Non-Truckers: Don’t Take It for Granted

As I’ve stated before in “Why I do this,”  one of the main reasons I have an online presence is to inform non-truckers what it’s like to live as an Over-The-Road trucker. Sure, bad days can come off sounding a bit whiny sometimes, but the idea is not to gain sympathy. The plan is to help people stop and think when they’re around trucks. From what my non-trucker friends tell me, it’s been working.

Driving a truck isn’t the hard part of trucking. Living the life is. Once you learn how to drive the monster truck on steroids, the actual driving is usually a pleasure. Beautiful sunrises and sunsets over the desert, a hillside full of fall foliage in the Northeast, or a glimpse of Lake Coeur d’ Alene in Northern Idaho never gets old. It also helps not to have a boss who is constantly trying to catch you surfing the web instead of working.

Of course, there’s also the threat of crossing snow-covered Rocky Mountains, fighting rush hour traffic, and the very existence of New York City, which is about as much fun as a titty-twister from a professional arm wrestler. Still, the majority of time it beats staring at a cubicle wall and kissing some jerk’s buttocks day after day.

So what exactly is so hard about the trucking life? It’s the little things that most non-truckers rarely, if ever, think about. For instance,

When was the last time you:

• had to wonder if your shower was going to have hot water?
• had to worry about having good water pressure in that shower?
• had to worry about even getting a shower?
• had to get dressed in the middle of the night to take a leak, or worse?
• had to blow a non-family member’s pubic hair off your toilet seat?
• had to brush your teeth while smelling someone else’s butt funk or five someone else’s?
• couldn’t easily get to a hospital when you were puking up something that resembles cottage cheese and hot dog chunks?
• had to be a contortionist to make your bed?
• were up all day and were then told you need to drive 500 miles?
• got out of your vehicle and the parking lot smelled like boiling urine?
• tried to pass a vehicle for 5 minutes before you gave up and got back behind the freak with the fickle right foot?
• couldn’t find a place to park?
• had to sleep in a pool of your own sweaty B.O.?
• couldn’t sleep because your toes felt like they’d been dipped in liquid nitrogen?
• got bad directions, cursed, missed your turn, cursed, and couldn’t turn around for 10 miles, cursing the whole time?
• were woke up and solicited by a hooker? Sorry men. Dreams don’t count.
• were separated from your spouse for over a week… and that happened every month?
• were forced to have a marital spat over the phone?
• missed your child’s big event because you were in another state delivering a load of really important ketchup packets?
• had to post a “Beware of falling objects” sign in your vehicle to remind you every time you open a cabinet door?
• couldn’t get to a Starbucks when you really, really, really needed a fix?
• realized that your restaurant choices were limited to where you could park?
• had to get out of your vehicle 10 times just to back into a parking space? And you weren’t 16-years-old.
• had to drive up a painstakingly long 6-mile hill at 25 miles per hour?
• had to drive down a painstakingly long 6-mile hill at 25 miles per hour?
• were told you couldn’t drive any further until you got a nose-hair-sized crack in your windshield repaired?
• had to account for every 15-minute period of your day?
• had to sit for 10 hours just 15 miles from home because the Department of Transportation has deemed that it’s too dangerous to drive another 15 minutes?
• had to live in a room the size of a walk-in closet, sometimes with another crabby person?
• had to sleep in a bouncing bed? On second thought, don’t answer that.
• had to pack a suitcase to go to work?
• had to do 15 loads of laundry in 30 hours? I should have bought stock in April Fresh Tide years ago.
• had to pay twice as much as another driver for the exact same traffic violation?
• were issued a DUI after one beer? CDL holders can be; because we all know that the type of plastic card you hold makes all the difference in how your body handles booze.
• had to fuel at a particular station, even if the lines were longer than an NBA star’s criminal record?
• had to take a particular route to work, even if it took longer than the way you’d prefer to go?
• had to cancel a vacation because your employer couldn’t get you home in time?
• were told you could go home on Friday afternoon, but you didn’t actually get there until the following Thursday?
• got a 30-hour weekend after working for 3 or 4 weeks?
• said “TGIF” and it actually meant something?
• had a friend that didn’t involve an Internet connection?

I rest my case for now. I urge my non-trucking readers to appreciate the normal lives that they lead. Your life may seem mundane at times, but please don’t take it for granted. When you’re on your way to your weekend golf game or a baby shower, remember the truckers that are en route to the docks at Golfsmith and Babies-R-Us. Hopefully, those thoughts carry over into the weekdays too.

