IOWA 80 - I've been a bona fide qualified solo truck driver for two days now. I think I like it, but I haven't stopped for long enough to really figure it out.
I was assigned a truck on Friday, and it spent two days in the shop. It's better now. I like the truck itself - it's a long nosed model, which I really didn't want, but at least it's better than some of the trucks I drove during training. Shifts well, accelerates well, brakes well. And it's super roomy inside, which is also nice. (For those of you who know about trucks: I'm driving a Freightliner Classic.) I'll post pictures when I get the wherewithall to take some.
Sunday night I drove from Indy to Detroit, or rather to a company drop yard close to the Canada bridge, where loads stay before and after border crossings. Monday morning I was sent to pick up a load of salt on the other side of Detroit. All fine and good, except that I-75 is completely closed through the middle of the city. So I took some detours, ended up getting lost in some charmingly bombed-out section of South Detroit, made some probably-illegal turns, finally found I-94 and was finally on my way again. And then my phone rang, and it was my dispatcher telling me to forget about the salt and go back to the drop yard to pick up a trailer that was already there and take it to California. Mind you, that particular trailer had been there since last week. There was absolutely no need for me to drive around South Detroit for two hours. Gah.
Chances are that I'll be swapped off this load because at this point, only a team truck can get it there on time. Either that, or they'll need to push the delivery appointment a day back. This load delivers about an hour from my house, so obviously I'd like to keep it so I can actually go home.
More about how I actually feel about being out on the road by myself at a later time. Like when I actually have time?
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
They say his rig is a midnight black
INDIANAPOLIS, IN - Holy crap! I seem to have actually completed training! I'd be bouncing off the walls if I weren't so exhausted from running nonstop on very little sleep for the past several days.
Last trainer dropped me off at the Indy terminal last night, and this morning I did several hours' worth of computer tests and training modules to qualify me out of student status. Now I am on a waiting list for a truck. A truck for ME. No one else would get to drive it or put their stuff in it or make rules about it. Within the confines of my getting my job done and delivering loads on time, I can make my own decisions about my time. Imagine that!
My plan after getting my own truck has been to take my first home time in Portland next weekend so I could attend a friend's wedding, but instead I'm going to ask for a load to take me home as soon I get a truck and talk to my dispatcher. Because drivers are eligible for three days off per three weeks of being out on the road, taking time off in Portland would mean that I wouldn't get home for another three weeks, for a total of about two months away from home. That's more than I can really handle.
I'm getting to know the deep-set existential darkness that sets in when you wake up every day in motion without any idea where you are. That moment just sort of pulls everything else into its own black hole, because you JUST HAVE NO IDEA about anything, and this sets the tone for the rest of the day. I am holding on to the hope that having my own truck, one that does not move unless I am driving it myself, will keep this feeling at bay.
Next update: hopefully from privacy of own truck!
Last trainer dropped me off at the Indy terminal last night, and this morning I did several hours' worth of computer tests and training modules to qualify me out of student status. Now I am on a waiting list for a truck. A truck for ME. No one else would get to drive it or put their stuff in it or make rules about it. Within the confines of my getting my job done and delivering loads on time, I can make my own decisions about my time. Imagine that!
My plan after getting my own truck has been to take my first home time in Portland next weekend so I could attend a friend's wedding, but instead I'm going to ask for a load to take me home as soon I get a truck and talk to my dispatcher. Because drivers are eligible for three days off per three weeks of being out on the road, taking time off in Portland would mean that I wouldn't get home for another three weeks, for a total of about two months away from home. That's more than I can really handle.
I'm getting to know the deep-set existential darkness that sets in when you wake up every day in motion without any idea where you are. That moment just sort of pulls everything else into its own black hole, because you JUST HAVE NO IDEA about anything, and this sets the tone for the rest of the day. I am holding on to the hope that having my own truck, one that does not move unless I am driving it myself, will keep this feeling at bay.
Next update: hopefully from privacy of own truck!
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
All they will call you will be deportees
OTAY MESA, CA - Along the Mexican border between San Diego and Tijuana is the biggest cluster of truck yards I've ever seen, all filled to capacity, all bustling day and night with international traffic, truck wheels kicking up gravel and dust that sticks to my skin and won't scrub off. American truck companies come to border towns to drop off goods going south, and the trailers are picked up by muddy cab-over trucks heading to Mexico. And the other way around.
