Eastbound and Down

        Here I stand, or rather sit, at a crossroads in my life. I have embarked upon a new career path and a new adventure...for about a month. However, it's killing us financially; it's wounding us spiritually. Driving a big truck has long been a dream of mine. I've always felt the call of the open road and been drawn to these rigs which never sleep and never cease their movement; the feeling of purpose borne of the knowledge that I am an integral part of what makes America tick. A fully loaded truck and trailer combo can weigh up to 80,000 pounds. Let that number sink in. That's the dry weight of a Boeing 747 airliner - on eightteen wheels driven by almost 2000 foot-pounds of torque.
        The truck I was on was a little over a year old, a 2012 model Freightliner Cascadia, yet it had over 300,000 miles of hard use and was in better shape than any vehicle I've ever owned excepting my wife's nine year old minivan. These are amazing vehicles capable of amazing things. In the time I was on the truck, unless we were waiting for a load to be ready, the truck only stopped but briefly for us to eat, use the restroom, or change drivers. The truck got very little rest while under load. Aside from the truck itself, the lifestyle was something I've yearned for. I love travel, seeing new places and things, and just keeping on the move. I'm always looking to find interesting subjects to take pictures of, write about, or just see and talk about later. The life of a trucker is nothing but travel.
        I've been places I never would've gone by choice and seen places I wouldn't have had opportunity to see anytime soon. Starting in Caseyville, Illinois (right across the river from Springfield, Missouri), I've been from Portland, Oregon to Grand Prairie, Texas and on up just over the border into New Jersey. I've been stranded in a blizzard in York, Nebraska; fought for traction climbing an icy mountain in Wyoming; hauled 45,000 pounds of Sam Adams through rain and heavy fog in the Poconos; and been forced to take advantage of my size and bull my through dense traffic in Oklahoma City. I bobtailed four hundred miles in the rain out of Memphis (where the FedEx guy informed us a few of their drivers have been shot or stabbed just outside their huge, sprawling compound) and was propositioned by an elderly prostitute in Portland. At six in the morning. I even got to roam the nation's largest truck stop - the Iowa 80 - and drool over some of the custom tractors sitting inside. Getting stuck in the middle of nowhere in a five mile traffic jam, I got to laugh at stereotypes playing out over the CB as my trainer took on an Apu-esque accent and proceeded to get insulted by other drivers and accused of being involved with the terrorists who attacked us eleven years ago. Then came the driver who, referring to the messed state of traffic at the moment, called out over the radio, "This is more f***ed up than a n***er's check book!" I just had to shake my head and laugh at the ignorance. I even thought up a couple quick one-liners. "Or a hillbilly's family tree!"
        Piloting such a large rig, you never forget how much responsibility is being placed on your shoulders. In the beginning, it's nerve wracking to be anywhere but the far right lane. Having to keep an eye on the inattentive, oblivious, self-important drivers around is bad enough when they're only on one side. But put them on both sides of the truck, giving you only eightteen inches of clearance on either side, and it's quite the harrowing experience. It's amazing how quickly you adapt to it, though. By the third week, I was practically at home in that truck, averaging between 550 and 650 miles a day.
        Then came Christmas. Christmas was a killer. We were rerouted up to Clackamas, Oregon instead of the route we were originally supposed to take through Salinas, California. About one hundred miles from our destination came the call that they had no routes to get us back south so I could be home for Christmas. The company was, however, willing to pay for a Greyhound ticket and a hotel room while I waited for the bus. My trainer would be gone for about a week and could then swing through and pick me back up. This was a far cry from the 3-4 days I was hoping for so I could get back on the truck and making money again, but I chose to see it as a blessing. A week with family and the opportunity to get to church on Sunday, this was workable. Less workable was when I couldn't get hold of anybody for the first week, and then found out it would be more like two weeks. And then a couple more days were added to those two weeks. After averaging far less than what I was told to expect income-wise, two weeks with no pay was a deal breaker. While I'd love to get back on the road, I can't afford it now. I was averaging $90 a week just feeding myself in the truck. I'd be cutting it close feeding myself for the next two weeks until my pay catches back up, not to mention the fact that my family still has to eat and survive at home. That money wouldn't last us two weeks. Besides the money problems, me being gone was stressing my wife more than we had expected, especially with the boy acting out a lot more than he used to. I had to do what is right for my family. I feel like a failure because after two yrs of unemployment and going to college, I found a job, only to quit a month later and start the new year unemployed again. I don't know how I will provide; I just have to trust that doing what's right for the family will bring us blessings.
        I'm going to miss being on the road. A lot. Driving that truck crystallized in my mind what I want to do with my life. I want to get paid to take road trips and write about them. I know this is a long shot, but that's why I'm writing this today. To hone my writing and my voice, so that I can possibly trick - I mean, convince a magazine to hire me on as a contributing writer/editor one of these days.