To the folks out there who are considering driving a truck for a living, I’d like you to think long and hard about what you’re getting into. While it’s true that you’ll never really know if you’re cut out for the trucking life until you’re actually doing it, you can do everything in your power to be informed before you try to enter the industry.

Talk to truckers. Read about trucking. Ride along with a trucker for a week or more if you can manage it. Whatever you do, please don’t get into trucking without careful consideration. The last thing we need out here is another whiny trucker. Just follow me on Twitter if you don’t believe me. 🙂

*So, what is it that I missed? What do you think people shouldn’t take for granted? Let us all know by leaving a comment. And please pass this post along to all your non-trucking friends. Who knows? Maybe they’ll started giving us truckers a bit more consideration out on the road. Thanks.*

Trucking in the Northeast

Photo by wonderferret via Flickr

I’ve been needling the west coast for quite a while now. First, there was my blog post about Oregonians called “Too Stupid to Fuel?” Then, on Twitter I’ve been bashing California and Oregon for their ridiculous 55 mph truck speed limits. Washington state isn’t much better at 60 mph. Now let me aim my shotgun of disdain at the other coast. Let me further limit it to the Northeast.

I really don’t hate the Northeast all that much. Other than the heavy traffic, the road restrictions, the way the towns were built, and the occasional a**hole with a middle finger that has its own bicep, it’s really a lovely place. But for the most part, the Northeast can’t be blamed for all this. The fact is, the Northeast was mapped out long before trucks, or even automobiles were built. A**holes, on the other hand, choose to be a**holes, so I’m laying that blame right on the a**hole who chooses to be a**hole-ish.

Our forefathers had a lot of foresight when it came to that whole Constitution thing, but they were waaaay off the mark when it came to laying out towns. I’m pretty sure that ol’ Ben wasn’t anticipating a 70-foot long vehicle weighing 80,000 pounds. And I’m certain that he’d never seen a 13′ 6″ tall horse-and-buggy before. That’s why, when traveling in the Northeast, truckers must always be on their guard when they get off the beaten path. The roads are tight and there always seems to be a low bridge lurking around the corner. This was renewed in my mind the other night.

After receiving two different dispatches and having both cancel as soon as they beeped into my truck (I just love that), it was finally settled that I’d pick up a load in Pottstown, Pennsylvania at 1:00 a.m. As usual, my company sent me all the relevant information, including the directions. As usual, these directions were as trustworthy as a Hollywood spouse. Of course, I didn’t know that at the time. I should have anticipated it, but being in a hurry, I didn’t.

The fun began when I turned off the main road. The first thing I saw was a long, somewhat narrow bridge. Beside it was that sign that every trucker loves to see. You know, the one that inevitably posts weight restrictions that you can’t possibly meet. Well, at this point, there was no backing up and no turning around. Having an empty trailer at the time, I wasn’t that much over the weight limit. And since I didn’t see a fleet of cop cars, I proceeded slowly. Not falling into a cold, icy grave made me happy.

Figuring the worst was over, I continued to follow my directions. As The Evil Overlord was happy to later point out, I’m not real bright sometimes. I came to a T-intersection and took a left and then a quick right, just as the directions said. About a quarter-mile down the road I saw one of those glow-in-the-dark yellow signs. I immediately became leery, but since it looked close to the ground, I plunged on ahead. As I approached, I realized that the road started to go down hill. And that’s why the sign looked so close to the ground. Uh-oh. Last time I checked, a 13′ 6″ vehicle can’t fit under an 11-foot bridge. Nuts!

Being focused on that cursed yellow sign, I hadn’t noticed the two cars that had crept up behind me. As I reached for the trusty iPhone, the first car came up beside me. He stopped and rolled down his passenger window. Forgetting I was in the Northeast, I was expecting the guy to ask if I needed some directions around the low bridge. Instead I got, “Hey buddy! How ’bout some flashers?!” While it was true that I hadn’t bothered to turn on my flashers (it was 1:00 a.m. and there hadn’t been a car in sight), I hadn’t been stopped for more than 10 seconds.

Pointing at the low bridge, I said, “Sorry, my focus was on that.” In typical a**hole fashion, he said, “Oh,” and drove off. No, “sorry.” No, “You need a hand?” No, “Gee. Guess I’m an a**hole.” At least the next car just drove right past. No help, but at least I didn’t have to talk to another a**hole.