Less than a mile away from the border, in this beautiful, bilingual, fair-weather place, I can almost believe that maybe that line separating the two countries really is imaginary. To the north, the hills of San Diego twinkle with lights in the night. To the south, Tijuana looks the same. One could confuse the two, if not for the gigantic omnipresent signs directing traffic to border crossings. The line just seems so arbitrary, like it was penciled in and everyone forgot they could erase it at any time.
About a hundred miles west of here, over the mountains and through the sand dunes, I-8 snakes next to the border. To the south of the highway, sand-blasted and chained barricades tell you just where the line lies. And again, you'd never know. It's all desert and wasteland as far as the eye can see, in either direction.
Less than a mile away from the border, in this beautiful, bilingual, fair-weather place, I can almost believe that maybe that line separating the two countries really is imaginary. To the north, the hills of San Diego twinkle with lights in the night. To the south, Tijuana looks the same. One could confuse the two, if not for the gigantic omnipresent signs directing traffic to border crossings. The line just seems so arbitrary, like it was penciled in and everyone forgot they could erase it at any time.
About a hundred miles west of here, over the mountains and through the sand dunes, I-8 snakes next to the border. To the south of the highway, sand-blasted and chained barricades tell you just where the line lies. And again, you'd never know. It's all desert and wasteland as far as the eye can see, in either direction.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Beer cheaper than gas
WILLOW SPRINGS, MO - Bored out of my mind, so very ready to get back on the road. Have been filling up my time with walking around and taking lots of pictures. (Also, sleeping and reading and watching crap TV and eating surprisingly decent pizza.)
More pictures here.
More pictures here.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
The chaos gives back
WILLOW SPRINGS, MO - Remember how I said I was going to get off Larry's truck at the next terminal we stopped at so I could get another trainer? Yeah, that didn't happen. Instead, I am spending the week in rural southern Missouri, at the only motel in the closest town to where Larry lives.
Willow Springs has a population of about 8,000. It's an hour and a half away from any interstate, nestled in a warm back pocket of the Ozarks. There's a couple blocks' worth of Main Street, most of the businesses shuttered, and a set of railroad tracks. I ate breakfast at Main Street Cafe this morning, and the other diners were talking about farming and politics. One of the men said, "If Nancy Pelosi wants to live in a communist country so much, she ought to move to Canada." I shoveled eggs and toast into my mouth as quickly as possible and got out of there before they smelled California on me.
Outside in the heat, I walked around and took pictures of all the decay and strangeness, the overgrown doorways and broken windows. Then I saw the words "natural food store" and stopped in my tracks. Inside the small shop were organic soaps and essential oils and herbs and handmade jewelry, and I felt so comforted I wanted to cry. The shopkeeper, a older English woman named Erica, told me she used to do much better business before the state built a highway bypass between West Plains and Springfield, because none of the locals actually shop there.
She moved here from England 15 years ago because of an ad she saw in an organic gardening magazine that promised cheap land, fruitful soil, and a long growing season in the Ozarks. She packed up her two small children and crossed the ocean. Most of that ad's promises were not met, but her kids did grow up living off the land and playing outside, which is more than she could have done for them in the outskirts of London. And now, she said, she's got her house and her garden and her shop and her daily routines, and uprooting herself yet again just seems like too much work. Besides, once you turn the world off and just take comfort in the small oasis you've built for yourself, it's not too bad.
Erica rents out the apartment on top of the shop to a young woman named Janis and her son. Janis is from Minnesota but lived in California for 7 years. She moved to the Ozarks to live off the land. (Oh that eternal hippie pipe dream of living off the land.) She has taken on the small empty lot next to the shop as her personal project, building a gazebo and a beautiful flower garden there. The boy showed me his pet turtle named Betty, who lives in a walled flower patch. Tonight, I am going to help Janis plant new flowers.
Erica and Janis told me the local public library would be my best bet for getting online, so here I am. On the way here from the shop, an old black Cadillac limo pulled up to where I was walking. Inside was a man with unkempt long hair and two small children, a preteen girl and a boy under 10. The man asked me if I knew of a place that could buy old silver and gold. I told him I wasn't from around here, and he sped away.
I got here on Tuesday afternoon and wanted to throw myself under a train. But I feel better now. There are stories coming out of the cracks in the pavement here. Just as anywhere else, finding kindred spirits is just a matter of knowing where to look. And goddamn, my life is just such a strange and absurd journey.
