Ahh yes, a good day with all of the elements needed to make life easy. Sunny skies, dry roads, light traffic, no waiting in line at the fuel pump, exploding trailer tires... Wait a second. What was that last part? Exploding trailer tires? I don't think I signed up for that.
I did manage to get a good night's sleep last night and the day went about as smoothly as possible, until the aforementioned explosion. I was cruising across Arizona with full fuel tanks and another few driving hours at my disposal when I heard a sound that I'm not really supposed to hear. KABOOM! I'm no expert on the subject but I think it's better to hear that kind of noise coming from behind you than it would be to hear it coming from in front of you. In front, there are steer tires and an engine. Really bad news if anything up there explodes. A blown trailer tire doesn't require anything more than a visit from a service truck. So at least I had that going for me... which is nice.
I made a call to our road service department and got a "service adviser" on the line within 15 minutes. Slight improvement, I suppose. This guy seemed to have his act together and, after a very brief conversation, he said that he would send me a message letting me know who was coming to help me. After a few minutes I got the message. The Love's in Joseph City was sending a truck, expected to arrive in approximately 60 minutes.
The 60 minutes turned out to be 120 minutes. I wasn't too pleased about the extra wait but, after hearing the guy's excuse, I really couldn't be mad at him. It was too funny. It turns out that the repair truck needed gas in order to make the trip to my location in the middle of nowhere. They do sell gas at Love's truck stops, of course, but the repair shop pays with a company credit card. This company credit card is kept in a locked drawer, for obvious reasons. You know, thievery and so forth. Anyhow, when the dude got the call to bring me a new tire, he went to get the card and put some gas in the truck. And... nobody could find the key to the drawer. The boss had to come in with his extra key and unlock the drawer.
In any event, I was off to the side of an exit ramp that appeared to exist for no reason other than that I might blow a tire and need a place to park. Very convenient. As such, I didn't mind kicking back in the bunk and waiting for the guy to show up. The only issue was the 14 hour rule. Despite the fact that I had been resting for quite a while and my day had been unusually relaxing, the bureaucrats behind their desks said that I was rapidly getting tired.
How to get screwed by the feds, Volume 9000: Spend a few minutes assessing the situation and placing your reflective triangles on the ground. Spend another twenty minutes or so on the phone, waiting on hold and then speaking with your road service department. Wait ten minutes or so before receiving your satellite message with information about the repair shop. Wait two hours for the repair guy to show up. Then watch the clock tick away steadily as he takes his time replacing the tire and completing his paperwork.
I was shooting for the Petro on the east side of Kingman. This was 160 miles from where my tire repair was being done. 160 miles would require around two and a half hours of driving, plus whatever time was added by dragging a heavy load across the mountains. I was legal until 12:30am Eastern, since I left Tucumcari at 10:30am this morning. The mathematically inclined readers among you may have concluded by now that I needed to be back on the road by 10pm. Those few extra minutes from the slow climbs wouldn't be a huge deal as long as I could get to the Petro somewhere around 12:30am.
The repair guy was done working at 9:50pm. He just needed to get some information for the paperwork and I would be on my way, I was told. He handed me the receipt and bade me adieu at 10:10pm. So I got to the Petro... when I got to the Petro. Don't worry about it. Close enough for government work.
I don't imagine I'll have a terribly long day tomorrow, going from here to either the Con-way yard in Fontana or the truck stop in Ontario. (Largely depending on how hungry I am whenever I get there, so the odds would favor the T/A.) Then an early morning drive down to Norwalk for my delivery and my request for home time finally will have to be drawn from its holster.
The damned fabric softener dispenser just took my $1.25. Bastards.
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