Todd R. Townsend

Sailor, Writer, Wanderer

Archive for category Rambling

Pony League Football

Aug 28

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I was a sorrowful, ridiculous sight standing on the football field with uncomfortable shoulder pads and an oversized jersey soured from years of too much sweat and too little washing.  And pants two sizes too big.  A coach had tried to tape the pads and pants around my thighs to hold them up, but the tape couldn’t hold once I actually moved.  So the pant legs hung around lazily.  The dirty white adhesive tape hinting of some vague injury.  One leg caught somehow on my calf and hung jauntily at my knee.  The other leg was loose, hanging open toward my foot.  A scrawny ankle disappeared into the gaping hole like a fragile clapper in a big bell.  Luckily, my mouthguard was the one piece of pristine equipment I had been issued.

Pony League Football was one of my very few forays into sports.  It had all sounded cool, but I didn’t burn for the game like the other guys.  The ill fitting, used and abused, league supplied equipment did not make me feel like Spartacus.  I felt like the Tin Man and moved with all his pre-oil-can grace.  Dad and I had watched a lot of football but I didn’t grow up in a sports family.  Thankfully so actually, my life has been rich in other things.  I quit even watching sports on purpose long ago.

In the practices and bull sessions, the ill equipped, volunteer dad coaches talked strategy and tried to build a team with what they had.  Finding that I matched a lack of grace with a stunning lack of speed, the coach assigned me as Defensive Tackle.  Whatever deficit I had in grace and speed, I hid it in a stature not quite as big as most of the other lineman.  I was pushed and shoved, jostled and punched.  But it was footballl; it would make me cooler.

From the coaches, I had gotten an embryonic idea of what me role was.  I was to penetrate the Offensive Line.  The Quarterback and the ball, however briefly, were back there somewhere.  I would lunge and roll, fake and push, and shove trying to get past whatever meathead they had put in front of me.  Unbeknown to me at the time, the Quarterback, and especially the ball, were never back there for long.  And the Offensive Line was supposed to tie up the Defense as long as possible to help the ball get from behind the line down the field.

When the ball was snapped, I would lunge and roll and push and shove and . . . then the whistle would blow.  Turning around usually, I would walk down the field to wherever the Offense had got and we would line up again.  Ball snap, jostle, whistle, walk.  If the other team scored, or somehow used up their downs, I would walk off the field and our Offense would give it a go.  Sooner or later, the Defense and I would go back on the field.

It never occurred to me, until years later, and nor did any of the dad coaches mention, that I should have kept my head up to watch the overall action.  I never knew what was going on or where the ball was going.  I was just trying to break across the line.  Rarely, my Offensive opponent would drop his guard, or if he knew the real action was long gone, save his energy, and I would make one last triumphant shove and roll and . . . get by him!!!  I was actually standing in enemy territory!

. . . and looking around, no one else was still back there.

I think many of us live out lives like I played Defensive Tackle.  We keep our heads down.  We push and shove and blindly work only on the problem right in front of us.  If you keep your head up and watch the ball, you can adjust; stay in the game.  You can do something productive and contribute, rather than just wasting your energy on some smaller problem that doesn’t affect the overall game.   Of course, we could also quit pushing and shoving and play a different game, but that is a topic for another day.

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Ruffled Hawk on Town Hill.

Dec 2

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Crossing Town Hill in a late Fall storm; sleet, snow and fog. I left Baltimore under a tornado watch.  Town Hill marks the pass where I-70 crosses the Appalachians out of the panhandle of Maryland. Last night, I came through here in the dark and fog. This morning, in the breaks between clouds, I catch glimpses of ancient farmsteads and backwoods mobile homes. Surveying the scene from an impossibly thin branch, waiting out the storm and hanging on for dear life, is a ruffled old hawk.

The perfectly solid Americana of old fieldstone farmhouses and verdant pastures contrasts the obvious, even vain, temporary nature of the trailers with their store bought waferboard sheds.
Some of the picturesque farms have been recently built in the style, but many are, perchance, older than this country. When did we switch from ‘built to last’ to ‘just good enough?’ Did we make a concious choice or did we just get lazy? Is there a difference?

These old farms were built in tune with nature and their surroundings. They take advantage of prevailing winds and Summer shade.  It was considered; thought through. 235+ years later, many are still here. They sit in meadows of little valleys, on the South facing slope. Little pastures are borderd by low stone walls or thin rows of trees. You could set George Washington’s bones on this ridge and he might still recognize the place.

