups for a TV and refrigerator.
Monday, May 14
The big day. Just as I'm about to walk out the door, the phone rings.
"You'd better look outside," my neighbor warns.
A police car is parked next to my truck and an officer is walking around it, a quizzical look on his face. I rush outside and explain what's going on. The officer says someone had called and complained that there was a truck parked here all weekend and kids were climbing on it.
I hit the road, stop by The Star to pick up photographer Marcio Jose Sanchez, then return to Ryder to get my 53-foot trailer.
Our goal today: Chicago.
Last fall, truckers voted on the worst highways in the country. Fourth place: I-70 between Kansas City and St. Louis. It's easy to see why. Besides the bumps, the road seems constantly under construction. And it's way too crowded.
Still, we make good time across Missouri. The weigh station, or "chicken coop," on the west end of the state is closed. The coops are open near St. Louis, but we pass over the scales without incident.
In Illinois, the speed limit for heavy trucks is 55 mph, and the state police monitor it closely. Even so, most of the big rigs run an average of 5 to 10 miles over the speed limit, using their CB radios to "out" the "bears" in the vicinity. Whenever a patrol car comes along, the truckers act as though a virus has infiltrated their network.
We stop for fuel and food at the Dixie Truckers Home in McLean, Ill., a well-known point along the old Route 66. Inside at the lunch counter, several truckers are chatting.
"We ran 80, 85 clear across Indiana," boasts one. Another gripes about the price of diesel while he flirts with the waitress.
Two of the drivers -- both owner-operators, or those who own and drive their rigs -- have college degrees. Scott Voyles, from Kenosha, Wis., is a computer programmer.
"But I couldn't fit in in an office," he says. "I spent more time on the docks shooting the breeze."
Jeff Morgan, from Independence, has a degree in criminal justice and has been driving since 1992.
Morgan forks over $1,675 a month for his Freightliner tractor. He makes 82 cents a mile both loaded and empty, but is responsible for all his expenses. That means there's little left over.
"It's great at tax time," he says. "Trucking is a great tax write off."
After climbing back in the truck, I update my logbook, then jump back on the "big road," or interstate. The Department of Transportation requires truckers to keep track of the hours they work. They also have to take an eight-hour break after 10 hours of driving. Most truckers, however, are paid by the mile and say they can't make any money driving the legal number of hours. Some falsify their logbooks, which they refer to as "comic books."
"How 'bout you, northbound?" someone shouts over the CB. "How's it look over your shoulder?"
(club)
Despite the growing use of technology -- most truckers now carry cell phones, and many companies have equipped their rigs with global positioning systems that allow their dispatchers to keep better track of the drivers -- the old citizens band radio, or CB, is still a necessity.
But you've got to know the lingo so you don't sound like a nerd. For example, when addressing another trucker, don't say, "Hey, good buddy." That's an insult. The preferable term is simply, "driver." As in, "Hey, driver, what's the best route around St. Louis?" Or just describe the rig, as in, "How 'bout that eastbound Freightliner?" Or the company, such as, "Hey, J.B. Hunt..." Or the style of the tractor, as in, "How 'bout that westbound large car (tractor with a double-bunk sleeper)?"
Truckers also have pet names for highway patrol officers: "Full-grown bear" and "Smokey Bear." A "County Mounty" is a sheriff, and a "local yokel" is a city cop.
"There's a plain white wrapper with a customer" or "with a capture" means a police officer in an unmarked car has stopped someone. If the officer is using a radar gun, he's a "Kojak with a Kodak," he's "taking your picture" or "shooting you in the back." If the lights are running on top of his cruiser, his "gumball machine is going."
Truckers don't use many CB codes any more. The main ones are 10-4, which means "OK," or simply, 42, which is short for "I know what you mean" or "I understand." For example, "Eastbound, you've got a full-grown bear at the 65 yardstick, your side with a captured four-wheeler."
Translation: A cop has pulled over a car at mile marker 65 on the eastbound side of the interstate.
Your reply: "42 on the 65."
A 10-100 is a restroom break. For that, a driver may pull into a rest area, or just pull onto an exit ramp, jump out and "get a tirewash."
In trucker language, if the weigh station is open, you say, "The coops are weighing your wagon," "they're wide open," or "they're rolling you across." If they're closed, "the coops are all locked up," or "mash your motor."
UPS drivers are called "Buster Brown," moving companies are "bedbuggers," and a truck hauling cars is a "parking lot." A Peterbilt is a "Petercar," a Freightliner is a "Freightshaker." A flat bed trailer with sides and a tarp is a "covered wagon," and a tanker trailer is a "thermos bottle."
Driving a tractor without a trailer is called "bobtailing," and pulling an empty trailer is "deadheading." Shifting into neutral and letting the truck coast is called "Georgia overdrive." It's also illegal.
Besides the CB, truckers use their lights as a way of communicating. When one truck passes another, for example, the trucker who has been passed will turn his lights off and on quickly to let the other driver know that it's clear to pull back over. The trucker who has passed the other one will then flick his trailer lights to thank the driver behind him. Two blinks is the standard thank-you.
Some truckers, especially owner-operators, take great pride in their rigs and like to dress them up with lots of lights, fancy mud flaps, chrome and aluminum. At night, they look like rolling Christmas trees.
I'd forgotten about the camaraderie among truckers. It's almost like a fraternity. They watch out for each other -- if one is broken down along the road, others will ask if they need help; they'll start a conversation with a fellow driver even though he's a complete stranger; they play jokes on each other.
Sometimes, the jokes can be cruel. Back when I was driving in the 1980s, on one long weekend I spent at a truck terminal in Pittsburgh, some of the drivers took up a collection and hired a prostitute for Farmer, a shy, naive, overall-clad trucker from Iowa. But when she saw him, she took off.
