Ah, spring time, that special time of year. The birds are singing, the sun is shining bright and warm, except in Minnesota and the Dakotas, where they have decided to secede from the global warming community and stage a mini-ice age in protest. The trees are leafing out. The fields and pastures are turning green, or are being prepared for planting by the farmers – except in Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois where they are under ten feet of water and are being washed down to Bolivia.
And, as if by magic, sprouting up almost overnight, are the black and orange “construction sign ahead” flowers and with them, the orange and white barrels and their smaller kin, the orange cones. These have sprouted alongside, and sometimes in, the roadways, adding color to miles and miles of highway. There are some, though, who do not appreciate what Nature has given us and run these blooms over, leaving behind nothing but the shattered plastic of their stems and flowers and the black circular roots.
There is a curious thing about all these new spring blooms. They seem to be the outer boundary of large enclaves or preserves, if you will. These preserves are many miles long, but not very wide. They serve to protect small herds of great snorting beasts (no, not Howlin’ that have just emerged from hibernation. These beasts, in the center of the preserves, are grazing peacefully on their favorite food – the skin of the roadway. And hungry they are, after a long winter. Miles of asphalt and concrete are denuded by these beasts, small in number they are.
Around the beasts swarm a smaller animal – the fluorescent orange, or the fluorescent chartreuse “construction worker”. These animals are often seen flitting around, helping the great beasts in their care, showing them where the best grazing is to be had, or herding them to new areas to graze. Others of these small mammals are seen tending to the orange signs, barrels, or cones – transplanting ones that have somehow moved to inappropriate locations, or planting new ones to replace those destroyed by ungrateful drivers.
And to these enclaves come masses of humanity, to see for themselves the giant beasts and brightly colored herding animals. These masses slow down to excruciatingly slow speeds, the better to photograph the herds, or perchance, so as not to scare them away again. Mile upon mile of slow moving vehicles ease past these herds and gaze in wonder at the sights they see.
Ah yes, the beauty of spring – if only we would take the time to enjoy it.

Let’s Ride

Climb on in and we’ll take a ride
So park that sweet little sugar shaker by my side
It’s verified
I’m country fried
With southern pride
Tearing up the roads, nationwide
Wall to wall
And ten feet tall
It’ll be a piston pumping
Asphalt stomping
Concrete thumping
Mother trucking
Rock the road show, y’all
When the day is done and we set the brakes
We’ll belly up for sweet iced tea and chicken fried steaks
Then back to the truck and with a little luck
We’ll do some red necking
Antenna shaking
Window breaking
Earth quaking
Breath taking
Sweeter than bacon
Love making
You be my Frog, I’ll be your Bandit
We’ll start this trip and never end it
So climb on in and sit by my side
Take my hand and we’ll take a ride

I know, I've been missing the last week. Mostly due to work - those OMG o'clock start times have cut into my time here. But also, I have had some issues lately. Every morning for the last week, I have awakened singing this first song and it has made me hide, just in case it was contagious:


Now, if I was going to channel lady singers, why couldn't it be Janis? (eat your heart out Faith, you WISH you could sing with this much emotion )


I figure it could always be worse, it could have been:


I think I am going inside and find some Midol and chocolates. Y'all have fun )

Rivers and canals were the first superhighways
Horseback and wagon taking it home on the by-ways
In the 1800’s, they laid the first rail
To fill up the stores, bring in the mail.
For a hundred plus years was rail’s first golden age
Then Ike built us highways, turn a new page
Ribbons of concrete and asphalt for hauling the loads
Large cities, small towns, the coasts connected by roads
Time passed, demand grew, the roads they got bigger
Losing passengers and freight, the rails suffered from rigor
The 60’s and 70’s nearly sounded the death knell
The ref counted to ten, then almost rang the bell
But now is the time for rail’s next golden age
Trucks and trains work together, turn a new page
Trucks bring it to railheads to be loaded on trains
Cars, lumber, and paper; coal, cotton, and grains
Overseas containers, all ride double stack
Road trailers on flatcars riding piggy back
At the end of the line, they’re unloaded and then
In ride the truckers to haul them again
Men driving the freight out on the right of way
Working through dark of night and light of day
In competition and sometimes together
Bringing it to you through all manner of weather
Pulling up granite grades
Drifting down hills of basalt
Bringing home the bacon
On steel rails and asphalt