There are many ghosts out East where history hangs over the hills like chimney smoke on humid, late Fall day. Just above a rock outcropping, back by the treeline, a flicker of motion catches the eye. This time its not a ghost, just a loose board pulling free from an old shed. The lot was hurriedly scratched out of the hillside where the land was cheap. The house is out in the open, right where the truck left it. Now the people are gone too. It might be abandoned or they might all just be at work.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
from my Droid
~~~~~~~/)~~~~~~~

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Long Distance Solo Driving or Playing Chicken with Suicide

Apr 14

Posted by trt in Nonsense, Rambling | Comments off

For many years now, I have been researching ways to dramatically increase your range of travel by avoiding sleep. As early as 1992, I attempted to drive from Port Huron to Tampa, nonstop solo. In 1999 or so, an ex-wife and I “rescued” a niece from Wyoming. Elkhart, IN to Caspar, WY and back in a weekend.

Recently, I have conducted extensive research while driving a semi. I conclude that is possible to push yourself well beyond previously insurmountable limits. The key is to gently but continuously feed the body and mind while pressing ahead. This leads to the potential of driving great distances with reasonable safety. A hidden corollary that surfaced during the research determined that if something terrible did happen, you will either be so strung out on sugar and caffeine that you won’t feel a thing or that you will just be thankful that it is finally over.

The first critical supplies are a big sugary snack and a large energy drink. Energy Drinks have been popular for several years in the refrigerated section of your local convenience store or truckstop. A new alternative is Energy Coffee, a coffee brewed with the addition of the go-juice chemicals found in common energy drinks. Last night, I chose both.

The sugary snack should not be pure sugar like candy. This will tend to make you feel badly before the maximum benefits are achieved. I recommend something with flour and sugar, like Ding Dongs or Coconut Crunch Donettes. The strategy is to prompt a sugar buzz with the snack and then drink copious amounts of the Energy Drink so that it will kick in before the Sugar Crash which typically follows the Buzz.

Two more critical supplies are more caffeine drinks and carbs. It is important to continue to imbibe in some slightly milder caffeine drink. I chose Pepsi Max as it has ginseng as well. While consuming the caffeine, you should also eat something heavy in carbohydrates. Not too much pure sugar, but more snacks with flour and sugar; perhaps increasing the relative proportion of flour. Pretzels work well, but have little or no sugar. Something like Oreos is probably too much sugar. Choose oatmeal cookies or frosted animal cookies. If you are in the plains states, look for Banana Planks, an banana flavored iced sugar cookie, par excellence! Last night, I had two.

Essentially, you are playing with your blood sugar levels. It is NOT recommended that you ask your Doctor or even mention this program. The key is to get to the point where you think you are about to have the shakes. Slack you intake slightly to prevent a full onset. Once you are starting to feel better, restart the program until you start to almost feel badly begin again.

If you get too far along and are feeling shaky or unwell, a bit of protein can help. It is important to avoid eating very much protein or anything greasy or with significant fat content. A small package of almonds or some beef jerky can help stem the tide. If you can combine a little bit of protein with more carbs, so much the better. Try a small package of peanut butter and cheese crackers or some honey roasted peanuts. In Illinois, pull into a rest area on the freeway or a toll plaza, and look for the Coconut Toffee Peanuts; Beernuts were never this good to you!!

It is important to avoid large amounts of protein, fat or grease. If you must, a c-store wedge sandwich will not do too much damage, but even the small prepackaged subs can slow you down. Take it from me, a McDouble with all that meat and cheese and grease, can make you practically Narcoleptic. If you are pushing 36 or 40 hours awake, you will fall asleep in mid-stride half way back to your vehicle.

Protein and Grease, however, is the perfect way to end your run. The hardest thing to estimate is when to stop the program and wind yourself down. Typically, you will arrive, or decide to stop, abruptly. Perhaps it only seems abrupt because your brain is swimming in sugar and caffeine. When you are ready to stop, the solution is to seek out protein, fat and grease. Nothing beats a McDouble and fries with a Whole by-god-and-Texas Vitamin D milk. You will sleep like a baby.

My most important bit of advice is don’t try this at home or anywhere else. Forget I said anything.

PS: I arrived at my destination and got my truck in for service; 646 miles on 1.5 hours of sleep.

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Zen and the Art of Egoless Driving, Lesson 3

Apr 12

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Slow Down.

That’s it . . . . just slow down.

OK, OK, I’ll elaborate. I lived and commuted in Detroit for a few years. I’ve been there, done that, never got the t-shirt or, amazingly, a ticket. I did have to call for bail money once but that was completely unrelated to speed. Recently, I’ve spent 300,000 or so miles on the highways and byways. Not many of them in rush hour traffic but just enough. Enough hours in traffic in different places in the world that I can tell you that Detroit Drivers are the worst. In fact, there were only three times that I experienced anything worse than Detroit; all isolated incidents. Twice in Texas with a fatal accident somewhere ahead of me. And once in New York City, I was halfway from Long Island City to the George Washington Bridge when a Yankees game let out. It wasn’t just the traffic jam, everyone in New York thinks they’re special and were fighting like lemmings to get to the front of the line. One guy got so excited, he changed lanes without looking and rammed his sexy foreign car into the dollies _underneath_ a semi trailer. Luckily, not mine.