By 11 p.m., fatigue is setting in. The scales at Joliet on Interstate 80 are open, but they let us roll right past without getting weighed. Now if I can just find a place to stop. I've driven more than nine hours and am fading fast. Twice, I catch myself reaching up to adjust my sunglasses, even though it's dark and I'm not wearing any.
Every trucker knows the feeling. You've got knots in your shoulders and aches in your lower back. Your eyes are dried out, and oncoming headlights make them sting. But it's just a few more miles. A couple more hours. So you fight against sleep and the chances of crashing and you push on through the night.
At 11:45 p.m., I pull into the TA Travel Center at Lake Station, Ind., grab one of the last spaces in the mammoth lot and hit the sleeper berth for my required eight-hour break.
"Where's all the commercial company?" one driver asks over his CB, using trucker lingo for "prostitute."
Tuesday, May 15
I awake at 8 a.m. to see a rusty gray Pontiac with a broken tailpipe cruising along the back row of the lot. A woman wearing a tight red tank top and short shorts gets out and struts from one truck to the next, climbing onto the steps and banging on the doors. One trucker lets her in, but after a couple of minutes, she climbs out and goes on down the line.
Our first "lot lizard" -- another trucker phrase for prostitute.
I'm dying for a hot shower, but decide to move on instead. Most truck stops provide private showers for truckers, typically in small rooms with a sink and a mirror. If a trucker buys fuel, the shower is usually free. Otherwise, it's around $5.
Thanks to all the congestion and road construction, we make lousy time on the Ohio Turnpike. Cars cut repeatedly in front of the trucks as they enter the construction zones, causing the truckers to hit their brakes. It's tough enough having to navigate between the concrete barriers, much less having to deal with impatient car drivers. I feel like I've been training on an obstacle course all day.
We stop for the night at the Penn-Ohio Plaza at North Lima, near the Pennsylvania border. Outside in the front row of the parking lot, Bob Tenness reads a book in his cab, silhouetted by a dome light. The longtime trucker from Sheboygan, Wis., is on his way to Pennsylvania.
One of his pet peeves, he says, is the "four-wheelers," who need to be better educated on how to drive around trucks.
"I think everybody, before they get a driver's license, ought to have to ride in a truck for a day," he says.
As I chat with Tenness, a trucker in the rig next to him opens his door, stands on the step, unzips his pants and urinates on the ground. I assume he does not want to be interviewed.
Wednesday, May 16
We leave North Lima and proceed east, arriving in Pittsburgh around 10 a.m. I don't dare take my eyes off the road for fear I'll miss my exit. Oops. I miss it anyway, and end up heading west. If I were in a car, I could just jump off at the next exit, whip around and get back on again. With a tractor-trailer, I have to make sure there's enough room to get turned around. Luckily, I don't have to go far to find an exit. And my screw-up actually puts us on the scenic route back through the city. As we emerge from the Fort Pitt Tunnel, the striking skyline bursts into view in front of us.
Halfway across the state, in the parking lot of the Gateway Travel Plaza in Breezewood, sits a trailer emblazoned with a giant cross and the name Headlight Trucking. Judging from the CB chatter, the pastor running this trucking ministry has his work cut out for him.
"Anybody know if there's a CB shop in Breezewood?" one trucker asks.
"Yeah, driver, there is."
"I don't care about your ----ing CB," says another. "Anybody know if there's any whores in Breezewood?"
Driver Tina Perry says it's that kind of talk that makes her shy away from her CB.
"Sometimes, when they hear a woman's voice on there, they start giving you all kinds of (grief)," says Perry, one of about 153,000 women long-haul truckers in the country.
Perry runs coast to coast with her boyfriend, Stephen Van Metre. The truck is their only home, which they share with their dog, Girlfriend.
"This is my dream," she says.
Perry says her tractor has all the comforts of home. A microwave, toaster, porta-potty, refrigerator, TV CR and storage bins for groceries. They carry a propane stove on the back for her to cook on when the weather's nice.
"We can pretty much go non-stop," Perry says. "For us to make any money, we've got to go as many miles as we can. We don't take any time off."
Even so, Perry says, she can't see herself making a living any other way.
"I'll do this until I can't climb in and out of the truck."
We get on Interstate 70 and head toward Baltimore, then around Washington, D.C., and over to I-66 in Virginia.
Truck traffic increases steadily as we near I-81, and a light rain begins falling. At 9:30 p.m., we squeeze into one of the last parking places at a truck stop in Toms Brook, Va. Over the next two hours, a steady stream of trucks pulls in. Most leave without finding a place to park. I wonder how many of these truckers have been running hard all day and are tired and have used up all of their available legal driving hours.
Thursday, May 17
Bill Rushing sits in the truck stop restaurant, eating fried potatoes and a sausage omelet for breakfast.
"I like the driving," says Rushing, a long-time trucker from Baton Rouge, La. "But I don't like what it's become. It used to be there were a lot of good guys driving. It was a thing of pride that when you got a load, you got it there on time. Any more, you can't trust the drivers."
Rushing, 48, has a degree in semiconductor electronics and business.
"You'd be surprised at the people out here running around who are educated," he says. "You'll find lawyers out here, college professors."
We drive about 150 miles to a truck stop near Roanoke and stop for lunch. As we're leaving, we run into a trucker from the Dominican Republic. He wants to talk about what he says is a huge problem in the industry.
"I like the driving," he says, "but there's a lot of discrimination of Hispanic drivers. Most of the American truck drivers hate Mexican truckers.
"I want to drive my truck in peace. But whenever I talk on the CB, somebody will immediately say, `Go back to your country, go learn English, get out of here, Taco Bell.' They makes me feel like a fool. It's a serious situation, because many times it is dangerous when you can't communicate."
Dave Morgan, a driver for Werner Enterprises, listens. Then he places his hand on the trucker's shoulder.
"May the peace of the Lord go with you," he says.
