I had the day off today, so whatever blog content we may be able to generate will have to come by way of my Swedish buddy Sjoe. He was fortunate enough to catch up with our man J.T. while I was stuck at the truck stop in Avondale.
It turns out that there is a shopping mall on the other side of I-10, not too far from the Pilot. Sjoe headed over there this morning and got himself a pretty little red Diamondbacks ball cap and a new pair of shoes, leaving himself prepared for the afternoon's festivities. Then J.T. showed up and things proceeded from there.
Sjoe, world traveler that he is, happens to be a big fan of the home team in whichever city he finds himself. I'm a die-hard Tigers fan, so I find this sort of approach to be distasteful, but the Swede marches to his own beat. He and J.T. headed downtown and grabbed a bite to eat, then took in the game between the Diamondbacks and Pirates. Pittsburgh came out on the winning end of this one, much to the chagrin of my Swedish buddy and his local host. The ballpark was nice though, as evidenced by the following photos.
Unfortunately for my Swedish buddy and his fellow D'backs (not to be confused with d-bags) fans, things didn't work out for the home team tonight. After making peace with the fact that Arizona's manager left Danny Haren in to lead off the bottom of the sixth inning, already trailing by a score of 5-0, Sjoe had to accept that he would be a fervent supporter of the losing team.
Dinner at a local steak house helped to dull the pain, after which the Swede stopped by the truck stop to share his thoughts with me. He was apparently struck by the virtual silence of the crowd at Chase Field, having Comerica Park in Detroit (my hometown) as his baseline comparison. The Swede has attended ballgames in numerous cities. He never likes to see a lackluster performance by the home team or, equally important, the home team's faithful supporters. In many cities, the intensity of the crowd is overwhelming. Alas, this was not the case in Phoenix. In a southwestern city populated largely by northern and midwestern transplants, intensity is bound to be lacking. Chase Field was not exactly rocking tonight. C'est la vie.
Tomorrow morning will bring a return to the world of trucking for me. My Swedish buddy Sjoe will most likely go away for at least a few days. I have to deliver in Buckeye by 6am and then we'll turn things over to the desk jockeys to see if they can find some freight for me. One more full week of work should take us to the point where it's time to head home.
We're nearly four years into this truck driving experiment of mine. The first time that I went to bed amidst comfortable temperatures and awoke shivering, I thought, "Hmm, hadn't thought of that." When you sleep in the comfort of your own home in Metro Detroit, temperatures don't tend to drop terribly dramatically within the span of a few hours. And when the temperature does drop, your thermostat will usually compel your heater to kick on and blunt the effect. On the road, this is not the case. The second, third, and countless other times that I've fallen alseep comfortably and awakened shivering, I've thought, "Okay, that's the last time." Yeah, I've been wrong... every time.
My truck's temperature readout said 58° last night when my sleep-inducers kicked in and sent me to bed. When the chill forced me to open my eyes and take stock of the situation this morning, holy shit. I flipped the switch for my bunk heater and found its progress to be lacking, so I climbed out of bed and fired up the truck. Was it really 24° ouside? You've got to be shitting me. So there I was in my underwear. (For your own sake, don't try to picture that.) Once I had managed to throw some clothes on and stop shivering, there wasn't much chance that I would be getting back to sleep. Might as well start driving. And thus begins another glamorous day in the life of this here truck driver.
I had warmed up and gotten my act together by the time I reached the Pilot in Jamestown, where I topped off the fuel tanks and grabbed a bite to eat. Those microwaved breakfast burritos are really a lot better than people might think. Across into Arizona and onto I-17, I encountered scant traffic and good driving conditions. The trip down through the canyons proved to be rather uneventful, with the exception of a few dropped phone calls, and the Tigers managed to win their third game out of four in the young season, so all was right with the world. I decided to press my luck and continue into the Phoenix area. No traffic on AZ-101 and a pull-through parking space at the Pilot in Avondale. Beauty.
The biggest negative of the day (aside from my frozen gonads this morning) came when I tried to buy a baseball cap for my Swedish buddy Sjoe. He's apparently a Diamondbacks fan or something. Alas, no quasi-Disney wannabe Mighty Ducks caps to be found at the Pilot. Just a bunch of college football stuff. Bummer. The Swede will have to look elsewhere.
It's more than a little amusing to me, in an Inconvenient Truth sorta way, that my truck is idling right now. The temperature readout says 89° and the sun is shining brightly. Elevation changes or no elevation changes, a 65° move in the span of seven hours is just crazy.