My theory is that Detroit is the worst because, up until recently anyway, nearly everyone in town was building cars or had a link somewhere in the supply chain. Therefore, Detroiters think of cars as toys. Everybody zips along in Detroit Rush Hour – 75 mph [at least] and 8 inches apart. OK, in Winter it was only 73 mph and people are playing it safe – 9.5″ apart. Detroit Rush Hour was one of the first virtual reality arcade games. Everyone was playing. You’re watching all your mirrors and scanning the horizon, vectoring the cars around you and strategizing. Some guy is barely in front of you and you slip in right behind him. You’re running so close together, the heat from your radiator is fogging the chrome on his rear bumper.

Once we have entered the fray, we have to win. We’ll cut in and out of lanes, pass on the right, jam the gears and the gas, brake, jam, brake, jam. Hell, we’d consider passing on the shoulder if it meant getting the jump on those out-of-state-plates driving the speed limit! When the inevitable happens and we get bogged down, we are livid. DON’T THEY UNDERSTAND?!?! I’VE GOT TO GET TO . . . to where? To work? You aren’t nearly that enthusiastic about your job once you’ve made into the office parking lot.

Lets assume you have a 45 mile commute. If you drive 75 mph, it will take you 36 minutes to go 45 miles. If you drive 57 mph, it takes you a little more than 47 minutes. Is all that stress worth getting to the office 11 minutes sooner?

What about a 90 mile commute? Maybe you’re in management and you live out in some verdant, peaceful suburb. If you drive 75 mph, it will take 72 minutes. Driving 57 will stretch that to almost 95 minutes! If you’re in management, you are definitely going to tell me that those 23 minutes are valuable. Read on.

Now, some of you readers are on to me already. There is a problem in my examples, though I tried to word them carefully. The times are only valid if you could leap into your car while it was already doing 75 mph! And you’d have to average 75 mph for the entire trip. If there are more than a couple stop signs, or the inevitable traffic jam along the way, your average speed will plummet. Every time you slow down and/or stop, you are losing most of the 11 minutes you gained in the example. You’re spending lots of driving time at the same speed as someone who is only driving 57 mph on the highway. Take it from someone who gets paid by the mile, just stopping to hit the john will spoil your average speed for hours.

So, back when I thought I was done, I suggested you slow down. Not only will your fuel consumption and maintenance costs go down, you will gain an even more precious commodity. . . peace. Tranquility. You can laugh at all the stress puppies flying by you on the highway. You can smile at those slow out-of-towners. You can get to work in a decent mood and smile at your coworkers. You will become unbound. Think of smiling at the threshold of your house in the evening. Imagine hanging out with your family without that lump in your gut; without the crispy edges around your burned out life.

There is something else that happens to me regularly out here on the road. Someone will fly by me on the way. At the next stop sign, rest area or truckstop, that same vehicle is right there in front of me; just pulling into a parking space when I enter the lot. Imagine your coworkers stomping in to the building, cussing under their breath and swallowing all that pressure. If you take the slow lane, you’ll likely be sauntering in right behind them. Except you’ll be smiling, noticing that the landscape guys planted flowers. You’ll remember someone’s birthday as you walk by their desk. You’ll be happy enough to just start your day instead of heading for the coffee machine to bitch about traffic. Imagine how you’ll feel that night at home. You’ll notice how beautiful your family is, how lucky you are. You’ll be living a life instead of fuming about traffic.

So what’s it going to be? Five minutes sooner to a job you don’t really like anyway? Or the slow lane, smiles and peace? Well, no stress on the road. You’re still just a hamster in the wheel once you get to work.

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It Ain’t The Black Cats . . .

Apr 7

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I always thought that the Black Cats were the ones to avoid, but a run-in with a spooky old tiger cat last week changed my mind. There is only one approved place for me to get fuel in Nebraska. About 5 miles before the exit, I called dispatch to find out where I was picking up my back haul. I only needed fuel if I was going further West. Sure enough my back haul was three and half hours further west. I pulled off the highway.

For a hundred miles on either side of Council Bluffs, Iowa, Interstate 80 runs along that bluff. To the North, county roads roll down into the darkness of the prairie. The nearly pure blackness makes you wonder if anything exists in that direction. It looks like outer space, an occasional street light or the glow of mercury vapor around a farmhouse as the stars and moon. To the South, the roads crown away from the highway toward the crest of the bluff.

Aurora, Nebraska is North of Interstate 80. The glow confirms there is more than just empty space out that way. I turned and crossed the highway toward the shiny new truckstop and an abandoned gas station; the only obvious things South of the highway. Off in the dark, silhouetted against the line where the night meets the bluff, a lone tree and a farmhouse are black against the charcoal grey midnight sky.

