A Long Way From Home: A Trucker’s Life Through A Woman’s Eye
By: C L Miller
Introduction
Truck driving school lasted about 4 weeks. There were 20 students in the class and only 2 women. I soon learned that would be the normal ratio in the industry. It was a fun and exciting time for me, learning a new skill at age 54, so very different from the quiet and predictable desk jobs I had done in the past. I learned that being a woman in a man’s world can be challenging, is rarely boring, and is surprisingly comfortable. I was treated with respect by my fellow students, never condescended to, and accepted without hesitation. There were no barriers.
Excerpts from the book:
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Driving while Harry is asleep and I am alone in the cab, gives me an opportunity to ponder and I hope resolve many important questions: Am I traveling westbound? Am I supposed to be traveling westbound? Is my trailer full and I’m on my way to a delivery; or is it empty and I’m on my way to the shipper? That last question is important since weigh stations may ask, and they prefer the correct answer.
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Rain, snow, sleet, and hail….
Or, taking a shower in a truck stop.
The larger truck stop chains offer a free shower with every fuel purchase of fifty gallons or more, but you must present your membership card to qualify for this promotion. Most truck stops allow a two-fer for teams, which is nice.
The goal is a shower at least every other day. It seems that some Drivers take the “other day” literally.
Some shower rooms are larger than you would expect to find in a hotel. Others are so small that it’s either you OR your cosmetic bag in the room. Shower spray is always a surprise. I’ve had strong, hot water; I’ve had spray so weak and cold, I could get better rinsing in a good fog.
Sometimes the towels have the texture and absorbency of a Triscuit, only smaller. But the average is exactly that: Decent towels; hot-enough water; clean, well-appointed rooms; helpful staff willing to make it good.
The bottom line: We get clean.
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Our truck is equipped with a communication device (probably designed by Satan), approximately the size of a lidless laptop computer, called a QUALCOMM. It is firmly wired to the truck, so you cannot throw it away (many have tried and all have failed). The top third of this machine is a small LED screen and the bottom two-thirds is a keyboard and ten-key number pad. It has several function keys, allowing you to create, send, and receive typed messages, and to scroll through canned messages. It also offers you an opportunity to change your mind when you hit the Send button, a helpful feature if you are upset and perhaps use some unfortunate language. Or, perhaps in your haste to express an opinion, you realize you just called someone a “Maroon,” and strongly suggested “Duck you” or they are “Full of spit” because your keyboarding skills are weak. The most useful thing about the QUALCOMM is its weight, since it will make an excellent weapon during a hijacking.
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(I only think of this on Highway 99 or when in Pleasanton, California). Since BART stands for Bay Area Rapid Transit and other areas have similar A-R-T services… What does Fresno call their Area Rapid Transit? Wouldn’t you love to create those ads?
Can’t get enough? C L Miller’s, A Long Way From Home: A Trucker’s Life Through A Woman’s Eye is available for purchase through the following online retailers:
kobo | eBooks, Tablets, & eReaders
Trukker Skool
If you ever want to explore the life of a trukker, here are some suggestions to help you blend in:
- Wear a pair of older, slightly soiled jeans and a tee shirt from a 1977 Sturgis, South Dakota, Harley-Davidson rally.
- Don’t wash your hair for a day and comb it so that one part looks mussed.
- At the truck stop, go to the restaurant. Eat from the buffet if available, for maximum effect. If no buffet, order from the menu any item that makes your arteries pop just reading the description. No matter what you order, including a salad, ask for gravy on the side.
- Take a phone call while eating and use the following phrases liberally:
o “You’ve got to be kidding!”
o “That barely pays my fuel bill!”
o “43,580 pounds is my limit!”
Then hang up, roll your eyes, and say, “Dispatch!” (A mild profanity won’t hurt you at this point.)
- Tell the following story, inserting whichever details you want:
“I was on the interstate in (state) during a (severe weather condition) when I (lost air pressure, blew a steering tire, hit a moose) and I had to pull off the road. My (Co-Driver, student) was in the sleeper and I was about out of hours. I called Dispatch and they told me to (call a service truck, wait for the spring thaw, take a long nap) so I did. After an hour of sitting, here comes Smokey, and he’s all over me about (my DOT bumper, being over-length, wearing a Yankees t-shirt) and does a (expletive) Class 1 inspection. Right there in the (see weather condition). Of course, the load was late and they (docked my pay, fired me, took my first-born). I told ‘em they could (anatomical action) and left the tractor (on the side of the road, in Haiti, where the sun don’t shine) and the trailer still full of (ice cream, sacks of manure that somehow split open, National Enquirers). Then I went to work for my uncle hauling live pigs and never looked back. Got me a nice little dedicated run and I’m home every weekend.
Hey, Sweetheart, you can take my plate. Just need some more gravy and top off my coffee please, darlin’.”
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We were given a load to New York City. It took us nearly two hours to drive the final twenty-five miles into the city, and nearly as long to get back out, so we were exhausted. As we jostled and bumped along the narrow, crowded streets, dodging taxis and other motorists, the following conversation occurred:
Me: “They could make street maintenance so much more efficient by attaching bags of asphalt to the rear bumper of cars and letting some of it spill out to fill potholes.”
Harry, thoroughly disgusted with some of the rude New York drivers, thought I used the better halves of the words as-phalt and pot-holes and I was suggesting we drop THEM on the roads: “That’s a great idea, but how would you spread them out?”