I called the shipper to get some directions that wouldn’t involve a truck decapitation, but of course, it went directly to voice mail. I found out later that the guard had stepped away from his desk for a few minutes. Of course he had. Nice timing. Next, I pulled up the directions on Google Maps. Ohhhh. So that’s where my company got those directions! Even though I couldn’t follow their recommended route, at least I had a map of the city. So I winged it.

Luckily, there was a huge empty parking lot right beside me, so I whipped a U-turn and took what looked like the biggest road on the map. When I got back to the street I was supposed to turn on, all I could see were houses. Since trucks and residential areas are normally as compatible as Bobby and Whitney, I kept on going.

I finally found another road big enough to turn onto and made my way back to the pinpoint on the map. It was there alright. Tucked in the middle of a town, surrounded by houses; but it was there. Now where to turn in? Nope. Not that first entrance. That’s the employee parking lot. There was barely enough room for a U-turn. Maybe on down the residential road a bit? Nope. No gate down there. So now I’m stuck backing up for a quarter-mile on a dark, residential street lined with cars. Man, I love trucking sometimes.

Holy crap! What was that? I swore I saw something move behind me. It seems that I almost backed over the security guard. I’m guessing this guy was a hide-and-seek master in his youth, as he went from hiding from a phone to hiding behind a moving semi in the matter of a few minutes. I’m also guessing he was about as bright as the street I was on.

He informed me that I was at the right location, but I was supposed to be at the back entrance. After getting directions and taking a couple of tight little nasty corners that had me dodging cars that were parked in front of houses, the gate finally came into sight. But wait.

Seeing what awaited me, I parked down the street and walked toward the gate. There were cars parked in front of houses on one side of the street and trucks parked on the other. At the gate, the intercom assured me that I was in the right place. On my way back to the truck, another fine citizen of Pottstown came out onto his porch smoking a cigarette. Once again, the naive optimist inside of me was expecting a witty comment about how tight it was going to be. Foiled again!

Shocking me back to reality, he said, “You gonna sit out here and idle your truck all night?” Why yes, dill-munch. That is exactly what I had planned to do. Here I was, walking back to my truck from the gate, while my truck sat in the middle of the road with its headlights on. Clearly that was my plan. I simply said “no” and kept walking. As they say, if you don’t have anything good to say…

Being evil and all, The Evil Overlord called him by his appropriate name. She didn’t use asterisks though. Gotta love her. She’s like that little red devil sitting on my shoulder. I’m the white angel that keeps getting jabbed in the face with her pitchfork.

Thank God The Evil Overlord was awake though. It’s times like that where you say a silent thank you to the engineer who designs these trucks. So that’s why our side mirrors fold in. It was that tight. With the mirrors folded in and both our heads hanging out the windows like a couple of joy-riding slobber hounds, we slowly crept forward. We had a whole six inches to spare on each side.

After getting loaded, we went back through the truck funnel using the same process. Once out on the street, I was tempted to take Mr. A**hole’s suggestion to sit idling by his house, but I went on down to where there weren’t any houses to do my paperwork. One point for the angel. Having gotten the proper directions from the shipper, we went back out a different way. So it seems that there was a way to avoid drowning and decapitation after all.

So anyway, I can’t blame everything on the Northeast. I’m guessing that weight-restricted bridge was built years before trucks got so darned huge. Same goes for the low underpass. Some good directions would have avoided that trouble; not that my company can be bothered with such trivial matters.

As for the a**holes… well, I’m afraid there’s no avoiding them. At least not until some enterprising young proctologist invents an a**hole detector anyway.

*I believe I may have just set a record on using the word a**hole in a blog post. So what do you have to say about the Northeast and its inhabitants? C’mon, Northeasterners. I dare you to leave a comment explaining why y’all are so freakin’ grumpy. Of course, I’m fully aware that I’m going to have to edit some astericks into it. 😉 *

The Power of the Patch

Photo by Ethan Prater via Flickr

Despite what truckers say (including myself), most automobile drivers are good drivers. Despite what the media says, most truck drivers are extremely safety conscious. It’s true what The Osmond’s sang, “One bad apple don’t spoil the whole bunch, girl.” Or guy, whatever floats your boat. The same goes for the subject of today’s blog: Security Guards.

Truckers deal with security guards on a daily basis. The “guard shack” is the first thing we usually see when we pull into a shipper or receiver. The guard will take down your truck and trailer information, check your seal if you’re delivering a load, get any other pertinent junk that the company deems important, and point you to the shipping or receiving office. Sometimes they even handle the paperwork if you’re picking up a preloaded trailer.