I was running my card through the fuel island pump when I saw a cat walk by between my drive tires and the trailer dolly. She was an ancient looking, but well fed tiger cat; ragged from life on the prairie. She wasn’t fat, but you could tell there were a lot of missing field mice nearby. In the strange light of the truckstop, a layer of grey fur seemed to fuzz out over the top of her tiger coat. She just sauntered on by like she owned the place, the hard won aloofness of a farm cat. I don’t remember ever seeing an animal, let alone a cat, just wandering around a truckstop. Sure some truckers have pets, especially dogs, but they don’t wander around.

I stuck the fuel nozzle in my driver’s side tank, the nozzle just hanging in the tank balanced by the weight of the hose against the inside of the tank neck. Depending on the truckstop, this arrangement is precarious. It occurred to me that I should get a couple python straps to hold the fuel hoses down on each step. I roamed over to the passenger side and started fueling the other tank. I grabbed a squeegee and started doing my windows; the windshield, the side window, side mirror, west coast mirror, headlamp lens and then all of the same on the other side.

As I was doing the driver’s side mirror, I bumped the precarious hose with the long handle of the squeegee. The nozzle flipped out, shot diesel fuel straight up in the air, all over my leg and the side of the truck. The nozzle hit the ground spraying and before I could grab it, both my feet were soaked. With a cussing grunt, I poked the nozzle back in the tank.

I finished the windows and the fueling, checked the oil, the belts, the antifreeze and the fluids. Instead of pulling up right away, I slipped into the sleeper and changed my pants. The older pair of jeans I packed as a back up had a 1.5″ long spot on one of the ‘sit down wrinkles’ that had worn through. As I hurried to stick my foot into that leg, a toe caught the spot and tore it out to a 4″ gaping hole. Another cussing grunt. I tucked in my shirt, did my belt up and put my boots back on. I noticed that my phone was missing from the holster. I felt around in the blanket on top of my bunk, but couldn’t find it. I looked around casually. Its got to be in here somewhere.

I pulled the truck up to the pay line and went inside to use the john. On the way, I pitched the oiled up jeans in the trash. Back out in the truck, I looked more for my phone. The holster was handy but is old and worn and loose. I started to worry and was confused. After calling my dispatcher, I pulled off the highway, fueled my truck and changed my pants. I hadn’t gone anywhere else. The phone had to be in the truck. I pulled the blankets and sheets off the bed and went through a duffel and a book bag. Nothing. I sent a message into dispatch asking them to call my phone. After several minutes, I hadn’t heard anything from them. I looked around outside again.

Now what? I’m half way across Nebraska, in the middle of the night, on a schedule, and I can’t find my phone. There must be a way to call a phone from the web. I broke out my laptop and googled “ring my phone” and, of course, got a hit. A bored computer geek put up a site that will help find your phone. WheresMyCellphone.com!! If you use it, send him a beer via Paypal, I did. I did not, however, hear my phone ring. The phone was either completely gone or my web connection was so slow that it didn’t work.

As a last resort, I went inside and asked the Fuel Desk Lady if anyone had turned in a beat up old cellphone. Nope, but she offered to call the phone so I might hear it. I also told her that I had spilled some fuel and that they might want to put out some kitty litter. Head down, I shuffled out to the truck and never heard her call. How could a phone just disappear? I had 150 more miles to drive and a 06:15 appointment. I just couldn’t wait any longer for the phone to turn up.

My phone was beat up and old. I had been wanting to get a new one. I had also wanted to get all my phone numbers out of the old and into the new one. This is not how I wanted my relationship with this phone to end, but it was time to go. I had just enough time to get to North Platte. One last walk around and I’ll head out. Luckily, no one had pulled in behind me to fuel. The place just wasn’t that busy in the middle of the night.

I walked back to the fuel pump where I had spilled the fuel. My old greasy jeans were still in the trash. It was beyond unlikely that the phone fell out of the holster and into a pocket, but I checked anyway. I pulled the jeans out of the trash barrel, felt all the pockets, stuck my hand in all the pockets too. No phone. That’s it. I was going to need a new phone when I got home.

The trash barrel was on the passenger side of the island I pulled through. I slowly turned around; just pissed off that I’d lost my phone. My eyes scanned around as I started to amble back to the truck. The maintenance guy hadn’t put any kitty litter on my puddle of diesel yet. I didn’t set the phone on top of the pump. I hadn’t set it on the curb.

Off to my left, on the dusty prairie truckstop concrete, sat my little silver phone. I couldn’t remember going all the way over there where the phone was. There wasn’t any reason to go that far. To fuel, do my windows and check fluid levels, all my work had been around the front bumper. The phone sat well behind where my drive axles were, out of the main aisle. I know the sound of my phone skittering over the cement.  My holster sucks, I’ve heard skittering before. I did not hear skittering. The phone mysteriously got from my hip to the ground 15 or 20 feet beyond where I had been. It was clean; hadn’t gotten into the fuel spill. And there were five missed calls; two from WheresMyCellphone.com and three from the fuel desk. All that ringing and I had never heard it.

The early Spring fog swirled at me as a gust of wind rushed across the lot. The phone sat right where that cat had walked through! Had she grabbed it and hid it right there in plain sight? Or had she been holding it all this time, laughing at my frantic search? Damn cat, but I had my phone back.