Me: “Easy. Just put it in a sack and let it spill out as you drive along.”
Harry: “I don’t think they’d fit in the container.”
Me: “Sure it would. If each person driving let a little go, eventually all the holes would fill up.”
Harry: “It would sure make the city less crowded.”
Me: “Huh? How would spreading asphalt cut down on the population?”
Harry: “Oh, you said as-PHALT!
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When I pass through Virginia, I try to picture the Civil War battles that were probably fought on the land next to the freeway. Did young soldiers run across those meadows, dodging bullets? Did they sit in the shade of those trees, eating a meal or trying to rest? Did some young man worry about his family and home; did another know he had neither left to fret over? Maybe they were right there, a few feet from our truck, and didn’t know it was their last day of life. How can anyone travel through this part of our country without thinking of that? It seems I can’t be frivolous here; it is far too serious a place…. Then we get clear of the wooded areas and get back in civilization and it becomes about time, traffic, and finding a Walmart because we need paper towels. But we try to remember that we have been on hallowed ground.
Can’t get enough? C L Miller’s, A Long Way From Home: A Trucker’s Life Through A Woman’s Eye is available for purchase through the following online retailers:
kobo | eBooks, Tablets, & eReaders
When you were young, you were told to make sure you had on clean underwear in case of an accident; as you got older, you realized that if an event required a total stranger to cut you out of your clothing, it was too late to worry about clean―your skivvies were now a bio-hazard. Truck driving has a corollary: I am frequently required to go out in public looking like I slept in my clothes―because I probably did. I have given up on getting pre-shower presentable. The other morning my first look at my hair showed it standing straight up on my head―this was AFTER I had walked through the Drivers’ lounge and talked to three people. I clean up good, however, so I may have a string of shower attendants across the nation wondering where I stashed the OTHER body.
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Real time: It is about 8:30 on Wednesday evening. We are on I-55 southbound in Illinois, on our way to St. Louis. The sun just dipped below the horizon off to our right. On both sides of the freeway, for as far as we can see, are cornfields, tall and tasseled. A farmhouse or barn pokes up from time to time; a couple of horses are grazing in a field; a stream cuts through the trees. We have the windows down, and the cool, scented air is refreshing after the warm day; the cicadas and crickets are tuning up…. The sun is gone now, and lights are starting to come on. Wispy clouds are making the sky look darker, and maybe they will go bump and give us a nighttime light show in an hour or two. It smells like sweet, damp earth and it makes our spirits feel refreshed…. It is nearly full-on dark now, and the cornfields are becoming a level and coalescent landscape, as if they have pulled up a blanket and are snuggling down for the night. And still, that sweet, sweet air blows through the truck, carrying away daytime thoughts, giving us comfort and hope for tomorrow. Good night, to all you who work so hard with the land. Thank you, and sleep well.
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Public restrooms have become marvels of modern technology. I have been in some, where everything (well, almost) is done with or without my consent. Toilets flush, faucets release water, soap and towels are dispensed if I just hold my hand out. But confusion occurs when the automatic and the manually-operated devices are combined in a single facility. I flush my own toilet, but the faucet is automatic; I have to pump the soap, but the towels spit out every time the door opens. (Ever stood near a towel dispenser that won’t stop turning? Arrggh!) What’s really frustrating (and embarrassing) is standing there, incorrectly assuming the device is automatic. When I worked at the construction company, I had a variety of labor-saving devices on my desk, and I got complacent. One day I had to punch holes for filing paperwork in a binder. I stuck the paper in, and waited. “Hey!” I called to a co-worker, “the hole-punch is broken.” She stepped closer, snickered, and pushed down on the handle.
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Trukker Skool
Some driving teams are a Team; others treat the truck like an office cubicle being shared by two workers on opposite schedules. One of the challenges of Team driving is the possibility of leaving your Co-Driver behind after a pit stop. Almost every Team has some method of letting each other know they are out of the truck, but there is still a library of left behind stories. Most of them are hilarious―except perhaps to the Leftee, who needs to get a sense of humor. They frequently require police assistance, because Someone failed to take their cell phone, wallet, or shoes into the restroom. The Driver, assuming the Co-Driver is still sound asleep in the bunk, drives off into the sunset and doesn’t realize he has gone solo until he tries to swap drivers and go off duty. Meanwhile, Mr. Sourpuss is begging quarters from other motorists so he can call Dispatch, and ask them to QUALCOMM the Driver, to let him know he is a few pounds short of a full load. In theory, this would not happen to a married couple…. Would it, Harry? Harry…?
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Sometimes, sitting in late afternoon homeward-bound traffic, I get a bit envious. I think it would be nice to be going Home; to sit at my table for dinner; to sit on my sofa and watch TV; to go to sleep in a bed that won’t be in another time zone when I wake up. Sometimes.
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Trukker Skool
One vital skill a new Driver must acquire is, “The Nod.” This is the wordless but eloquent greeting, exchanged when two Drivers encounter one another. It is a slight motion, delivered with due respect and solemnity. It speaks volumes: I’m out here; I’m doing okay; I’m glad we’re in it together; I wish you safe journey; thank you. If you are in a truck stop, or any other location, and wonder if a passerby is a Driver, then give The Nod; if it isn’t returned, they are not.