We keep heading west, then take Interstate 77 south toward North Carolina. The mountain scenery is awesome, accented by red and yellow wild flowers growing along the road. But as we reach the top of a steep grade, things start going downhill -- literally. A soupy fog has settled in, and drivers begin warning others on the CB to "back it down." As we start down the other side, the fog becomes so thick that we are barely moving. I lean forward in my seat, holding the steering wheel tight and squinting in hopes of seeing a little better.
A few drivers begin griping on the radio about how slow everyone is going.
"I'll tell you what," a driver shoots back. "You can go down this mountain slow a hundred times, but you can only go down it fast once. I want to live to see my grandkids."
That shuts everybody up. After 10 more minutes of tense maneuvering, we run out of the fog and soon cross the North Carolina border.
We reach Asheville just as the sun is sinking behind the Great Smoky Mountains, a sight that makes the entire day, fog and all, well worth it.
Unfortunately, the Skyway Truck Stop where we park is not as picturesque. In fact, it's a dump. The restroom is filthy, with one toilet plugged, trash cans overflowing and a mildewy shower so disgusting that I shudder at the thought of having to use it. After sleeping in the truck last night and realizing that my last shower was back in Ohio, I decide it's time to find a motel.
By now, the days are starting to run together. I'd forgotten how difficult this lifestyle was. It seems like we've been gone for weeks.
Friday, May 18
Another day of gorgeous scenery as we drive through the mountains to Knoxville, Tenn.
Truck traffic is heavy all across Tennessee, and cops plentiful. What is not plentiful, however, are rest areas. Many are closed, along with the weigh stations.
By the time we get to Memphis, I'm exhausted. We call it a day at a complex just past the Mississippi River in West Memphis, Ark. A conglomerate of truck stops, motels and eateries, this place had a nationwide reputation in my former trucking days as the place for drugs and prostitutes.
It doesn't take long to see that some things never change.
I park near the back of the crowded lot -- the area that truckers call "Party Row" -- listening to the CB and watching the carnival. The radio traffic is nonstop, as hookers with names like Rainbow, Real Deal, Snowflake and Dynamite compete for business, and some drivers, obviously drunk, try to pick fights ("Driver, if you don't shut up, I'm gonna kick your (butt) clear across the parking lot.") Another trucker is collecting donations to raise $100 to get a prostitute to walk across the parking lot naked.
"Does anybody want company?" Real Deal asks over her CB.
"Yeah, I want company, baby. Where're you at?"
"Back here by the scales. What color's your house?" (This is hooker-speak for "What does your truck look like?")
"What do you look like, baby? I can't handle no fat girl."
As the woman climbs into the truck, another driver speaks up.
"I'm surprised a girl that good-lookin' is working the pavement, man. She's not ugly, and she has all her teeth."
"Here, lizard, lizard, lizard," another driver taunts.
At 1 a.m., a trucker is in search of some marijuana. He needs it, he says, to bring him down from the speed he's been taking.
"Anybody know where I can get some green smoke?" he drawls. "Man! I got here an hour before my truck did."
Saturday, May 19
As we head across Arkansas at daybreak, I realize why truckers voted I-40 the worst highway in America. Though there are some smooth spots, much of the road is so rough that I feel like I'm herding a bucking bronco down the highway. It's difficult to keep my foot on the accelerator.
"Good God! This road just about threw me through the windshield," complains one driver.
We plod ahead, bouncing our way through Little Rock and on to Fort Smith, then north to Missouri.
By 6 p.m., we arrive back in Kansas City. I've become so accustomed to climbing down from the truck that when I get home and step out of my car, I land hard and lose my balance.
I feel like I could sleep for days.
Monday, Aug. 6
Time for our second trip. But this one won't be a dry run. We're hauling loads to Denver, Dallas, Oklahoma City and Wichita for Heart to Heart International, an Olathe-based non-profit agency.
I pick up the trailer and drive to Heart to Heart's warehouse in Kansas City, Kan. The Heart to Heart guys load 16 skids of medical supplies, personal hygiene products and paper goods into the trailer, and we're off. We can't waste any time if we're going to unload in Denver in the morning. I head west on I-70 to Salina, break for lunch, then drive non-stop to Limon, Colo.
Tuesday, Aug. 7
We leave Limon at 7:45 a.m. and make it to Denver shortly after 9. Not far from the Inner City Health Center, our first drop-off site, I clear a railroad overpass and approach the second one when I see the low clearance warning.
There's no way I'm going to squeeze under this one. On the verge of panic, I look around and see a wide spot on the side of the street, just big enough to pull over. I call the health center and get modified directions, then turn around in a gravel parking lot. But now, cars are coming toward me in my lane. I've ended up on a one-way street! Now totally shaken, I pull into an abandoned lot and turn around again. I make it back to the interstate, drive to the next exit and finally find my way to the health center.
Several clinic employees cheerfully help unload the supplies. As we leave, they hand us three burritos and a box of Pepperidge Farm cookies.
The drive from Denver to New Mexico is a treat, with the scenery changing from mountains with green valleys and grazing cattle to plateaus and sagebrush, then back again. Horses stand serenely in pastures, their tails swishing the flies away, and a large herd of deer grazes along the interstate just inside the New Mexico border. Then the last rays of sun streak through popcorn clouds, followed by a huge red ball dropping between two mountain peaks. The sight makes the trials of the day seem distant and trivial.
But the day isn't over yet.
I've planned to stop somewhere around Santa Fe for the night, but can't find a single truck stop or rest area. I keep going. And going. And going. It starts to rain. Now I'm almost out of hours. I make it to the outskirts of Albuquerque, and truckers tell me on the CB that there's a truck stop at mile marker 227.
As I near the exit, a big sign warns me that I-25 southbound will be closed from 9 p.m. to 5:30 a.m. It is 10:30. And the interstate is closed right where I need to exit. By now, it's pouring and all I can see are caution lights on the closed roadway. I get on the CB and ask for help, and another trucker talks me through an alternate route to the truck stop. When I pull in, the lot is packed. I grab a narrow spot in the back row and shut the truck down. What a day.