I climbed up in the cab, updated my logbook and hit the road. It was good to be rolling again. Hell, it was good to have a phone again. I got back across the bridge and down the entrance ramp to the highway, when my eyes starting watering. Blinking and sputtering, coughing with a thick feeling in the back of my throat, I lurched the truck on to the shoulder. What had that spooky cat done to me!?! After a pause, I realized I had changed my pants after the fuel spill but put the soaked boots back on. Running the heater lightly in the cool damp night air, the duct at my feet was blowing all the diesel fumes off my boots and up into my face. The truck was filling quickly with the thick acrid stench of raw diesel.

I can’t tell you why, but I was traveling with two pair of boots that week. One is less comfortable but waterproof; the other expensive but not dry. Ironically, the good ones were now soaked in diesel fuel. Perhaps they are waterproof now. I could not store the oil soaked boots inside, so with my spare, uncomfortable boots on, I strapped them to the catwalk behind the sleeper. Catwalk . . . huh. damn cats.

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Zen and the Art of Egoless Driving, Lesson 2

Mar 23

Posted by trt in Rambling | Comments off


Jim Morrison growled “Keep your eyes on the road, your hands upon the wheel.” Sage advice while driving. However, certain occasions arise when we are tempted to lift one hand from the wheel and extend a particular digit in response to some traffic transgression that has occurred against us. We used to call this gesture the Tampa Bay Turn Signal.

Try this the next time you feel like thrusting that one particular digit at another driver: use all ten. In Eastern traditions to bow to each other as a greeting is very common. This is actually more than just a greeting. The bow, with palms pressed together like a Western prayer, a hands breadth away from the nose, is the ‘sacred’ in you bowing to the ‘sacred’ in the other. Call it the sacred or Buddha or Vishnu or God or whatever you would like. Or think of it as recognizing our common humanity in each other. It is hard to stay pissed off at someone you are blessing.

As we discussed in Egoless Driving – Lesson One, there is no reason to allow any more stress into your life than you already have. Let it go by recognizing that you are the same as the other driver. Occasionally, you get distracted too. The act of letting go, forgiving if you like, empowers you to leave it behind. You won’t think about it all day. The stess will be gone – evaporated not from the heat but from the coolness of your response.

So next time you’re tempted to flip, try bowing. Put your palms together and nod your head slightly. Its as much for you as it is for them. You may want to wait until they pass by. If it turns out, in traffic, you bless someone you know, they’ll wonder even more about you.

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Bosses is, as Bosses does.

Mar 9

Posted by trt in Rambling | 1 Comment

So, I’ve been here before; standing on the outside of my truck looking in. The keys hanging in the ignition. Only this time, I’m on the side of the highway, and this time . . . the truck is running. I’ll get back to that.

My boss is great. I work for a good little company. Little, if 225 or so truck drivers, 2 terminals, and several drop yards over 8 states, is little. The three sons of the original owner still run the company and regularly make deliveries on our routes. They are driving almost every week. If there is a meeting at another terminal, they’ll grab a load and drive a truck down; making money for the company on the way.

The day before Thanksgiving, was the last day of my week; my Friday. I woke up in the yard of a customer. Sleeping out in the world is not always the most comfortable arrangement, but this place is fairly nice with 24 hour access to their break room and a restroom. I had to take a load of Bisquick from the Fort Wayne area down toward Dayton, OH. Home is North and West, I would be traveling South and East. I was confident everything would work out fine. I had lots of legal hours to drive.

After making the delivery, I was assigned a load to go an hour or so further South. I called my Dispatcher just to make sure he was aware that I was headed still further from home on my “Friday.” He asked from what terminal I was based, and tapped away at his computer. My home terminal is Byron Center, Mi.

“If I can hang on to it, I’ve got a load going right into Byron,” he exclaimed. “That’ll get you right back home. Worst case, there will be some consolidation loads later on.”

It was a nicely warm Fall day as I climbed in my truck and headed to the interim delivery. An hour South to a spice warehouse. What a smell. The building reeked of pickling spices. A guy on a forklift told me to back into Door 5 and then come back in when the Green Light came back on. I cracked my windows and read the paper. The truck gently rocked as the forklift clambered aboard and grabbed the stock off my trailer; 55 gallon drums of Canola Oil.

The forklift hadn’t hit me for a few minutes. I was pulling my jacket on, when the Green Light popped back on. My paperwork was waiting right inside the warehouse door. I pulled out, closed up my trailer and high tailed it back to the terminal. The dispatcher was smiling when I arrived. My home base is also the headquarters of the company. One of the three brother/owners was just there and needed to get back home for Thanksgiving; the same home terminal I wanted to get to. He got my load home.

I’d been fiddling with my driver’s door for a while. The last several months, the inside door handle would stick in an up position now and again. When I hopped out of the truck, the door would bounce back open when I tried to close it. I’d push the door handle back down and slam the door closed again. This week, a couple times, pulling the inside door handle wouldn’t open the door. I found that if I just rested my finger on the door lock, something would catch and the door would open.