Completely off topic (to whatever extent my own gibberish on my own blog can be off topic): I've always kinda sorta had a crush on Janine Turner. You know, from a shallow male 'I wanted to get with her when my mother watched her on General Hospital and I was too young to know that I wanted to get with her' perpsective. Now, in light of a recent article, I may really be in love with the gal. Ain't that something.
The best thing about the arrival of spring is that, for at least two hundred miles a day, the driving of my truck is merely a background occurrence. With my XM Radio pumping out the play-by-play, I can stay alternately frustrated or pleased with what I'm hearing and the miles just disappear behind me. When my route involves the sheer boredom that is I-40, this seasonal benefit is amplified significantly. (More pleased than frustrated today. The Tigers are now on pace for 108 wins and Miguel Cabrera is on pace for 108 homeruns.)
When I set out from Texas this morning, I was just under 800 miles from Avondale, Arizona. With my delivery scheduled in Buckeye, I intend to spend the weekend in the Phoenix area. The last few miles to Buckeye can wait until Sunday morning. At this point I haven't managed to wear out my welcome yet, so it looks like our man J.T. and I will get a chance to hang out for a while on Saturday. As such, I planned to cover somewhere around 400 miles today and leave the same amount for tomorrow. The ballgame took care of half the trip and I handled the rest on my own. 391 miles on the road brought me to Milan, New Mexico, which I suspect is exactly like Milan, Italy. Or maybe not. I don't know.
As noted above, tomorrow's drive should be somewhere on the order of 400 miles. Depending on how early I get out of bed, I may cruise on into Avondale tomorrow or I may stop short somewhere along I-17. Apparently there's one of those hot rod races or something this weekend, so I won't be inclined to roll into the Phoenix area on a Friday afternoon. I'm presently bored beyond belief though, so maybe I'll go to bed early and then get rolling early. That's a pretty tough task for me to pull off, but you know, maybe. The weather is still cool and nobody is parked next to me, so I have a sporting chance.
I guess that undefeated season thing didn't quite work out as planned. Bummer. Maybe next year.
It stands to reason that, after getting my A/C fixed and hearing about 90° temperatures in the northeast today, I would encounter downright cold weather as I drove across Oklahoma and into Texas. The wind was whipping me around so much and the air coming through the vents was so cold, even with the fan turned off, that I had to turn up the heat just a little bit. That global warming is some tricky stuff man.
The trip across I-44 and I-40 was straightforward and uncongested, which is always nice to see. I knocked out a little over 450 miles and then stopped for the night in Conway. Since the cashier wouldn't give me a Con-way discount for staying in Conway the last time I was here, even with my company logo hat on, I stepped up the game tonight and flashed my shiny gold Con-way Truckload service ring. No dice though. She still charged me full price. My Italian BMT with double meat was worth every penny though, so I can't complain.
Tomorrow should involve another seven or eight hours of driving across I-40 and then something similar on Friday will have me pretty close to my final destination. Since I'm not making a lot of money this week, I can at least take some comfort in not having to work very hard and being able to sleep late every morning. That has to count for something. Mixing in the repairs that were done in Joplin last night, we'll consider the week a fairly productive one so far.
A little palate cleanser to take the sting out of that game that the Tigers' bullpen just blew...
Let's talk about mullets. And no, I don't mean the fish. You know what I mean. Halifax hockey hair. The Carolina crash helmet. The mullet. Unlike some people, I don't harbor any animosity toward the mullet. I dig the fact that people refuse to choose between business and party time. Why not both? It's the American way. Business up front, party in the back.
So I was rolling across Illinois this morning when I approached a slow-moving pickup truck in the right lane. I signaled my intentions and moved into the left lane in order to pass. Anyone who drives a truck for a living can tell you what happened next. The pickup truck sped up. So I signaled my intentions and moved back into the right lane, behind the pickup truck. Anyone who drives a truck for a living can tell you what happened next. The pickup truck slowed down. I got around the sucker eventually but, in the meantime, I was able to observe a masterpiece of a mullet on the driver's head. Tight curls at the end, nice and wavy down the slope of the neck, just short enough on top to say, "I'm no skinhead but I'm still aerodynamic." And it got me thinking.