Wednesday, Aug. 8
I head south out of Albuquerque, driving all morning and afternoon and entering Texas at El Paso.
I stop for a shower and some sleep at a truck stop in Fort Stockton. This is one of those showers in which I'm careful where I step and what I touch. And as for the shower curtain, well, never mind.
Thursday, Aug. 9
I crawl out of the sleeper at 7:30 a.m., have some breakfast and get going, taking I-10 to San Antonio. It's hard to remember what day it is. The truck traffic starts picking up at San Antonio and becomes steady as we go south toward the Mexican border. I pull into a Pilot truck stop north of Laredo, climb out of the truck and get hit by what feels like a furnace blast. No wonder. It's 105 degrees.
The town of Laredo lives and breathes trucks. They're on the interstate, on the side streets, parked at Kmart, at grocery stores, at restaurants.
As I fill out my logbook, I see that I've driven 2,000 miles since Monday morning. I wonder how some of the truckers I've met can run like this week after week.
Friday, Aug. 10
We take a rental car to the World Trade Bridge, where from 8 in the morning until midnight, a steady stream of trucks enters the U.S. from Mexico. Laredo is the busiest of the border ports of entry, with 1.5 million truck crossings last year alone.
We spend the day here and across the border in Nuevo Laredo, talking to Mexican truckers about the North American Free Trade Agreement, under which the U.S. will open its border to Mexican trucks sometime next year.
Saturday, Aug. 11
We pull out of Laredo in the middle of the afternoon, just as truckers in the Pilot truck stop are gearing up for a night on the town.
"Let's go down to Me-hee-co," one says on the CB. "We'll get us some tequila and some pretty little senoritas and have a good time."
"Where'd all the lot lizards go?" asks another.
"They go where it's cool in the daytime, then come out at night."
I drive north on I-35, ending up at the Flying J Travel Plaza at Waco around midnight. The showers here are state-of-the-art. Key-pad entries, clean tile floors and walls, empty trash cans and plenty of room.
I feel so rejuvenated when I leave that I drive another hour.
Sunday, Aug. 12
Armed with good directions, I go directly to the Mission Arlington ission Metroplex in the Dallas suburb of Arlington. Half-a-dozen volunteers and employees eagerly help me unload 43 cases of medicine and paper products. Inside, a small group is holding Bible study.
Now it's on to Oklahoma City for our next delivery. Since it's Sunday and there shouldn't be much traffic, I take the scenic route through downtown Dallas. Wrong move. I get stuck in a six-mile backup after a tractor-trailer pushes a car into a guard rail. And after I finally make it through that mess, I hit another one just north of downtown, compliments of another truck.
We make it to Oklahoma City around 7 p.m. in a steady rain. Tomorrow's going to be another long day. But at least the end is in sight.
Monday, Aug. 13
We get an early start and pull into The Children's Center in Bethany, on the outskirts of Oklahoma City, at 7 a.m. The non-profit facility provides medical care, therapy and developmental education to critically ill children with multiple disabilities. Officials there offered to accept shipments for six other area charities as well, so we don't have to make drops at each one.
After we unload and take a quick tour of the center, we step outside to get back in the truck. Several volunteers from Catholic Charities are already loading their supplies into a pickup. They stop when they see us and break into applause.
We head up I-35 to Wichita and arrive at The Good Samaritan Clinic, a health-care center for low-income patients, at 1:30 p.m.
Administrator Fred McLean helps unload the last 40 cases of paper products from our trailer. It's 96 degrees outside and even hotter in the trailer, and by the time we finish, we're drenched. McLean gives us ice water and a tour of the clinic before we hit the road.
The closer we get to Kansas City, the more I want to get home. It's been a long week. A stressful week. I wonder how I ever did this for six years. The long days, endless periods away from home and family, the monotony of staring hour after hour at the concrete, the backaches from sitting and bouncing and sitting and bouncing, the same all-you-can-eat fried-food buffets day after day, trying to turn a tight corner with 53 feet of trailer behind you, getting stopped at a red light on a steep hill with a load of steel coils and then trying to get going again, driving through Chicago in rush hour. And the constant threat of injury or death.
But then I think of the other aspects of the job. That awesome feeling of being in charge, that sense of accomplishment when you downshift and synchronize the gears just right, the adrenaline rush that comes with tackling a 6 percent mountain downgrade with an 80,000-pound load, the grin on a child's face as you oblige when she motions for you to blow your air horn, the sun sinking purple and orange behind a snow-covered mountain, the New York City skyline at 2 in the morning, the herd of antelope grazing along the side of a Wyoming highway.
And I can see why for some people, it's the best job in the world.
Two long weeks on the road. Six thousand miles. And tons of memories.
JUDY L. THOMAS
The Kansas City Star
I couldn't have ordered a nicer morning.
Sitting high above the concrete in the cab of my 18-wheeler, I head west on Interstate 70, the Denver skyline glimmering in the sunlight off to my left. Traffic is heavy but moving steadily, and my exit is approaching.
So far, so good.
I've spent weeks worrying about this moment. What if I get lost? What if the side streets are too narrow? What if I have to back this 70-foot rig into a narrow, cramped dock? What if...
But things are going smoothly. I've called ahead for directions, and I'm getting close. Maybe delivering a load to an urban health clinic -- my first drop in 15 years -- won't be such an ordeal after all.
I get off I-70 and turn south toward the clinic.
"Go under two railroad overpasses," the office manager had told me, "and you're almost there."
The first overpass is marked with a warning sign. Clearance: 13 feet, 11 inches. I slow the truck to a crawl, nervously looking up and out the window to make sure my 13 1/2-foot-high rig can clear it. Whew. Just inches to spare.