After an hour or so at the terminal, a consolidation load came up. I was going to deliver in Lansing and then get home to Byron Center, near Grand Rapids. The load was on a trailer with the axles too far back. I hooked to the trailer and adjusted the axles. After tugging on the trailer, it didn’t feel like the pins had caught. I nudged the trailer again, and the second nudge felt fine. I headed through the gate and hit the highway; finally headed north.

About 40 miles up the highway, as I-75 swings to the East, I usually jump on US33, then jog up US127 to US30 and run over to I-69 in Indiana. When I hit the brakes on the exit ramp, the pins on the tandem rack let go. Chunka, chunka, chunka, SLAM! The axles ran all the way to the rear of the trailer and the whole assembly slammed into the end of the rack, like a train running out of track.

I pulled onto the shoulder and jumped out to check. The door handle won’t catch; door doesn’t open. I put my finger on the lock knob and yanked on the handle and jumped out. Indeed, the axles must be adjusted all over again. I didn’t bring my gloves, so I walk back up to the cab. Pulling on the door, I get that finger ripping fling off the handle. The door is locked. I’m locked out. The truck is running. I’m not wearing a jacket because I was only going to be a second; and its in the low 40′s. Peaking in the window, I can see that the lock knob has jumped up out of the door panel. The rod below the knob is showing above the door panel.

With more than a quarter million miles on the road, there are some eventualities that I’m prepared for. The triangle vent window in front of my side window is always unlocked. I learned long ago that in a desperate situation, the outside knob of the triangle window latch, if its unlocked, can be twisted open. With the triangular window open, I can reach in to open the door. Crawling up to this window, however, I find that it is quite stiff. The wind is really blowing. My newer, longer hair is blowing all around and in my eyes. There is a truckstop at the next exit, less than a mile away. I walk over to buy some channel lock pliers. Yes, I’ve had to do this before. I roll down my sleeves and button up as I walk down the highway; jacketless.

Down the highway a ways is a back road that cuts behind a couple businesses to a TA Truckstop. I hit the john, return some coffee I rented, straighten my hair a bit and head for the tool aisle. Typically, all the tools are cheap chinese imports. Pliers in hand, I start the cold journey back to the truck. Hopefully, it is still there. The truck is still idling, at the ready. With a well placed brick, someone could have the truck, the trailer and a bunch of groceries bound for Lansing. Having insulted the ancestry of the pliers, they were not up to the job. Just as I got enough grip to twist the window knob, the lock would slip out of the channel. I tried several times to no avail. I’m stranded.

It was time to call this in. I hid on the downwind side of my truck and dialed in to Dispatch. My favorite dispatcher, Sandy, answered. I’m likely to never live this down. She scanned through her computer and told me to hang on. In a moment, she came back and had found another driver on a load that will go right by my location. He’s about an hour North and will stop by to get me back into my truck.

So, I huddle behind the truck. A whisp of heat from the engine occasionally drifts past me. I begin to think that I should walk back to the truck stop and hide behind a cup of coffee. There is plenty of time to wander back over there. I’d have to let dispatch know so that the driver coming to rescue me can be diverted. I don’t really want to walk back to the truckstop. The cold fingers of wind tossling my hair and running up my neck are beginning to convince me otherwise.

And then my phone rings. Its Sandy again, the other driver, Ralph, is actually about an hour and a half away. Also, he’s hauling a fish load and can’t dawdle. One of the brothers that own the company is a Ralph.

Sandy laughs. “That would be a dream come true, but no.”

With my fingers tucked under each arm, I ponder my situation. I really need to get out of this cold. My weekends are barely more than 48 hours. I can’t afford to get myself sick. Besides, its Thanksgiving. Leaning against the truck on the ditch side, out of the wind, I see a flattened beer can amongst the trash along the highway. Aluminum cans are great shim stock.

Gingerly, with my bare hands, I find a loose corner of the beer can and begin twisting it back and forth. Several twists later, I can tear a chunk of aluminum off. One more try with the channel locks. I try to jam the shim into the pliers to counteract the motion that causes them to slip. It almost works. The knob seems to twist a bit and the shim squeezes out, the pliers slip off the knob and out of my cold fingers. Hanging from a mirror up the side of my truck, I can’t catch the pliers. They rattle down the side of the truck and land on the running board. I carefully crawl down and hear a quick honk. I’ve spent the last three years on the road. I usually don’t even look when I hear a random horn, but my eyes are drawn to the semi crawling past me. Its one of our trucks! It can’t be Ralph already. I wave my arms over my head hoping he’ll stop. All of our drivers have keys to all the trucks. There is a slight flash of chrome as the other truck pulls onto the shoulder.

The other truck is backing toward mine as I walk down the shoulder and up the passenger side of his trailer. As I said, the three brothers often drive. Their trucks are just like ours with little splashes of chrome personality. It starts to sink in that I’m being saved by one of my bosses. As I get to the cab, the passenger door kicks open. Burt is standing between the two seats in his socks.

Hey, what’s up, Man?” he asks. Of all the people to drive by, Burt is the brother/owner who hired me. He must be the Castor Brother that got my load back at the terminal. Its the evening before Thanksgiving and he is headed home like me.