When you’re leaving a shipper, their job is to verify that the trailer and the seal numbers on the bill of lading (shipping papers) matches the trailer you’re attached to. If it’s a receiver, once you’re unloaded they may have you open the trailer doors to make sure you’re not hauling out a load of plasma TV’s you’re not supposed to have (dang it!). Other times they simply glance up from their Stephen King novel long enough to give you a casual wave.

Some facilities are locked up tighter than Ft. Knox. Just try hauling Red Bull. Yes, that Red Bull. Apparently that nasty-tasting crap has an extremely high street value. When signing in at the shipping office, I was required to produce a driver’s license and a cell phone number. That’s pretty standard for high-value loads, but when they asked me to give them a thumbprint, I admit I balked. I gave in after a couple of questions, but still… IT’S RED BULL, for cryin’ out loud.

Other places are extremely lax. I’ve had many a security guard wave me past as they wrote down my truck number. Same thing on the way out. I could’ve kidnapped the boss and stuck him in the trailer and they would’ve never known. Then again, maybe they knew and let me go anyway. By the way, whenever you’re ready to get him back, just leave the ransom in the bus station locker that was listed on the note with all those funny fonts.

The security guard’s responsibility also varies from place to place. One place they’re just there to check you in. Another place might have them run a wand over your body and walk a mirror around and under your truck and trailer. Some have set procedures. Others wing it.

Herein lies the problem. As a trucker, I may or may not have been to this particular place before. Even if I had, it might have been a year ago. There’s no possible way that I can remember every single customer’s check-in procedures. Maybe the Rain Man could do it, but not this kid. Heck, I have a hard enough time remembering what The Evil Overlord asked me to do five minutes ago. I guess it would help if I’d put down my iPhone and listen for a change of pace. Nah.

Most of the security guards will ask you if you’ve ever been there before. If you have, and you remember the drill; great. Off you go. If you can’t remember or have never been there, most of them are friendly and patient as they run you through the drill. But as The Osmond’s knew well, there’s always that one bad apple. This guy or gal has been infused with the Power of the Patch.

These wannabe superheroes take their jobs way too seriously. No smile. No eye contact. The Sergeant Friday “Just the facts, ma’am” approach. Now that’s not my style, but to each his own. I can deal with these people. They’re on the good side of the Power of the Patch. It’s those who let the Power of the Patch influence their dark side that get me riled up. Take this morning for instance.

I pulled onto a street that was lined with trucks. A truck sat at the gate beside the guard shack. I could see the trailer doors opening and closing. No problem. I’ll sit here and wait my turn. Then the truck pulls off. I wait for the line to move up and the next driver to pull into the gate, but nobody moves. I wait longer. Still nothing.

After waiting a few minutes, I pulled out and around the other drivers. I thought maybe they were all live unloads who were waiting on an open dock. I knew that I was supposed to drop my trailer and skedaddle on out of there. Just as I rounded the corner into the gate, the guard came out waving his arms like he was trying to catch up with the rest of the ducks that were headed north for the spring.

Halfway into the gate, I stopped. I hopped out and the guard commenced to berate me for not reading the sign and following procedures. I said, “What sign?” “That sign!” he exclaimed as he pointed to the sign. The sign that was just INSIDE the gate. The sign that wasn’t visible from the street.

My reply was something to the effect of, “Don’t you think that sign would be better served out on the street where we could see it BEFORE we were at the gate?” I don’t know. Maybe there were a few harsher words thrown in there somewhere.

He went on to say in a condescending tone, “There’s always a line of trucks here. Everyone is supposed to stay in line until it’s their turn.” Dumbfounded, I replied, “This is my first time here. How am I supposed to know what the procedure is if it’s not posted where I can see it?” Again, give or take a choice word or two.

By this time the full Power of the Patch had kicked in and his only response was, “You have to get back in line.” I told him I was just supposed to drop the trailer, and asked if the rest of the trucks were drops or live unloads. He again answered me with, “Get back in line.”

Of course, by this time I had a stack of cars behind my trailer, which was still sticking out in the road. So there would be no getting back in line. I had to go down the street, do a u-turn, and park on the opposite side of the street. Two whole minutes later, Captain Power Patch came out with his cape between his legs and waved me in… in front of all the other trucks. It seems that I was to drop my trailer and bobtail out. Gee, I wish I had mentioned that… oh wait.

This is just one of many times that I’ve been expected to miraculously know the procedures of a company that I’ve never visited before. Nearly every time, there wasn’t a sign that could be seen before approaching the gate. If there was one, it was either blocked by a parked truck or a tree branch, or I was expected to use my kitty-vision to see it in the freakin’ dark. Oh wait… silly me.  Why didn’t I think to grab my night-vision goggles that I keep handy for just such situations? My bad.