I have gone into the railyards myself a few times to drop off and pick up trailers. The work at an intermodal facility is ongoing controlled chaos. Road trucks entering and leaving, all of us lost too, yard tractors hustling, huge cranes deftly and gently placing containers on railcars and road rails. How all this is kept straight, where everything is located, how equipment shows up at just the right time is a ballet of large machines dancing across a stage thousands of acres in extent. It is an amazing process. I have been to the yards in Chicago, Kansas City, Memphis, and St. Paul. I have entry passes for BNSF, Union Pacific, and Norfolk Southern yards. Yes, there is fierce competition between the two modes, but, working together, they provide economical solutions to logistics across the country. If the freight is not time sensitive, then rail is definitely the way to move freight across the land. I personally have given up some long distance loads to the trains. But, for the loads involved, it was the best way to go.
I have also had a closer experience with the trains. No, the Freebird never dented the front end of one. It happened at a paper mill in Virginia one night. As the loading of my truck finished, the local train crew was retrieving and spotting cars at the same mill. Truck traffic came to a halt, as the tracks went across the driveway. The switchman was standing by my rig with his radio, waiting to give me the all clear. As soon as he received it, he waved me on. I hollered down to him,”Could you ask the engineer to blow the horn as I go by?” I was told yes, and I heard the switchman talking to the hostler on his brick. As I drove past the lead engine, two long blasts sounded. Knowing a bit about ‘horn talk’ I gave the same in reply. I was answered by one final long horn, and again, I responded in kind. I know I was smiling large as I left; I hope the engineer was too. It was a special moment, two opposing modes of freight, reaching across through the darkness, greeting each other and wishing safe travels to the other.

Freedom is 18 wheels under my ass, and 1000 miles through my front glass
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A friend will give up his coat, so you don’t feel the chill
A friend will give up his lunch, so you don’t feel the hunger
A friend will give up his health, so that you feel better
A friend will give up his happiness, so that you smile
A friend will give up his life, so that you may live
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And for me, a friend is someone I would trust with the well-being and life of my daughter.