I move on. Then I freeze when I see the sign directly ahead.
Clearance: 13 feet, 3 inches.
Three months earlier: Saturday afternoon, May 12
I arrive at Ryder Transportation Services to pick up my 1999 Freightliner Condo cab tractor. As I climb inside and crank up the diesel engine, my heart starts pounding and I feel lightheaded. This is something I've been wanting to do for years, but now it's a reality.
Before I start a 3,000-mile East Coast run, though, I've got to drive this thing home to prepare for the trip. Once I make it out of the parking lot and onto I-70, my fears start easing. Even the shifting and double-clutching become second nature after a few miles. And by the time I make it the 23 miles home, I'm just getting warmed up.
The white, two-story monstrosity is a novelty on my cul-de-sac. Curious children and adults drop by to peek inside, impressed with the roomy cab, the 10-speed transmission and dashboard that resembles the instrument panel on a fighter jet. Behind the two air-ride seats is a walk-in sleeper with leather upholstery, bunk beds, closets and hookups for a TV and refrigerator.
Monday, May 14
The big day. Just as I'm about to walk out the door, the phone rings.
"You'd better look outside," my neighbor warns.
A police car is parked next to my truck and an officer is walking around it, a quizzical look on his face. I rush outside and explain what's going on. The officer says someone had called and complained that there was a truck parked here all weekend and kids were climbing on it.
I hit the road, stop by The Star to pick up photographer Marcio Jose Sanchez, then return to Ryder to get my 53-foot trailer.
Our goal today: Chicago.
Last fall, truckers voted on the worst highways in the country. Fourth place: I-70 between Kansas City and St. Louis. It's easy to see why. Besides the bumps, the road seems constantly under construction. And it's way too crowded.
Still, we make good time across Missouri. The weigh station, or "chicken coop," on the west end of the state is closed. The coops are open near St. Louis, but we pass over the scales without incident.
In Illinois, the speed limit for heavy trucks is 55 mph, and the state police monitor it closely. Even so, most of the big rigs run an average of 5 to 10 miles over the speed limit, using their CB radios to "out" the "bears" in the vicinity. Whenever a patrol car comes along, the truckers act as though a virus has infiltrated their network.
We stop for fuel and food at the Dixie Truckers Home in McLean, Ill., a well-known point along the old Route 66. Inside at the lunch counter, several truckers are chatting.
"We ran 80, 85 clear across Indiana," boasts one. Another gripes about the price of diesel while he flirts with the waitress.
Two of the drivers -- both owner-operators, or those who own and drive their rigs -- have college degrees. Scott Voyles, from Kenosha, Wis., is a computer programmer.
"But I couldn't fit in in an office," he says. "I spent more time on the docks shooting the breeze."
Jeff Morgan, from Independence, has a degree in criminal justice and has been driving since 1992.
Morgan forks over $1,675 a month for his Freightliner tractor. He makes 82 cents a mile both loaded and empty, but is responsible for all his expenses. That means there's little left over.
"It's great at tax time," he says. "Trucking is a great tax write off."
After climbing back in the truck, I update my logbook, then jump back on the "big road," or interstate. The Department of Transportation requires truckers to keep track of the hours they work. They also have to take an eight-hour break after 10 hours of driving. Most truckers, however, are paid by the mile and say they can't make any money driving the legal number of hours. Some falsify their logbooks, which they refer to as "comic books."
"How 'bout you, northbound?" someone shouts over the CB. "How's it look over your shoulder?"
(club)
Despite the growing use of technology -- most truckers now carry cell phones, and many companies have equipped their rigs with global positioning systems that allow their dispatchers to keep better track of the drivers -- the old citizens band radio, or CB, is still a necessity.
But you've got to know the lingo so you don't sound like a nerd. For example, when addressing another trucker, don't say, "Hey, good buddy." That's an insult. The preferable term is simply, "driver." As in, "Hey, driver, what's the best route around St. Louis?" Or just describe the rig, as in, "How 'bout that eastbound Freightliner?" Or the company, such as, "Hey, J.B. Hunt..." Or the style of the tractor, as in, "How 'bout that westbound large car (tractor with a double-bunk sleeper)?"
Truckers also have pet names for highway patrol officers: "Full-grown bear" and "Smokey Bear." A "County Mounty" is a sheriff, and a "local yokel" is a city cop.
"There's a plain white wrapper with a customer" or "with a capture" means a police officer in an unmarked car has stopped someone. If the officer is using a radar gun, he's a "Kojak with a Kodak," he's "taking your picture" or "shooting you in the back." If the lights are running on top of his cruiser, his "gumball machine is going."
Truckers don't use many CB codes any more. The main ones are 10-4, which means "OK," or simply, 42, which is short for "I know what you mean" or "I understand." For example, "Eastbound, you've got a full-grown bear at the 65 yardstick, your side with a captured four-wheeler."
Translation: A cop has pulled over a car at mile marker 65 on the eastbound side of the interstate.
Your reply: "42 on the 65."
A 10-100 is a restroom break. For that, a driver may pull into a rest area, or just pull onto an exit ramp, jump out and "get a tirewash."
In trucker language, if the weigh station is open, you say, "The coops are weighing your wagon," "they're wide open," or "they're rolling you across." If they're closed, "the coops are all locked up," or "mash your motor."
UPS drivers are called "Buster Brown," moving companies are "bedbuggers," and a truck hauling cars is a "parking lot." A Peterbilt is a "Petercar," a Freightliner is a "Freightshaker." A flat bed trailer with sides and a tarp is a "covered wagon," and a tanker trailer is a "thermos bottle."
Driving a tractor without a trailer is called "bobtailing," and pulling an empty trailer is "deadheading." Shifting into neutral and letting the truck coast is called "Georgia overdrive." It's also illegal.