Summing up: It’d be so easy to say that all security guards are influenced by the Power of the Patch. It’d be easy to say that the media thinks all truckers are reckless. And it’s especially easy to say that we truckers think you automobile drivers are all idiots with a death wish.

The truth is, the majority of security guards are nice folks who do a job that’s underappreciated; that the media is horribly wrong about truckers; and that you automobile drivers… well, no. That’s about it. 🙂

*Hee Hee. You know us truckers. We’ll never let up on the 4-wheelers. So do you have a story about a Superhero security guard? Or maybe you are that security guard who wants to defend himself? Whichever it may be, leave your comments in the handy-dandy section called Comments. And if you enjoyed this, please pass it along to a friend or two. Thanks.*

Trucking “Roles”

Dispatchers catch a lot of hell. Sometimes they deserve it; sometimes not. However, more often, I’m thinking that it’s the Planners that deserve to be flogged in the town square; not the dispatchers. Before I explain my loathing of Planners, perhaps I should lay out the job descriptions of each of the parties involved. At least this is the way it works at most of the large carriers.

First, the Dispatcher. In the large companies, the dispatcher is just the connector between the company and the driver. They send you load information. They answer any questions about company policies. If they don’t know the answer, they know who will. They help you with minor payroll issues. If they’re good at their jobs, they’ll listen as a driver vents about the crappy day that they’re having. Unfortunately, they usually don’t have a lot of pull. They can try to fight for you, but in the end, they have to do what they’re told, whether you like it or not. I’m sure they aren’t big fans of the system either.

Next, there are the sales people. As you might suspect, these folks seek out customers who need to ship stuff. For the most part, I like these people. Without them, I’ve got no freight to haul. No freight, no paycheck. What I don’t like is some of the contract details that are agreed upon.

For instance, some of my carrier’s biggest customers require loads to be dispatched at 45 or 50 mph, which is fine if it’s a fairly long haul. It’s the short runs where this is whack. In other words, if a load pays 500 miles (of course it’s 550 actual miles), and it’s dispatched at 50 mph, I’ve got 10 hours to deliver the load. Now let’s say that it takes two hours to eat a decent meal and take a shower. Now I’ve only got 8 hours to deliver on time, instead of 10. So, 500 miles divided by 8 hours, equals 62.5 mph average. Yeah, right. And let’s remember, the trip is probably actually closer to 550 miles. Unless I’m coasting down a really steep hill, my truck only goes 65. Heck, a strong headwind could make me late. If I’m late, my company pays a fine to the shipper.

Does this affect the sales person in any way? Nope; but as a driver I’ve got to flat scoot. Skipping showers is not something I like to do, and The Evil Overlord… well, let’s just say no one is gonna have a good day. And what to eat when you’re in such a rush? Well, the buffet is screaming your name. It’s trying to yell loud enough to be heard over Ronald and that creepy-looking Burger King serial killer guy.

Now, one of these shippers has added a new twist. In the past, they would pay for any and all tolls because it was the fastest route. Due to the tough economy, they’ve decided to start routing around toll roads when it’s possible. Did they change the 50 mph dispatch down to 40 or 45 to accommodate for the loss of time that traveling on back roads will cause? Nope. They’re expecting miracles. The last trip we took like this, we grumpily skipped a shower (until after delivery) and only stopped for fast food to-go and quick potty breaks. We got there with 15 minutes to spare. We’ll see how long this lasts when my company has to start paying for a lot more late fees.

Next up, we have the Customer Service Representatives, or CSR’s. Once the sales people hook the customers, the CSR’s are responsible for dealing with them day-to-day. They contact the shippers everyday to find out what freight needs to be moved where. They gather all the load information together and pass it off to the elusive Planners. The CSR’s should be happy. I’ve got no beefs with them.

The Planner’s job is to find the truck nearest to the load’s origin and assign it to them. Usually they give the loads to the Dispatchers, whose job is to pass it on to the driver. Usually. Herein lies the part that chaps my tater. And with that, I’ll pause… take a deep breath… and save the rest for the next post. I guarantee I’ll be worked up for that one. Heck, I already am.

*So am I right, or am I right? Okay. I could be wrong. I know a lot of people don’t agree with me about dispatchers. Want to put me in my place? Leave a comment and let me have it. If you’ve got a friend or two that would like to straighten me out, by all means, tell them how to leave a comment too. Why do I feel like I’m going to regret this. 😉 *