I explain to Burt that I’m locked out. He’s not sure he has all his keys. The truck I’m driving is old by his standards. My old truck has 1.3 million miles on her. She is just fine for me and there are older rougher trucks in the fleet. Burt finds his old keys, pulls on his boots and lets me back in. I crawl in over the passenger seat and back behind the wheel. As Burt rolls back onto the highway, I catch up my logbook and call Dispatch. Its Sandy again.

“Your dream has come true,” I start without even saying Hello. “Burt Castor just drove by and let me in. You can tell Ralph to keep rolling. I’m rolling again myself.”

Sandy and I have a good laugh. My truck leans into it and pulls back out on the road. It is good to be warm and moving again.

Apparently the boss stopped for dinner somewhere along the way because in Fort Wayne, he passed me again. I was cruising around the bypass when I saw one of our trucks in my mirror. I usually drive three or four miles an hour below everyone else. There is less stress that way. Burt is a rocket, behind the wheel and in real life. He is always moving in the office or on the road. His truck probably doesn’t have a governor like mine. I see the same flash of chrome as the truck goes by in the hammer lane. I grab the mic of my CB radio.

Thanks again, Bossman,” I call after his taillights. “You have a good Turkey Day tomorrow.”

“You’re welcome. You do the same.”

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Zen and the Art of Egoless Driving, Lesson 1

Mar 6

Posted by trt in Rambling | Comments off



It has happened to all of us, in a crowded parking lot or maybe a four way stop with two lanes coming from all directions. Somehow, you just didn’t see that other car. You both come to a hard stop. With a sheepish look, you mouth the word “Sorry.” Or maybe you avoid his glance and drive away as your face burns in embarrassment. Your driving record is clean, a good driver, but you just made a mistake. Everyone does.

When the shoe is on the other foot, however, and we were the one brought up short by the distracted driver, we don’t seem to think of it the same way. That guy is a moron. He drives like an idiot; shouldn’t even have a license. Now wait a minute. If we can make the occasional mistake, why can’t he?

When we react badly to the distracted driver, we are forgetting that we is just like him. There are a few morons out there, of course, but most of us get along just fine. Take your ego out of the situation. The ego loves it when it can feel superior to someone else. When you let the ego run unchecked, you are just hurting yourself. The superior feelings of the ego are short lived, but the stress will be with you all day long. If you get cut off on the way to work in the morning, it’ll wreck your whole day. It is wiser to just let it go.

It is far better to live with humility. We are all human. There are good days and bad days, but most of the bad days are an illusion of the ego. Next time someone brings you up short, thank them whether they show any contrition or not. Thank them for reminding you of your own humanity; our shared humanity. They have allowed you an opportunity to practice letting it go. The Buddha says all thoughts of selfish desire, ill-will, hatred and violence are the result of a lack of wisdom – in all spheres of life whether individual, social or political. We could use a lot more “letting it go” in our lives. Maybe you can start a trend. Let some of your serenity rub off on someone, but no trading paint in the H.O.V. lane!

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I’m Dreaming of a Warm Christmas . . .

Dec 14

Posted by trt in Rambling, Writing | Comments off

The lights around the highway exit loomed in the foggy darkness and faded out into the lunar landscape of the snow covered Nebraska plains. In the foreground, the grotesque beauty of post storm ice on everything. Every twig in the bare trees, every leaf on every bush, each stem and blade of the weeds, and even the occasional deer carcass, was covered with a silver veil in the glow. The roads were better here, the freezing rain had given way to blowing snow. I drove down the more or less visible highway with the wheel cocked ever so slightly into the wind.

Nerve endings crept out of my fingertips. They slithered around and down the steering column like tiny vines of Jack’s bean stalk. Somewhere under the dash, a connection was made. The truck and I were one. Just as a crosswind began to push against the truck, I was already pressing the steering a little further. Before the puff was over, the wheel was already back to where I started, just nudging the wind as we went. In cycles of push and ease, we read the wind like an old sailor and his schooner. Anyone watching would simply observe a semi truck maintaining its lane. Inside, the effortless, unified work continued.

With the creak of bone and sinew, my left leg grew down through the floor like Mr. Hyde or a Werewolf in mid change. My toes touched the chilly tarmac. Just as I steered, a moment before the road became slick, I was easing off the accelerator. In dry snow or on pavement, I was already speeding back up. I had taken the red pill, I was plugged in.

I had the FM radio off and the CB radio on. If a bad spot in the road or a wreck was up ahead, someone would cackle over the tinny speakers of the CB. We would all adjust to the new conditions. When the road got really bad, no one talked. For miles it seemed that I was driving the only truck left on the highway. The steering and the accelerator eased on and off as the road dictated. The only interruption when a bridge would drastically break the wind.

Easing in and out of steering into the wind worked just fine except when the wind suddenly vanished. When I drove under a bridge, the bridge and its embankment would block all the wind. With no wind to steer against, the truck lurched toward the bridge. This can be disconcerting in the daylight. At night, with so few visual frames of reference, the brief, disorienting, lurch toward the bridge felt exactly the same way the tractor did when going into a slide. Each time my heart jumped into my throat. I had to check my mirrors for the trailer. Each time, I could just make out a side light and the rear marker light on my side of the trailer. If those lights were roughly parallel, I was still going down the road; relatively straight.