Besides the CB, truckers use their lights as a way of communicating. When one truck passes another, for example, the trucker who has been passed will turn his lights off and on quickly to let the other driver know that it's clear to pull back over. The trucker who has passed the other one will then flick his trailer lights to thank the driver behind him. Two blinks is the standard thank-you.
Some truckers, especially owner-operators, take great pride in their rigs and like to dress them up with lots of lights, fancy mud flaps, chrome and aluminum. At night, they look like rolling Christmas trees.
I'd forgotten about the camaraderie among truckers. It's almost like a fraternity. They watch out for each other -- if one is broken down along the road, others will ask if they need help; they'll start a conversation with a fellow driver even though he's a complete stranger; they play jokes on each other.
Sometimes, the jokes can be cruel. Back when I was driving in the 1980s, on one long weekend I spent at a truck terminal in Pittsburgh, some of the drivers took up a collection and hired a prostitute for Farmer, a shy, naive, overall-clad trucker from Iowa. But when she saw him, she took off.
By 11 p.m., fatigue is setting in. The scales at Joliet on Interstate 80 are open, but they let us roll right past without getting weighed. Now if I can just find a place to stop. I've driven more than nine hours and am fading fast. Twice, I catch myself reaching up to adjust my sunglasses, even though it's dark and I'm not wearing any.
Every trucker knows the feeling. You've got knots in your shoulders and aches in your lower back. Your eyes are dried out, and oncoming headlights make them sting. But it's just a few more miles. A couple more hours. So you fight against sleep and the chances of crashing and you push on through the night.
At 11:45 p.m., I pull into the TA Travel Center at Lake Station, Ind., grab one of the last spaces in the mammoth lot and hit the sleeper berth for my required eight-hour break.
"Where's all the commercial company?" one driver asks over his CB, using trucker lingo for "prostitute."
Tuesday, May 15
I awake at 8 a.m. to see a rusty gray Pontiac with a broken tailpipe cruising along the back row of the lot. A woman wearing a tight red tank top and short shorts gets out and struts from one truck to the next, climbing onto the steps and banging on the doors. One trucker lets her in, but after a couple of minutes, she climbs out and goes on down the line.
Our first "lot lizard" -- another trucker phrase for prostitute.
I'm dying for a hot shower, but decide to move on instead. Most truck stops provide private showers for truckers, typically in small rooms with a sink and a mirror. If a trucker buys fuel, the shower is usually free. Otherwise, it's around $5.
Thanks to all the congestion and road construction, we make lousy time on the Ohio Turnpike. Cars cut repeatedly in front of the trucks as they enter the construction zones, causing the truckers to hit their brakes. It's tough enough having to navigate between the concrete barriers, much less having to deal with impatient car drivers. I feel like I've been training on an obstacle course all day.
We stop for the night at the Penn-Ohio Plaza at North Lima, near the Pennsylvania border. Outside in the front row of the parking lot, Bob Tenness reads a book in his cab, silhouetted by a dome light. The longtime trucker from Sheboygan, Wis., is on his way to Pennsylvania.
One of his pet peeves, he says, is the "four-wheelers," who need to be better educated on how to drive around trucks.
"I think everybody, before they get a driver's license, ought to have to ride in a truck for a day," he says.
As I chat with Tenness, a trucker in the rig next to him opens his door, stands on the step, unzips his pants and urinates on the ground. I assume he does not want to be interviewed.
Wednesday, May 16
We leave North Lima and proceed east, arriving in Pittsburgh around 10 a.m. I don't dare take my eyes off the road for fear I'll miss my exit. Oops. I miss it anyway, and end up heading west. If I were in a car, I could just jump off at the next exit, whip around and get back on again. With a tractor-trailer, I have to make sure there's enough room to get turned around. Luckily, I don't have to go far to find an exit. And my screw-up actually puts us on the scenic route back through the city. As we emerge from the Fort Pitt Tunnel, the striking skyline bursts into view in front of us.
Halfway across the state, in the parking lot of the Gateway Travel Plaza in Breezewood, sits a trailer emblazoned with a giant cross and the name Headlight Trucking. Judging from the CB chatter, the pastor running this trucking ministry has his work cut out for him.
"Anybody know if there's a CB shop in Breezewood?" one trucker asks.
"Yeah, driver, there is."
"I don't care about your ----ing CB," says another. "Anybody know if there's any whores in Breezewood?"
Driver Tina Perry says it's that kind of talk that makes her shy away from her CB.
"Sometimes, when they hear a woman's voice on there, they start giving you all kinds of (grief)," says Perry, one of about 153,000 women long-haul truckers in the country.
Perry runs coast to coast with her boyfriend, Stephen Van Metre. The truck is their only home, which they share with their dog, Girlfriend.
"This is my dream," she says.
Perry says her tractor has all the comforts of home. A microwave, toaster, porta-potty, refrigerator, TV CR and storage bins for groceries. They carry a propane stove on the back for her to cook on when the weather's nice.
"We can pretty much go non-stop," Perry says. "For us to make any money, we've got to go as many miles as we can. We don't take any time off."
Even so, Perry says, she can't see herself making a living any other way.
"I'll do this until I can't climb in and out of the truck."
We get on Interstate 70 and head toward Baltimore, then around Washington, D.C., and over to I-66 in Virginia.
Truck traffic increases steadily as we near I-81, and a light rain begins falling. At 9:30 p.m., we squeeze into one of the last parking places at a truck stop in Toms Brook, Va. Over the next two hours, a steady stream of trucks pulls in. Most leave without finding a place to park. I wonder how many of these truckers have been running hard all day and are tired and have used up all of their available legal driving hours.
Thursday, May 17
Bill Rushing sits in the truck stop restaurant, eating fried potatoes and a sausage omelet for breakfast.
"I like the driving," says Rushing, a long-time trucker from Baton Rouge, La. "But I don't like what it's become. It used to be there were a lot of good guys driving. It was a thing of pride that when you got a load, you got it there on time. Any more, you can't trust the drivers."