While NASCAR lovers and Canadian hockey players may get credit for introducing the mullet into mainstream society, I think that I-70 is probably the main mullet transportation corridor in the United States. Think about it. The eastern terminus is in the Baltimore area, right? Lots of mullets. Then the road angles up into southern Pennsylvania. Mullets and beards galore, sometimes on the men too. Central Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois. Come on. It goes without saying. St. Louis to Kansas City. Ever heard of the Missouri Compromise? I can't say that I've made a lot of observations further to the west along I-70, but I can definitely picture some Camaro cuts out in Topeka. Even if the phenomenon ends there, I can't think of another road that would cover half the country with those lovable hairstyles. Best of both worlds, baby. If only I weren't a bald mofo... The skullet does not meet with my approval.
{The preceding stream of consciousness was brough to you by some jagoff who couldn't decide how fast he wanted to drive.}
The timing of my trip through St. Louis was good in the sense that there wasn't much traffic when I crossed the bridge (at noon). The timing was awful in the sense that some dude had just gone and gotten killed. I won't join in the speculation about the mystery semi truck's alleged involvement. The more likely scenario to me would be one in which the pickup truck's driver was distracted by a text message or something, but that's for the cops to figure out. No internet lynch mob is going to bring the young man back to life either way.
This scene looks pretty familiar, n'est ce pas?
I heard on the radio that a helicopter was on the way and that the cops at the scene were saying that the road would be closed for "two or three hours." The first option was that I could just set the brakes and take a two-hour break with everyone else on the road at the time. Since I hadn't yet passed Lewis Road though, I had another option. Some people were moving off the exit and I was able to shimmy my way over.
I was a little more fortunate than these suckers. Since they were past the exit (#266), they were shit out of luck. Nowhere to go, so they just had to set the brakes and kick back.
I wasn't entirely sure what would be the best approach for me to take, but I knew that I wasn't going to sit there and bake in the sun with no air conditioning for two hours. I made the flip back onto the eastbound side of the road and took a look at the surface streets that I could see. They didn't look too promising. So I stayed on the eastbound freeway and went with my fallback option; Exit 272, MO-141 down to MO-30 and over to St. Clair. This route worked well enough. It was a hilly son of a gun, but my 20,000 pound payload wasn't too hard on me.
From the point where I caught up with the freeway again, everything was good. Not much traffic, some clouds to help keep the temperature down a little, and a fantastic Italian BMT with double meat at the truck stop in St. Robert. (They love their saints in this state, don't they?) By the time I rolled into the terminal, the sadists in the inspection bay had gone home for the night. That's one of the positives of an economic recession, I suppose. In a cost-cutting effort, the inspection bay has ceased to be the 24/7 bane of our Joplin experience. Now, when we arrive after hours, we proceed to the trailer repair bay for a more Laredo-like inspection. None of those imaginary parts on the truck getting flagged for imaginary repairs. (By 'imaginary,' of course, I mean that I have never heard of the parts in question. This likely applies to roughly 80% of the truck.) Homeboy in the trailer shop tonight fixed something on one of the axles and sent me on my way. Nice and easy.
I drove over to the tractor shop and gave the service writer the rundown. I need cold air from my vents and I could use some new parts for my driver's seat. It had a sketchy armrest when I got the truck. Then, somewhere along the way, I leaned on the other armrest and broke it. Then, a while back, the little adjuster knob for the seat back got stripped or something and my seat went into permanent gangsta mode. I don't mind keepin' it real and such, but after a long day on the road it's nice to have a seat back against which to lean. So those were my requests. Cold air and a functional driver's seat. As noted by our friend from Arkansas, I should have asked for new batteries and I forgot. All in due time though. All in due time.
I guess I only come to this place once or twice a year on average, so my frame of reference is limited, but this is about as deserted as I've ever seen the Joplin terminal. Hardly any trailers, hardly any trucks, and hardly any drivers. Maybe this means that people are out on the road making money. Or they fired everybody. I don't know. There had better be someone in that building to give me my damned gold ring in the morning.
1 down, 161 to go, mofos! The first undefeated season in MLB history is upon us... or something. Now if the Redskins hadn't gone and harshed my mellow with that McNabb acquisition, I could have been a happy sports fan for at least a couple of days.
I had a pretty easy day today, all things considered, and I managed to find a new metaphor for the people in Joplin. They're like the parents of an old girlfriend of mine. We'll get to that in a minute. The quick hop down to my consignee in Cincinnati was nice and easy. Just as the traffic started to get heavy, I reached my exit. Gotta love delivering on the north end of town when you come in from the north. Unfortunately though, there were four trucks (three of them from my company) ahead of me. Win some, lose some.