Willow Springs has a population of about 8,000. It's an hour and a half away from any interstate, nestled in a warm back pocket of the Ozarks. There's a couple blocks' worth of Main Street, most of the businesses shuttered, and a set of railroad tracks. I ate breakfast at Main Street Cafe this morning, and the other diners were talking about farming and politics. One of the men said, "If Nancy Pelosi wants to live in a communist country so much, she ought to move to Canada." I shoveled eggs and toast into my mouth as quickly as possible and got out of there before they smelled California on me.
Outside in the heat, I walked around and took pictures of all the decay and strangeness, the overgrown doorways and broken windows. Then I saw the words "natural food store" and stopped in my tracks. Inside the small shop were organic soaps and essential oils and herbs and handmade jewelry, and I felt so comforted I wanted to cry. The shopkeeper, a older English woman named Erica, told me she used to do much better business before the state built a highway bypass between West Plains and Springfield, because none of the locals actually shop there.
She moved here from England 15 years ago because of an ad she saw in an organic gardening magazine that promised cheap land, fruitful soil, and a long growing season in the Ozarks. She packed up her two small children and crossed the ocean. Most of that ad's promises were not met, but her kids did grow up living off the land and playing outside, which is more than she could have done for them in the outskirts of London. And now, she said, she's got her house and her garden and her shop and her daily routines, and uprooting herself yet again just seems like too much work. Besides, once you turn the world off and just take comfort in the small oasis you've built for yourself, it's not too bad.
Erica rents out the apartment on top of the shop to a young woman named Janis and her son. Janis is from Minnesota but lived in California for 7 years. She moved to the Ozarks to live off the land. (Oh that eternal hippie pipe dream of living off the land.) She has taken on the small empty lot next to the shop as her personal project, building a gazebo and a beautiful flower garden there. The boy showed me his pet turtle named Betty, who lives in a walled flower patch. Tonight, I am going to help Janis plant new flowers.
Erica and Janis told me the local public library would be my best bet for getting online, so here I am. On the way here from the shop, an old black Cadillac limo pulled up to where I was walking. Inside was a man with unkempt long hair and two small children, a preteen girl and a boy under 10. The man asked me if I knew of a place that could buy old silver and gold. I told him I wasn't from around here, and he sped away.
I got here on Tuesday afternoon and wanted to throw myself under a train. But I feel better now. There are stories coming out of the cracks in the pavement here. Just as anywhere else, finding kindred spirits is just a matter of knowing where to look. And goddamn, my life is just such a strange and absurd journey.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
The west is the best
SIOUX FALLS, SD - The desert will be the death of me one day. Got stuck in Elko, NV, a few days ago on a truck that kept overheating as it chugged along deserted I-80 in thick air filled with smoke blowing over the Sierras from California burning. Got routed to a repair shop on a hardscrabble strip of casinos, motels, and gas stations, a rare stop between Reno and Salt Lake. My stomach had been doing worrisome sickly flips all day, like all these physical and mechanical components revolting against the overambitious human mind.
I am 47 driving hours away from completing training (would have been done by now if not for aforementioned breakdown and a slew of other unexpected delays), and my next step will likely be getting dropped off in Omaha to wait for another trainer (this would be trainer #5, for those counting at home) because Larry's going home for a week, and he's getting on my last nerve anyway. I don't do well when I don't get regular meals. And I mean, I REALLY don't do well. And flatbed operation requires an amount of effort I just have no inclination to make, especially without regular meals.
But in better news, I found what I believe to be my new favorite stretch of road in all the land: I-84 from Boise to Portland, first winding through the Cascade pines under a weepy gray sky then running along the Columbia river with Washington State on the other bank.
On the night of the Fourth of July, I drove south over the Grapevine snaking uphill towards Los Angeles in gathering dusk, and when I crested the hill the LA basin exploded with light, more and more fireworks beyond hills with every turn, confetti falling and dissipating into the brake lights of city traffic.
The more unfamiliar parts of California I see the more sure I am that this is my home, no matter where I came from or where I'll go in the future.
(Click on individual pictures for bigger versions. More can be found over on Flickr.)
I am 47 driving hours away from completing training (would have been done by now if not for aforementioned breakdown and a slew of other unexpected delays), and my next step will likely be getting dropped off in Omaha to wait for another trainer (this would be trainer #5, for those counting at home) because Larry's going home for a week, and he's getting on my last nerve anyway. I don't do well when I don't get regular meals. And I mean, I REALLY don't do well. And flatbed operation requires an amount of effort I just have no inclination to make, especially without regular meals.