Rushing, 48, has a degree in semiconductor electronics and business.
"You'd be surprised at the people out here running around who are educated," he says. "You'll find lawyers out here, college professors."
We drive about 150 miles to a truck stop near Roanoke and stop for lunch. As we're leaving, we run into a trucker from the Dominican Republic. He wants to talk about what he says is a huge problem in the industry.
"I like the driving," he says, "but there's a lot of discrimination of Hispanic drivers. Most of the American truck drivers hate Mexican truckers.
"I want to drive my truck in peace. But whenever I talk on the CB, somebody will immediately say, `Go back to your country, go learn English, get out of here, Taco Bell.' They makes me feel like a fool. It's a serious situation, because many times it is dangerous when you can't communicate."
Dave Morgan, a driver for Werner Enterprises, listens. Then he places his hand on the trucker's shoulder.
"May the peace of the Lord go with you," he says.
We keep heading west, then take Interstate 77 south toward North Carolina. The mountain scenery is awesome, accented by red and yellow wild flowers growing along the road. But as we reach the top of a steep grade, things start going downhill -- literally. A soupy fog has settled in, and drivers begin warning others on the CB to "back it down." As we start down the other side, the fog becomes so thick that we are barely moving. I lean forward in my seat, holding the steering wheel tight and squinting in hopes of seeing a little better.
A few drivers begin griping on the radio about how slow everyone is going.
"I'll tell you what," a driver shoots back. "You can go down this mountain slow a hundred times, but you can only go down it fast once. I want to live to see my grandkids."
That shuts everybody up. After 10 more minutes of tense maneuvering, we run out of the fog and soon cross the North Carolina border.
We reach Asheville just as the sun is sinking behind the Great Smoky Mountains, a sight that makes the entire day, fog and all, well worth it.
Unfortunately, the Skyway Truck Stop where we park is not as picturesque. In fact, it's a dump. The restroom is filthy, with one toilet plugged, trash cans overflowing and a mildewy shower so disgusting that I shudder at the thought of having to use it. After sleeping in the truck last night and realizing that my last shower was back in Ohio, I decide it's time to find a motel.
By now, the days are starting to run together. I'd forgotten how difficult this lifestyle was. It seems like we've been gone for weeks.
Friday, May 18
Another day of gorgeous scenery as we drive through the mountains to Knoxville, Tenn.
Truck traffic is heavy all across Tennessee, and cops plentiful. What is not plentiful, however, are rest areas. Many are closed, along with the weigh stations.
By the time we get to Memphis, I'm exhausted. We call it a day at a complex just past the Mississippi River in West Memphis, Ark. A conglomerate of truck stops, motels and eateries, this place had a nationwide reputation in my former trucking days as the place for drugs and prostitutes.
It doesn't take long to see that some things never change.
I park near the back of the crowded lot -- the area that truckers call "Party Row" -- listening to the CB and watching the carnival. The radio traffic is nonstop, as hookers with names like Rainbow, Real Deal, Snowflake and Dynamite compete for business, and some drivers, obviously drunk, try to pick fights ("Driver, if you don't shut up, I'm gonna kick your (butt) clear across the parking lot.") Another trucker is collecting donations to raise $100 to get a prostitute to walk across the parking lot naked.
"Does anybody want company?" Real Deal asks over her CB.
"Yeah, I want company, baby. Where're you at?"
"Back here by the scales. What color's your house?" (This is hooker-speak for "What does your truck look like?")
"What do you look like, baby? I can't handle no fat girl."
As the woman climbs into the truck, another driver speaks up.
"I'm surprised a girl that good-lookin' is working the pavement, man. She's not ugly, and she has all her teeth."
"Here, lizard, lizard, lizard," another driver taunts.
At 1 a.m., a trucker is in search of some marijuana. He needs it, he says, to bring him down from the speed he's been taking.
"Anybody know where I can get some green smoke?" he drawls. "Man! I got here an hour before my truck did."
Saturday, May 19
As we head across Arkansas at daybreak, I realize why truckers voted I-40 the worst highway in America. Though there are some smooth spots, much of the road is so rough that I feel like I'm herding a bucking bronco down the highway. It's difficult to keep my foot on the accelerator.
"Good God! This road just about threw me through the windshield," complains one driver.
We plod ahead, bouncing our way through Little Rock and on to Fort Smith, then north to Missouri.
By 6 p.m., we arrive back in Kansas City. I've become so accustomed to climbing down from the truck that when I get home and step out of my car, I land hard and lose my balance.
I feel like I could sleep for days.
Monday, Aug. 6
Time for our second trip. But this one won't be a dry run. We're hauling loads to Denver, Dallas, Oklahoma City and Wichita for Heart to Heart International, an Olathe-based non-profit agency.
I pick up the trailer and drive to Heart to Heart's warehouse in Kansas City, Kan. The Heart to Heart guys load 16 skids of medical supplies, personal hygiene products and paper goods into the trailer, and we're off. We can't waste any time if we're going to unload in Denver in the morning. I head west on I-70 to Salina, break for lunch, then drive non-stop to Limon, Colo.
Tuesday, Aug. 7
We leave Limon at 7:45 a.m. and make it to Denver shortly after 9. Not far from the Inner City Health Center, our first drop-off site, I clear a railroad overpass and approach the second one when I see the low clearance warning.
There's no way I'm going to squeeze under this one. On the verge of panic, I look around and see a wide spot on the side of the street, just big enough to pull over. I call the health center and get modified directions, then turn around in a gravel parking lot. But now, cars are coming toward me in my lane. I've ended up on a one-way street! Now totally shaken, I pull into an abandoned lot and turn around again. I make it back to the interstate, drive to the next exit and finally find my way to the health center.
Several clinic employees cheerfully help unload the supplies. As we leave, they hand us three burritos and a box of Pepperidge Farm cookies.