After a couple of hours I was empty and found myself at #4 on the board. Using my wicked awesome detective skills, I took this to mean that the first dude still hadn't received an assignment, so I might as well drive back to the north and find somewhere to park. Chances were that I would have to turn around and head back southward for my next pickup but there aren't really any good options in Cincinnati. I ducked into the rest area just south of Monroe and found that I was still #4, then headed inside to take care of business. Why in the hell do they wire those auto-flush toilets on such a hair trigger, anyway? Splashing my ass every time I exhale. Ridiculous. (For your own sake, don't try to picture that.) By the time I got back out to my truck, I was up to #1. A short time later I had a new assignment... picking up back on the northern end of Cincinnati. Story of life.
After getting back on the highway northbound and making a (mostly legal) flip at the next exit, I headed down to my shipper in Fairfield. Another driver had arrived just before me and found that his trailer wasn't yet ready, so his drop/hook was turned into a live load. Mine, on the other hand, was ready to rumble. And only 20,000 pounds to boot. Compared to the majority of loads that I've pulled lately, this trailer feels positively dainty. I sent in my loaded call, got my dispatch, and headed westward. Going to Arizona. For a Sunday morning delivery. It's not very often that an entire week's miles come in one day, but that's that. By the time I make my delivery we'll be into the next pay week.
I got a satellite message as I left Ohio, lecturing me about my "below standard" fuel mileage so far this year. I assume that this stuff is automatically generated so I didn't bother trying to figure out whether or not I should tell anyone to kiss my ass. Coming out of the winter every year, the MPG doesn't look so great. Then, every spring, the weather moderates and there's less need to idle the truck. Then the hot months require the A/C for sleep every now and then, so the idling ticks back up. Then, every autumn, it starts to improve again. Truck Driving 101 - Intro to Basic Shit That Everybody Knows. Since we're coming off the least globally warmed winter in recent memory and my batteries last less than an hour with the bunk heater running, my MPG is what it is. In point of fact, I just looked at the web portal and I see that I'm about even with where I was at this point last year. I ended last year at 6.33 MPG. As far as I know, this was acceptable. So yeah. Whatever.
Across I-74, around Indy, and onto I-70. This brings us to the day's metaphor. The aforementioned old girlfriend would call me at work every now and then and tell me that her parents wanted to take us to dinner. Truth be told, I found her parents to be rather annoying and I really didn't have anything to say to them. But their favorite restaurant happened to be a place where I could get a nice plate of gnocchi with just the right amount of garlic. And, by not pissing off the lass, I could generally count on that other stuff that chicks know how to do. So, even though I didn't want to go, I didn't mind all that much.
The whole Joplin experience, to me, is annoying. I really don't like stopping there and I have nothing to say to those people. But Joplin happens to be a place with a repair shop, where I can get my air conditioning fixed before I head down to the desert. I'm pretty sure there's nobody there with whom I would like to sleep, but maybe I can at least get my gold ring as a viable substitute for the other part of the metaphor. Since I have a ton of time on this run, I probably won't mind spending a night in Joplin all that much.
By the time I got to Brazil, Indiana, I was getting hungry. I decided to duck into the truck stop for some dinner and a shower and then realized that the ballgame was coming on and I didn't feel like driving anymore. So that was the end of my day. I may have already mentioned this, but I have a ton of time on this run. Six days to cover somewhere between 1,800 and 1,900 miles. Screw it. No need to go any further when I'm bored and uninterested. Tomorrow's route ends in Joplin, where parking will be a non-issue, so it doesn't matter how late I get there. This means no alarm clock, which is something that we always know will put a smile on my face. And the hailstorm that just blew through has lowered the temperature substantially, also putting a smile on my face.
When I was stuck in an El Paso motel not too long ago, there was a special on one of the history channels about the last attempt on Hitler's life, setting off what was known as Operation Valkyrie. I have no idea what was the budget for that television show but I'm guessing that it was far cheaper to make than the piece of crap movie starring Tom Cruise. And the television show was far better. Two hours of my life that I'll never get back. C'est la vie.
Anyhow, not much to discuss in the trucking realm today. We can usually take this as a good thing. After sleeping nice and late this morning, I rolled across to Seville and then down I-71. Smooth sailing all the way. Instead of going to Cincinnati and trying to camp at the consignee, I decided to cut across through Lebanon and spend the night at the truck stop in Monroe. Nice and easy 15 mile drive from here in the morning and I didn't see any Hezbollah missiles. All in all, a solid result.