My truck is a 2011 Freightliner Cascadia, unit number 2906. It has a 14.8 liter engine manufactured by Detroit Diesel, model DD-15, and is rated at 455 horsepower. The drivetrain includes a 10-speed Eaton/Fuller manual transmission and has 2.64 ratio gears in the drive axles. The engine includes an EPA Tier-10 emission control system. Hanging off the frame rail is a Tri-Pak auxiliary power unit manufactured by Thermo-King. It has a condo style sleeper in the back of the cab and aerodynamic fairings all around. The DOT considers this truck to be a Class 8 vehicle. It is governed at about 62 miles per hour and the normal operating range for the engine is 1400 rpm. It was manufactured in September 2010 out of nuts, bolts, hard steel and smooth fiberglass. It is painted white, with company decals located on both doors and the top fairing. These are the specifications of my tractor. But what none of this tells you is that I think my truck has a soul.
Isaac Asimov, in his book “I, Robot”, wrote of the ‘ghosts in the machine’ to describe a robot that learned to think independently. Robert Heinlein used the same theme in his book, “The Moon is a Harsh Mistress”. Both of these are works of science fiction. But any operator of a motor vehicle or heavy machinery will tell you that each machine, even out of a lot of thousands, has its own quirks or “personality”.
I have been in this truck for about a year. I spend almost all my time in this truck. Twenty four hours a day, for six or seven weeks at a time, this truck and I are working together. It is my work station, my office, my kitchen, and my bedroom. I have spent the last year learning its quirks and its best operating parameters. But there is more to it than that.
I left Blacksburg, SC very early this morning in a drizzling rain. We went around Charlotte, NC on I485, headed to I77 north to go into Virginia. I wasn’t carrying that much weight, maybe 35000 pounds, but my truck was struggling. It was as if it knew that we were headed the wrong way and not toward Texas like we should have been. But something strange happened. I was listening to a classic rock station and as we neared the exit for I77, “Wanted Dead or Alive” by Bon Jovi came on. The second verse started as we hit the ramp and I slowed down to eighth gear. We got to the apex of the turn just before the song bridge and as the guitars took off and the drums started to pound, I romped down on the accelerator and grabbed ninth gear. I shoved the stick into tenth and dropped the hammer as the last verse exploded out of the speakers and the truck took off like a stripe assed gazelle. I let the weight and momentum carry us down the ramp and by the time we hit the highway, we were doing about 70 miles per hour. After that, there was no more tiptoeing along the highway, no more lugging along the flat stretches or down the hills. We had it going on and flew through the morning. And that got me to thinking.
I have always talked to my trucks. I urge them on when climbing or passing another; I caution them when dropping down a hill or rounding a bad turn. I even thank my truck at the end of the day for a successful trip. But none have ever responded like this truck does. I will show her a truck in front of us and say “We need to pass that one”. Before long, we have scooted past and are looking for another target. Or when we are climbing, I will point out the top of the hill and the turbocharger will start to sing and the power comes up and she tops the rise at full speed, ready to windmill down the other side. I tell her when we are top heavy and she will ease through the turns, not anxious to tip over the trailer we are pulling. She and I both know that trailers are stupid, soulless creatures without any sense.
There is a synergy between the two of us. I depend on her to keep on pulling and she depends on me to keep her out of the ditches. I can sense when she is ailing and needs to see a mechanic to make her well again. She can pick up on my mood and knows when we can lay back a bit or if we need to hustle. She can tell when we are in traffic and will stay between the lines so I can concentrate on what lies ahead. She knows when the road is clear and she can use all the asphalt to get through a turn. She has seen me doze off a time or two and has given a shake and a shudder to wake me up. I protect her and she protects me.
Some drivers treat their truck like an inanimate object. And many others view trucks as just that, or as an obstacle that needs to be passed. But she knows I think more of her than that. She is a draft horse, a Morgan or Clydesdale, that has the soul of a thoroughbred filly. She loves nothing better than for me to drop the reins and just let her run. But, being a female, she is tempermental sometimes and will spit the bit. She usually doesn’t mind if I scratch the gears now and then, but once in a while will get upset with me; then I am scrambling to try to find a gear, any gear, I can. Once I do, I might waggle a finger at her and she will toss her head and prance a bit, then we will get back to business and keep on keeping on.
By now, a lot of you are thinking that I am goofy or worse. That’s okay, I probably am. But this truck and I have been through a lot in the last 135,000 miles and we have a long future ahead of us. We have slogged through mud almost two feet deep. She and I topped Donner Pass in a blizzard with the tire chains clanking like old Marley’s ghost. We have driven through 42 of the lower 48 states together; she has yet to see Wyoming and Nebraska. And the two of us still need to drive through South Dakota, North Dakota (does anyone actually live there?), Montana, and Washington. She and I have breathed in the salt air from the Atlantic and the Pacific and gazed across the northern and southern borders at our neighbors. And she seems to run best when I have some homegrown southern fried rock screaming out of the speakers. Yeah, we have been nearly everywhere and are standing tall. We have seen a million places, and rocked them all.
It’s about time to go; my trailer is nearly loaded. We will be heading back to Texas this evening and will be there in a couple of days. After I have rested a bit, I will get out the brush and soap and give her a bath and get after her with a curry comb. I will clean up the interior and restock the shelves and refrigerator. I will probably visit her a little each day, just to make sure that she knows I haven’t forgotten her. Then, before the New Year, we will be back on the road, chewing up the asphalt and drinking that old diesel juice.
To all my brother and sister truckers out there, keep the bugs off your glass and the bears off your…..tail. May your roads be straight, your weather clear. May you make it back safe to those you hold dear.
This is Tux the Trucker, 10-10 on the side. We’re gone, bye-bye.