But in better news, I found what I believe to be my new favorite stretch of road in all the land: I-84 from Boise to Portland, first winding through the Cascade pines under a weepy gray sky then running along the Columbia river with Washington State on the other bank.
On the night of the Fourth of July, I drove south over the Grapevine snaking uphill towards Los Angeles in gathering dusk, and when I crested the hill the LA basin exploded with light, more and more fireworks beyond hills with every turn, confetti falling and dissipating into the brake lights of city traffic.
The more unfamiliar parts of California I see the more sure I am that this is my home, no matter where I came from or where I'll go in the future.
(Click on individual pictures for bigger versions. More can be found over on Flickr.)
Friday, July 4, 2008
Lug it out
LODI, CA - I'm sitting in a truck stop about 15 minutes away from my house, but don't have the time or chance to actually go home. It's disorienting to be on home turf yet not be able to act like it. Leaving soon, always leaving soon.
New trainer Larry told me in full seriousness that oranges are bad for you because the acid wears down enamel on teeth. He said this as he put a dip of Copenhagen chewing tobacco between his lip and set of rotting teeth.
Things are all right, I suppose. Larry watched me drive for all of about 15 minutes before he said I had everything under control and retreated into the sleeper, leaving me to drive in peace. What's nice is that I feel comfortable enough already behind the wheel, so I don't need the supervision. Otherwise, he and I have absolutely nothing in common and our conversations feel like we're both speaking different languages.
Also, he doesn't eat. Like, seriously. The man lives on Pepsi and Copenhagen, and when I try to stop for food he acts like we're going to be late for everything in the world because of me. By the happy coincidence of my being in Cali right now, my roommate just met me at this truck stop and brought my cooler, which I left at home because I didn't think I'd need it on a trainer truck. (Thanks again for the cooler, Lunza!) Now I can stock up on sandwiches and stuff, and not sit there munching on Wheat Thins just to stave off the lightheadedness caused by not eating all day, which is what I did yesterday until I finally stopped for a much-needed square meal at about midnight in Oregon.
Oh, and he's a flatbed driver. Which means I am supposed to help strap down things like vinyl window parts to the truck, which is not something I have any intention of ever doing. Ever. Especially not for the amount of money Werner is paying me. Cheap bastards.
I only have 80-odd hours of training left. Should be done by next weekend. This shit seriously needs to be over so I can finally get my own truck.
New trainer Larry told me in full seriousness that oranges are bad for you because the acid wears down enamel on teeth. He said this as he put a dip of Copenhagen chewing tobacco between his lip and set of rotting teeth.
Things are all right, I suppose. Larry watched me drive for all of about 15 minutes before he said I had everything under control and retreated into the sleeper, leaving me to drive in peace. What's nice is that I feel comfortable enough already behind the wheel, so I don't need the supervision. Otherwise, he and I have absolutely nothing in common and our conversations feel like we're both speaking different languages.
Also, he doesn't eat. Like, seriously. The man lives on Pepsi and Copenhagen, and when I try to stop for food he acts like we're going to be late for everything in the world because of me. By the happy coincidence of my being in Cali right now, my roommate just met me at this truck stop and brought my cooler, which I left at home because I didn't think I'd need it on a trainer truck. (Thanks again for the cooler, Lunza!) Now I can stock up on sandwiches and stuff, and not sit there munching on Wheat Thins just to stave off the lightheadedness caused by not eating all day, which is what I did yesterday until I finally stopped for a much-needed square meal at about midnight in Oregon.
Oh, and he's a flatbed driver. Which means I am supposed to help strap down things like vinyl window parts to the truck, which is not something I have any intention of ever doing. Ever. Especially not for the amount of money Werner is paying me. Cheap bastards.
I only have 80-odd hours of training left. Should be done by next weekend. This shit seriously needs to be over so I can finally get my own truck.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Going what? Where? Already?
FONTANA, CA - Well, damn. Werner has all of a sudden decided to get shit together and find me a trainer. I'm leaving for Idaho tonight. Idaho! Tonight! Pulling flatbed trailers, apparently? Whatever. I only have a week and a half worth of training left to do, so hopefully I can just get that shit overwith.
Vaya con Dios, amigos!