I had driven more than eight hours before I actually made it up to 54 mph. With a clean road and real speed, I noticed the wipers were still scraping at the windshield. Clickety Clackety to the right, Clap, thud to the left, clickety clackety . . . over and over again. I had to run the wipers on the icy glass, with the defroster blasting from the inside all night just to keep a clear view of the road. Four or Five times, I had to pull over to scrape the windshield and crack the ice off the wipers. It took me quite a while to trust that I could turn the wipers off. When I finally did it was eerily quiet; like a tomb, only colder. I hadn’t needed much caffeine with all the stress but now, with a sudden relief, I was sleepy.

I had a hundred miles to go. In clear weather, I would have been there early. After all the winter conditions driving, I was getting my confidence back in the clear spots. I was hitting 60 mph occasionally. My trucker brain figured at sixty, I could almost make my appointment. My right leg, with its damnable will to live, kept pulling back, not yet trusting that we are past the weather. The brain got us back to sixty. After a few minutes, the leg had us back at fifty two. Brain pushes, leg eases. Same cycle as before, but call it a draw – I made it to the gate with about 7 minutes to spare. The gals at the Receiving Office had no idea what I’d just driven through.

“Back into Dock 214,” she said cheerily. She’s all smiles and big eyes; bright red sweatshirt and fingernails painted green. “Chock your wheels, dolly down, but don’t unhook.” Her voice chimes like holiday wishes. The perfect inflection as if she were saying “Donner and Dancer, Prancer and Vixen, Pancho, Chuy, Tavo.”  She exudes a whole new meaning to the phrase Holiday Fruitcake.

“Aw, “repression”…”recession”…it’s all da same thing, man.” -Cheech Marin

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Reading Signs On the Wrong Highway.

Nov 17

Posted by trt in Rambling | 1 Comment


I was on a road trip out East to see my brother and his family. The evening before, I had driven across the bluff over Lake Erie at Erie, PA. I love a blue horizon! Cutting the corner of Pennsylvania into New York and on past Buffalo, I spent the night in Williamsville, just off the thruway.

Next morning, out in the moist summer air, I tossed my bag and my guitar in the truck, and slammed the tailgate shut. In the cab, I set up to listen to some podcasts; even a couple from the nearby Rochester Zen Center. It was a bright, beautiful morning to drive the rest of the way across New York and into Massachusetts. I had breakfast at Bob Evan’s and hit the road. Good grub and coffee for my belly, and some new podcasts; nourishment for my brain.

My route would take four hours or so to Albany and then just into Massachusetts to Chester. Around Albany, I-90 heads into Massachusetts and the NY Thruway heads Southeast and becomes I-87. As long as I made the turn to stay on I-90, I didn’t have to think much to navigate.

On the south side of Batavia, NY5 comes alongside the toll road. My brain was simmering in the warm juices of an interesting podcast. My eyes are open, hands at “10 and 2,” but the auto pilot is engaged. Physically, I’m tooling down the highway at 70 miles an hour. Mentally, I’m sitting in the Rochester Zendo listening to the deliberate, even tone of John Pulleyn. Its warm and comfortable, a good dharma talk. Its quiet, feels safe and over there to the right is a RAMP TO I-90!! WHAT?!? Did I miss my turn already!?!? Where am I?

My brain grinds a few gears and roars into panic. My foot pulls back from the accelerator. I’m scanning the traffic beside and behind me, checking if I can still make the exit. On right shoulder is a solid guardrail. There is no opening; no gap for the exit. The ramp goes up and over a knoll and curves over to join my lane. It takes almost a mile for it to sink in that I was looking at a sign on the wrong highway. The sign wasn’t for me, it was for the people on NY5 who wanted to join me on the Thruway.

If you aren’t present in the present you are not really living your life. When we are consumed with what should have or could have happened, or perhaps, wishing something had not happened, we are stuck in the past. The paunchy former star athlete, or the aged former beauty queen, still trying to live their “glory days” are clichés of movie and song. We can’t make good decisions for our current life if we are not actually living it. When consumed by the past, we are living in a world we can’t change because it has already happened. We are reading signs on the wrong highway.

If you are consumed by the future, you have great plans, great hopes for some moment to come, some thing to happen. Consciously or not, we put things off today for those fabulous times to come. We can be consumed by some nebulous goal even while not making any actual progress toward it. Life is passing us by because we don’t see it. The kid in the back seat whining “Are we there yet?” is not enjoying the ride. He can’t see anything interesting along the way because he is not looking. When great moments, or great possibilities, come to us in the present, we cannot see because we are looking just past them at some unfocused potentiality. We are reading signs on the wrong highway.

When we obsess about how things should be or are going to be, we cannot see how things actually are – reality. In order to move forward, in a direction of our own choosing, we must know where we are going to start. We must accept reality; accept things just as they are. In this accepting, we don’t wish something else had happened. We don’t ignore things as they are because we “aren’t there yet.” When we are carefully aware of just where we are, good decisions can be made about where we want to go from here, and what we want to do next. We are on the right road and reading the right signs.

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