My home sits on a huge piece of land. It is bordered on the west and east by I-5 and I-95; south and north by I-10 and I-90. The landscape includes desert sand, pine covered mountains, green hills and broad plains. The gardens have every flower imaginable, and fruit trees and cropland fill the table with their abundance. I have water gardens that include tiny creeks and mighty rivers; small ponds and Great Lakes.
Come inside with me. The floors are asphalt and concrete, grass and moss, pine needles and brown leaves. My walls are stone and wood. My ceiling is the sky; my nightlight is the Milky Way. I hope you are not allergic to pets – I have deer and bear and foxes, to name a few. My aquaria have tiny guppies and river monsters. Look out my picture window, my windshield. You will see an ever-changing panorama; something new and different is around every corner and over every hill. My television is the biggest – it stretches from horizon to horizon.
I have got the best sound system in the world. Sit with me on the front porch and listen to the throaty growl of diesel engines dragging freight up a hill, or the barking of engine brakes trying to keep those loads from running away on the downhill. We can listen to the roar of the Saturday afternoon crowd as the batter launches one out of the park, or the infield turns a sweet double play. There are over 200,000,000 voices, in over 100 different languages, each with a story to tell, if we will just listen. From my porch, I can hear hawks keening and coyotes howling. Mockingbirds sing to me from the treetops and meadowlarks serenade me from fenceposts. At night it lulls me to sleep with the song of killdeer and katydids. And the music is simply the best – big arena concerts to small church choirs on a Sunday morn. And the sweetest sound of all – a child’s laughter. And underlying this is the sound of tires singing a joyful highway song backed up by the beat of six big cylinders pounding out the power.
Don’t worry about the neighbors, you will like them. Next door are farmers and factory workers, technicians and truckers, surgeons and secretaries. They are all good hard working people. Their work has spanned oceans, conquered a continent, and put the first footprints on the moon. They have built the biggest, the best, and the brightest. They will provide you with any service and help you any way they can. These people are not just neighbors, they are my co-workers, my friends, my family.
Let me take you into the cookhouse. Anything you want, you can have it here. And don’t worry about exotic, I have delicacies from all the countries in the world. And I hired the best chefs too – 90 year old grandmothers to the hottest young chefs can be found cooking here, preparing whatever you desire at whatever time you are hungry.
Wait a minute, do you smell that? The farmer down the road is cutting hay for the winter. And, I do declare, his wife just finished baking a couple of apple pies – you can smell them cooling on the windowsill. Climb I-40 with me from Lake Havasu City, AZ to Williams, AZ and the aroma changes from the dry desert dust to the sweet fragrance of high mountain pine. And, I smell trouble; it seems someone’s dog is going to get a tomato juice bath tonight. Let’s roll the windows down through the Smoky Mountains and revel in the sweet perfume of honeysuckle; that will get the skunk out of our heads.
Did you say you were bored? How is that possible? My home has something for everyone. I have it all, from amusement parks to zydeco festivals. Don’t make me go through the alphabet, it’s more fun to do these things than just talk about them. Have you ever been parachuting? Let’s go. Let’s ride a zip-line through a cave, or a mule train to the bottom of a canyon. Climb aboard an old steam locomotive, or learn how to drive a race car. I could spend a lifetime just going to county fairs and festivals. You say you have simpler tastes, we can sit on the side of the road in New Mexico and watch as the rock mountains change from dull to fiery with the setting sun. Or we can watch and wonder as the stars come out and burn big and bright, deep in the heart of Texas.
I have a house on the east side of Texas, fifteen miles from the Louisiana border and about 80 miles from the Gulf Coast. It is where I go every six weeks or so to recharge my batteries and just relax. But my home is out there, in between the ditches. My home is the rolling hills, the sunlit trees against the sapphire blue sky. It is the great cities, the small towns, the empty land. I walk my home, my land on narrow two-lane country roads and sixteen lane super-highways. I could go on for days about my home and still not tell you everything there is. I am still discovering a lot of it myself. But this is my home. And I am proud of where I live.

So, I had just picked up a load of beer in Columbus, OH and was headed east then south to Winchester, VA. Eastern Ohio is marked by long, tall hills that will wear your truck down. I knew I would be downshifting from tenth to ninth gear a few times to finish climbing some of them. What had me worried was that in a couple of hours I would be driving around Wheeling, WV where the hills were steeper and I would be in seventh gear, if not lower to climb. Anyway you sliced it, I was going to be spending the late afternoon and early evening playing The Bear Went Over The Mountain. As I was drifting down one hill, engine brakes complaining, a truck whistled by me doing all he could to try and break the sound barrier. He came back into the right lane when he thought he was clear; I had to hit the foot brakes hard to keep the last fifteen feet of his trailer from crumpling my tractor. He just made it over and continued flying low. This got my attention and I kept an eye on him. I was wondering what kind of nut would let his truck roll that fast in Ohio, which is a 65 mph state, when we hit the next upgrade. I muttered to myself “oh” as his truck slowed dramatically on the grade. I slid to the left and climbed right past him. I glanced over and gave him a wave as I went by. He glared at me hard and sent a rude gesture my way. Well, I guess someone really needs a hug today, but he won’t get it from me.
Now, there is sort of a protocol when drivers are playing tag on the hills like this. If one truck climbs better than the other and the other is better on the downhill slide, the drivers acknowledge each other with waves, maybe a salute with the coffee mug, some silly grins or looks, that kind of thing. If everyone has their CB radios on, then the one that climbs well will shout “Hey, I’ll toss you a rope next time I go by. Grab hold and I will drag you over the top”. We have all played this game – except for this one guy.
We kept this game up for about 30 miles – me smoking past him on the uphill, him lighting the afterburners on the down side. I was getting tired of the game, not just because he was a butthead, but also because his driving was bordering on the dangerous. He was fading to the right lane whenever he went by, making me run on the shoulder. He was tailgating, changing lanes without signaling, just flat out dangerous. When I saw a sign announcing a rest area up ahead, I figured I would take a break there and let him get out in front. If he wanted to act like he owned the road, I was going to sign over the deed to him.
I wheeled in, parked the Freebird and headed inside to introduce myself to the water treatment system. After that, I wandered around, looking at brochures, just killing time. I let fifteen minutes or so slip by and clambered back into the driver seat. I figured that, even as bad as he was climbing, there was no way my truck, governed at 62 mph, would ever catch him. Besides, he might have gone north or south on I-77, there was no way for me to tell. So, in my mind, he was out of the picture.
For the next hundred miles or so I slogged up and down the hills, not looking forward to West Virginia. I was going to go around the south side of Wheeling and once I crossed the Ohio River, there were two very steep, long hills. West Virginia is a lot like Ohio, except everything is squeezed together, so the mountains and valleys are twice as steep and twice as hard to climb. And the curves are tricky, so a driver really cannot make up time letting her all hang out running downhill. I made it over the first hill, working the gears between seventh and eighth, in pretty good order. Rolled on the downhill, topped a couple of lesser hills and started up the second of the big ones. As I did, I saw a truck about halfway up struggling hard to keep moving forward. Something about it looked familiar. Was it? Could it be? No, surely not him. Oh, be still my heart, it was. Even giving him a fifteen or twenty minute head start, I still caught up to my nemesis. I ground the gearbox down into seventh and gained rapidly on him. This was an opportunity I could not let pass. There was no traffic, so I slipped into the center lane and pulled even with him. As I did, I let up on the accelerator a touch and looked over at him. A quick glance at the tachometer to make sure I was still in the power band, then I turned on my inside lights. That got his attention and he looked my way. I waved and mouthed the words “Remember me?” I returned the favor and flipped him the Hawaiian peace sign. I stood tall on the ‘go, go, git ‘em, git ‘em’ pedal and walked away from him. I grabbed a handful of eighth gear and let the diesel exhaust write him a good bye note. I sailed over the top and looked in my mirrors. He was still in about the same place he was when I showed him my taillights. I ran the last 60 miles to the truck stop I was aiming for and never saw hide nor hair from him. I have no idea whether his truck blew up trying to get up that last hill or if he just gave up. And frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.