E.T.A. @ 10pm: Oh, but it really couldn't have been that easy. What my new trainer failed to mention when he called me at noon and told me to get over to the terminal ASAP was that the truck was in the shop. We sat and waited for it until 9:30, then went back to the hotel. It's supposed to be ready in the morning, but I'm not holding my breath.
Highlight of the day: listening to a driver from southern Louisiana talk about the best way to cook roadkill armadillos. Apparently, you turn the armadillo on its back, split it open from the stomach, scoop the meat out of the shell, marinade it in vinegar, then cook in a crock pot. Learn something new every day...
Vaya con Dios, amigos!
E.T.A. @ 10pm: Oh, but it really couldn't have been that easy. What my new trainer failed to mention when he called me at noon and told me to get over to the terminal ASAP was that the truck was in the shop. We sat and waited for it until 9:30, then went back to the hotel. It's supposed to be ready in the morning, but I'm not holding my breath.
Highlight of the day: listening to a driver from southern Louisiana talk about the best way to cook roadkill armadillos. Apparently, you turn the armadillo on its back, split it open from the stomach, scoop the meat out of the shell, marinade it in vinegar, then cook in a crock pot. Learn something new every day...
Saturday, June 28, 2008
All hands on deck at dawn
STOCKTON, CA - Hello? Is this thing on?
I've been home on a leave of absence from work/the road for a month. Tomorrow morning, I am getting on a bus heading back to Fontana, CA, to resume training for Werner. More adventures and desperate Twitter posts from far-off lands will resume shortly.
I appreciate the comments and other calls of concern during June's radio silence. I just sort of needed some space from Internet-land, you know? I've done a lot of sleeping and reading and cooking and eating, spent a lot of time with people I care about, applied for some local jobs that I didn't end up getting, and am now falling back on the Original Plan B of truckin' across the USA. Lots of mixed feelings, still, but for now I've gotta finish what I started.
If you go out right now and get into any moving vehicle headed in an unfamiliar direction and blast this song, you'll get an idea of how I'm feeling.
I've been home on a leave of absence from work/the road for a month. Tomorrow morning, I am getting on a bus heading back to Fontana, CA, to resume training for Werner. More adventures and desperate Twitter posts from far-off lands will resume shortly.
I appreciate the comments and other calls of concern during June's radio silence. I just sort of needed some space from Internet-land, you know? I've done a lot of sleeping and reading and cooking and eating, spent a lot of time with people I care about, applied for some local jobs that I didn't end up getting, and am now falling back on the Original Plan B of truckin' across the USA. Lots of mixed feelings, still, but for now I've gotta finish what I started.
If you go out right now and get into any moving vehicle headed in an unfamiliar direction and blast this song, you'll get an idea of how I'm feeling.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
I've been traveling so long, how am I ever gonna know my home when I see it again?
STOCKTON, CA - You read that right, I'm back to the home base. Finally, after two full days on a Greyhound bus that followed three days of no sleep on a truck. This is gonna be a long one, kids.
The first issue at hand is that my beloved state of California, bless its heart, has screwed up royally by not sending me a permanent copy of my CDL. All this time, I've been trucking around on a temporary one, a print-out from the state saying that I was in fact a licensed commercial driver in wait of a new and shiny permanent copy. The temporary expires on June 2 (tomorrow, as of time of writing). The last couple weeks my roommate has been texting me status updates when he came home to check the mail - still no license. Each time I called the DMV, they'd tell me something ridiculous and apologize and say it would be in the mail that very day, but obviously they are a bunch of stinking liars.
With the expiration date so close at hand, Werner started getting worried about my driving status. When I was assigned a new trainer, they told me we'd get routed California-way immediately so I could either pick up my license or be dropped off to take care of this issue.
And in comes my third trainer, Dana, who is by far the best one of the lot. She and I get along great, and we hit the road on Tuesday once her truck gets out of the shop, with a load destined for Red Bluff, CA. We barely get an hour outside of Dallas when it becomes apparent that the truck was not really fixed, even though this was the truck's fourth time in the shop for the same problem - the AC freezing up. It works fine for the first hour or so after starting up, then either stops blowing air or starts blowing hot air. At that point, the only thing one can do is shut the truck down, pop the hood, chip off the LARGE CHUNKS OF ICE that have formed on the AC pipes, and wait at least 15 minutes for the system to thaw. Obviously, one can't make very good time stopping this way.
