OldTroubador's blog post - Who Am I?

I live and work in a room less than half the size accorded a death row inmate – and I don’t even have my own commode. I buy my own food, and often work a full day with just a burrito or biscuit for breakfast and then it’s 12-14 hours until the supper table beckons; no three hots and a cot for me. The books and magazines I read were bought and paid for out of my own pocket – no state sponsored libraries here. If I want to watch TV, I have to buy a satellite dish and subscription myself.
There are politicians who want to outlaw my line of work and put me, and millions of others, out of a job. The rules for my profession are written by others that travel from place to place in chauffeur driven limousines and aircraft owned by the federal government. And on any given day, I may have to answer to customs officials, Border Patrol agents, state police, county sheriffs, and/or city, town, and village police officers.
Who am I?
I work in one of the top 10 or 15 deadliest jobs in the county. The Labor Department considers my job unskilled labor. By law, other industries have one to two days to swing shifts; I often have to swing with only a 10-hour break.
I am not allowed to have a bad day. If I do, someone will not be going home. The last five minutes of a 14-hour shift have to be as good as the first five, and all the minutes in between. I have to be on top of my game at all times, not just to ensure my safety, but the safety of all that share the road with me.
Who am I?
I’ve seen people driving by, talking on phones while reading reports or working on tablets. Yet if I am caught with a phone in my hand, the fines could run to $2500 – even if I am just picking my phone up off the floor.
I share the roads with people who couldn’t be trusted to pilot a toy boat in a bathtub. I have had people tailgate me for miles, less than a car length from my rear bumper. I have had drivers dive in front of me and slam on their brakes over some imagined slight and have had to dive onto the shoulder when other drivers wittingly, or unwittlingly, decided to occupy the same piece of road I was on. And yet, if I get within 3-5 truck lengths of the rear of someone else, I will get cited for reckless driving, or possibly even menacing behavior.
I have been passed by cars with body panels missing, no lights functioning in the middle of the night, black plastic bags replacing broken windows. But if I get caught with a non-working marker light, chances are I will be pulled over and cited for an equipment violation; I will probably have to endure an hour long inspection of all the components of my vehicle and paperwork as well. As a matter of fact, I can be pulled over at any time for a random inspection to ensure I am abiding by the laws governing my industry.
Who am I?
I have passed the unmarked places where countless drivers have died as they pushed back the trees or drilled a hole in a rock face. I have seen the fires of Hell consume a truck down to the frames, with the knowledge that the driver never got out. No signposts mark their passing; no billboard proclaims a memorial mile. Just a piece of my soul left behind as I pass by, knowing that they died, not surrounded by loved ones, but in pain and alone.
I know the curves of the Pennsylvania Turnpike better than the curves of a lover. I know the rise of the Missouri hills better than the swell of a lady’s breasts. Instead of the soft murmuring of a lady whispering sweet nothings, I hear the swish of tires on asphalt, and the growl of powerful diesels running hard. And I know the abject loneliness that sometimes replaces the serene solitude of my workplace.
While most are safely inside by a fireplace, I am easing 78,000 pounds of cantankerous truck and cargo through the snow and ice, trying to find a safe haven for the night. I have almost been blown over into a roadside ditch when the winds have caught me leaning the wrong way. I have hydroplaned down mountain grades, hanging onto my last shred of control; hoping, praying I don’t punch a hole through the guardrail.
A good day usually ends with my shoulders so sore I can barely raise my arms high enough to take off my glasses; my left knee swollen like a melon from clutch punching; my hands so wracked with arthritis I cannot hold a dinner fork. Bad days are not much worse.
And sometimes, I have to pull off the road and cry like a little girl when the pain and the fear and the loneliness get to be too much.
Who am I?
I’m an American trucker. With all that is wrong with this job, you might be asking “Why do you do it then?”.
I have no ready answer other than I love this job. God help me, I do love it.