“Breaker 1-9 for the Struggling Stroker back there. I don’t know if you know this, but my truck-ma just ran all over the top of your karma.”

She was hurrying home, been a few days out of town
Driving through the night, the sun long since down
Her baby boy slept beside her, secure in his seat
A few miles left to go until she would pull onto her street
Then a rear tire let go with a noise that surprised her
She gathered it up and stopped on the shoulder.

He was driving the night shift, like he had for years
Drinking cold coffee and shuffling gears
He was thinking again of a woman, her brown hair soft and long
He still thought of the hurt and how it had gone all wrong.
The last fight, strong words and the tears as he left her behind
He still loved his driving, but now and always she preyed on his mind.

He saw the car on the shoulder of the old four lane road
Going past, saw the woman, “aw to hell with this load”
He eased off on the shoulder, backed up to the car and
Kneeling down at the window said “lady I’ll give you a hand”
He went back to his truck for some tools and some stuff
He had some spare time on his schedule; he hoped it was enough.

He said “Here’s a water for you and a juice for your son.
Pop the trunk please, the sooner I get started, the quicker I’ll be done.”
When all was finished, she mentioned a truck stop and said “Follow Me
You can come in and relax, I’ll buy you some coffee”
He thought of his thermos, the black liquid gone cold
“Yeah, I’ll sit for a spell, I could use some fresh joe.”

He watched as she talked, thought her full of charm and of grace
She watched as he listened, saw a small smile crease his tanned, leathered face.
He put on his hat, stood, then threw down some bills
“I got this round’ he said, “next time you will”
She stood silently watching as the taillights disappeared in the night
Wondering if she’d see him again, praying he’d be all right.
He hit the road trying again to drive away from that old lonely hurt
This battered knight of the highway in faded jeans and t-shirt.

….that I sing this song every time I push over the top of a long, steep hill? LOL


The hill mentioned in the song is on PA307 northbound going into Scranton, PA, also known as the Moosic Street hill. I can remember, before trucks were banned from this hill, the billboard at the top reminding drivers to downshift before trying to go down the hill into Scranton. And there were police at the bottom to write citations for the drivers who went down the hill without taking a lower gear and survived. The billboard is still there.
This song is based on an actual accident that occurred on 18 March 1965.
Harry Chapin was a brilliant songwriter, a modern day troubadour who could inspire the full range of emotions in his listeners. He was killed in a car accident, coincidentally with a grocery truck, on Long Island on 18 July 1981. He was the founder of the World Hunger Year foundation to raise awareness and fight hunger on a national and worldwide scale. This was in addition to the multitude of philanthropies he also supported.
A brilliant man and the quintessential humanitarian, taken from us far too soon.