So here we are, driving through the desert with no AC. This is bad enough for driving, but absolutely unbearable for sleeping, because the sleeper windows don't actually open and the space heats up exactly like you'd imagine a closed metal box to heat up. Dana calls in an emergency maintenance request and dispatch tells us to go to a Peterbilt dealership in Albuqurque. We spend the entirety of Wednesday there. In the meantime, the company sends another driver to come get our trailer, since we obviously can't make it to the destination on time. We get out of the dealership by nightfall with the lead mechanic promising up and down that the problem is fixed, and are promptly dispatched to El Paso to pick up another load.
Imagine driving around El Paso, TX, where the weather is a temperate 110 degrees (yes, really), lost as hell trying to find a warehouse, with hot air coming at you from the windows AND the AC vents. Obviously, the problem was not fixed. Dana, completely fed up and angry at this point, calls dispatch and tells them that she's taking the truck back to Dallas (which is her home terminal) so they can give her another truck, since this one appears to be irreparable. They proceed to tell her that plenty of drivers do just fine without AC, and that she's just a silly lady driver who should quit whining. Eventually, her intention to trade in the truck turn into an intention to turn the truck in and quit the company. So we spend Thursday driving from El Paso to Dallas in the horrid Texas summer heat, stopping frequently to chip ice off.
Remember how I've said before that Texas is pretty much its own level of hell? Yeah, that. I drove the night shift, which was still hot but somewhat more bearable, but every time I stopped for ice-chipping I was attacked by legions of gigantic weird bugs. Have I mentioned yet that I hate Texas? Oh, and the load we were taking back was destined for Quebec. Last I checked, Quebec was sort of in the opposite direction and a different country from California, making it very hard for me to get my license issues taken care of, and far enough that it would be illegal for me to operate a truck by the time we got there.
We spent a few hours sitting at the truck stop just outside the Dallas terminal as Dana argued with dispatch. Finally, we took the truck into the terminal, cleaned it out and went our separate ways. I'd already requested to take home time by this point, since it was clear that my license was not on its way. My options at this point were to let Werner pay for a Greyhound bus ticket, or put a plane ticket on my credit card in hopes that the company would later reimburse me, which I honestly don't trust it to do.
Got on the bus in Dallas on Friday afternoon. Bus promptly broke down in Abilene, leaving all of us stranded in a roach-infested station for five hours until another bus came and retraced the roads I'd driven the night before. I slept, woke up, cursed the world for making Texas so damn huge, many times over. Several crazy people who talked to themselves sat next to me. Some guy tried to pick me up in Phoenix by saying, "Do you got a baby daddy?" Another guy tried to pick me up in Bakersfield by saying, "Where are you headed? Are you going home to see your kids? That's what I'm doing. I just got out of prison. Do you have a boyfriend?" The highlight of the trip was a three-hour layover in LA early Sunday morning, where I ordered an egg sandwich at the station cafe and almost cried from happiness when I saw the cook crack an actual egg on the grill because that's how long it's been since I watched real food be prepared for my consumption. Got off the bus in Stockton Sunday afternoon, filthy and braindead.
The interesting thing about Greyhound buses is that they are arguably the least pretentious way to travel. There are no excuses or apologies made for the lack of good service, comfort, or promptness, because let's face it, if you're taking Greyhound you're letting the world know that your ass is flat broke but you still somehow need to get from point A to point B, so you obviously can't afford to complain.
I am pretty sure at this point that I will not be going back to Werner. I haven't decided yet whether I want to keep driving trucks or not. I need to gather my thoughts here, sleep in my own bed, see people I love, eat real food, figure out what happened with my license, and process all that's happened in the past six weeks. Stay tuned.
The first issue at hand is that my beloved state of California, bless its heart, has screwed up royally by not sending me a permanent copy of my CDL. All this time, I've been trucking around on a temporary one, a print-out from the state saying that I was in fact a licensed commercial driver in wait of a new and shiny permanent copy. The temporary expires on June 2 (tomorrow, as of time of writing). The last couple weeks my roommate has been texting me status updates when he came home to check the mail - still no license. Each time I called the DMV, they'd tell me something ridiculous and apologize and say it would be in the mail that very day, but obviously they are a bunch of stinking liars.
With the expiration date so close at hand, Werner started getting worried about my driving status. When I was assigned a new trainer, they told me we'd get routed California-way immediately so I could either pick up my license or be dropped off to take care of this issue.