The drive from Denver to New Mexico is a treat, with the scenery changing from mountains with green valleys and grazing cattle to plateaus and sagebrush, then back again. Horses stand serenely in pastures, their tails swishing the flies away, and a large herd of deer grazes along the interstate just inside the New Mexico border. Then the last rays of sun streak through popcorn clouds, followed by a huge red ball dropping between two mountain peaks. The sight makes the trials of the day seem distant and trivial.
But the day isn't over yet.
I've planned to stop somewhere around Santa Fe for the night, but can't find a single truck stop or rest area. I keep going. And going. And going. It starts to rain. Now I'm almost out of hours. I make it to the outskirts of Albuquerque, and truckers tell me on the CB that there's a truck stop at mile marker 227.
As I near the exit, a big sign warns me that I-25 southbound will be closed from 9 p.m. to 5:30 a.m. It is 10:30. And the interstate is closed right where I need to exit. By now, it's pouring and all I can see are caution lights on the closed roadway. I get on the CB and ask for help, and another trucker talks me through an alternate route to the truck stop. When I pull in, the lot is packed. I grab a narrow spot in the back row and shut the truck down. What a day.
Wednesday, Aug. 8
I head south out of Albuquerque, driving all morning and afternoon and entering Texas at El Paso.
I stop for a shower and some sleep at a truck stop in Fort Stockton. This is one of those showers in which I'm careful where I step and what I touch. And as for the shower curtain, well, never mind.
Thursday, Aug. 9
I crawl out of the sleeper at 7:30 a.m., have some breakfast and get going, taking I-10 to San Antonio. It's hard to remember what day it is. The truck traffic starts picking up at San Antonio and becomes steady as we go south toward the Mexican border. I pull into a Pilot truck stop north of Laredo, climb out of the truck and get hit by what feels like a furnace blast. No wonder. It's 105 degrees.
The town of Laredo lives and breathes trucks. They're on the interstate, on the side streets, parked at Kmart, at grocery stores, at restaurants.
As I fill out my logbook, I see that I've driven 2,000 miles since Monday morning. I wonder how some of the truckers I've met can run like this week after week.
Friday, Aug. 10
We take a rental car to the World Trade Bridge, where from 8 in the morning until midnight, a steady stream of trucks enters the U.S. from Mexico. Laredo is the busiest of the border ports of entry, with 1.5 million truck crossings last year alone.
We spend the day here and across the border in Nuevo Laredo, talking to Mexican truckers about the North American Free Trade Agreement, under which the U.S. will open its border to Mexican trucks sometime next year.
Saturday, Aug. 11
We pull out of Laredo in the middle of the afternoon, just as truckers in the Pilot truck stop are gearing up for a night on the town.
"Let's go down to Me-hee-co," one says on the CB. "We'll get us some tequila and some pretty little senoritas and have a good time."
"Where'd all the lot lizards go?" asks another.
"They go where it's cool in the daytime, then come out at night."
I drive north on I-35, ending up at the Flying J Travel Plaza at Waco around midnight. The showers here are state-of-the-art. Key-pad entries, clean tile floors and walls, empty trash cans and plenty of room.
I feel so rejuvenated when I leave that I drive another hour.
Sunday, Aug. 12
Armed with good directions, I go directly to the Mission Arlington ission Metroplex in the Dallas suburb of Arlington. Half-a-dozen volunteers and employees eagerly help me unload 43 cases of medicine and paper products. Inside, a small group is holding Bible study.
Now it's on to Oklahoma City for our next delivery. Since it's Sunday and there shouldn't be much traffic, I take the scenic route through downtown Dallas. Wrong move. I get stuck in a six-mile backup after a tractor-trailer pushes a car into a guard rail. And after I finally make it through that mess, I hit another one just north of downtown, compliments of another truck.
We make it to Oklahoma City around 7 p.m. in a steady rain. Tomorrow's going to be another long day. But at least the end is in sight.
Monday, Aug. 13
We get an early start and pull into The Children's Center in Bethany, on the outskirts of Oklahoma City, at 7 a.m. The non-profit facility provides medical care, therapy and developmental education to critically ill children with multiple disabilities. Officials there offered to accept shipments for six other area charities as well, so we don't have to make drops at each one.
After we unload and take a quick tour of the center, we step outside to get back in the truck. Several volunteers from Catholic Charities are already loading their supplies into a pickup. They stop when they see us and break into applause.
We head up I-35 to Wichita and arrive at The Good Samaritan Clinic, a health-care center for low-income patients, at 1:30 p.m.
Administrator Fred McLean helps unload the last 40 cases of paper products from our trailer. It's 96 degrees outside and even hotter in the trailer, and by the time we finish, we're drenched. McLean gives us ice water and a tour of the clinic before we hit the road.
The closer we get to Kansas City, the more I want to get home. It's been a long week. A stressful week. I wonder how I ever did this for six years. The long days, endless periods away from home and family, the monotony of staring hour after hour at the concrete, the backaches from sitting and bouncing and sitting and bouncing, the same all-you-can-eat fried-food buffets day after day, trying to turn a tight corner with 53 feet of trailer behind you, getting stopped at a red light on a steep hill with a load of steel coils and then trying to get going again, driving through Chicago in rush hour. And the constant threat of injury or death.
But then I think of the other aspects of the job. That awesome feeling of being in charge, that sense of accomplishment when you downshift and synchronize the gears just right, the adrenaline rush that comes with tackling a 6 percent mountain downgrade with an 80,000-pound load, the grin on a child's face as you oblige when she motions for you to blow your air horn, the sun sinking purple and orange behind a snow-covered mountain, the New York City skyline at 2 in the morning, the herd of antelope grazing along the side of a Wyoming highway.
And I can see why for some people, it's the best job in the world.
Two long weeks on the road. Six thousand miles. And tons of memories.
JUDY L. THOMAS
The Kansas City Star