And in comes my third trainer, Dana, who is by far the best one of the lot. She and I get along great, and we hit the road on Tuesday once her truck gets out of the shop, with a load destined for Red Bluff, CA. We barely get an hour outside of Dallas when it becomes apparent that the truck was not really fixed, even though this was the truck's fourth time in the shop for the same problem - the AC freezing up. It works fine for the first hour or so after starting up, then either stops blowing air or starts blowing hot air. At that point, the only thing one can do is shut the truck down, pop the hood, chip off the LARGE CHUNKS OF ICE that have formed on the AC pipes, and wait at least 15 minutes for the system to thaw. Obviously, one can't make very good time stopping this way.
So here we are, driving through the desert with no AC. This is bad enough for driving, but absolutely unbearable for sleeping, because the sleeper windows don't actually open and the space heats up exactly like you'd imagine a closed metal box to heat up. Dana calls in an emergency maintenance request and dispatch tells us to go to a Peterbilt dealership in Albuqurque. We spend the entirety of Wednesday there. In the meantime, the company sends another driver to come get our trailer, since we obviously can't make it to the destination on time. We get out of the dealership by nightfall with the lead mechanic promising up and down that the problem is fixed, and are promptly dispatched to El Paso to pick up another load.
Imagine driving around El Paso, TX, where the weather is a temperate 110 degrees (yes, really), lost as hell trying to find a warehouse, with hot air coming at you from the windows AND the AC vents. Obviously, the problem was not fixed. Dana, completely fed up and angry at this point, calls dispatch and tells them that she's taking the truck back to Dallas (which is her home terminal) so they can give her another truck, since this one appears to be irreparable. They proceed to tell her that plenty of drivers do just fine without AC, and that she's just a silly lady driver who should quit whining. Eventually, her intention to trade in the truck turn into an intention to turn the truck in and quit the company. So we spend Thursday driving from El Paso to Dallas in the horrid Texas summer heat, stopping frequently to chip ice off.
Remember how I've said before that Texas is pretty much its own level of hell? Yeah, that. I drove the night shift, which was still hot but somewhat more bearable, but every time I stopped for ice-chipping I was attacked by legions of gigantic weird bugs. Have I mentioned yet that I hate Texas? Oh, and the load we were taking back was destined for Quebec. Last I checked, Quebec was sort of in the opposite direction and a different country from California, making it very hard for me to get my license issues taken care of, and far enough that it would be illegal for me to operate a truck by the time we got there.
We spent a few hours sitting at the truck stop just outside the Dallas terminal as Dana argued with dispatch. Finally, we took the truck into the terminal, cleaned it out and went our separate ways. I'd already requested to take home time by this point, since it was clear that my license was not on its way. My options at this point were to let Werner pay for a Greyhound bus ticket, or put a plane ticket on my credit card in hopes that the company would later reimburse me, which I honestly don't trust it to do.
Got on the bus in Dallas on Friday afternoon. Bus promptly broke down in Abilene, leaving all of us stranded in a roach-infested station for five hours until another bus came and retraced the roads I'd driven the night before. I slept, woke up, cursed the world for making Texas so damn huge, many times over. Several crazy people who talked to themselves sat next to me. Some guy tried to pick me up in Phoenix by saying, "Do you got a baby daddy?" Another guy tried to pick me up in Bakersfield by saying, "Where are you headed? Are you going home to see your kids? That's what I'm doing. I just got out of prison. Do you have a boyfriend?" The highlight of the trip was a three-hour layover in LA early Sunday morning, where I ordered an egg sandwich at the station cafe and almost cried from happiness when I saw the cook crack an actual egg on the grill because that's how long it's been since I watched real food be prepared for my consumption. Got off the bus in Stockton Sunday afternoon, filthy and braindead.
The interesting thing about Greyhound buses is that they are arguably the least pretentious way to travel. There are no excuses or apologies made for the lack of good service, comfort, or promptness, because let's face it, if you're taking Greyhound you're letting the world know that your ass is flat broke but you still somehow need to get from point A to point B, so you obviously can't afford to complain.
I am pretty sure at this point that I will not be going back to Werner. I haven't decided yet whether I want to keep driving trucks or not. I need to gather my thoughts here, sleep in my own bed, see people I love, eat real food, figure out what happened with my license, and process all that's happened in the past six weeks. Stay tuned.
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