Images From Memphis Flood

My new job has me in Memphis, TN every other day. I was there Monday and today (Wednesday) and shot a few pics of the nasty weather and its aftermath.

This was a super cell that hit about 12:30 pm last Monday. I was parked outside the Coca Cola plant waiting to deliver. The folks ushered me inside to the storm shelter when the tornado sirens went off.

Today (Wednesday)  I crossed the MS River into West Memphis, AR to reload. West Memphis had been hammered the night before and much of the town was still without power.

Power line repair en route to my reload.

Flooding along I-40 and I-55 in Arkansas

Access road flooded next to I-55

Lots of downed trees around town

Poor little forlorn fire hydrant…

Tires and Train Wheels

By Alan Burkhart

Since getting laid off in July, I’ve been taking pretty much whatever work I can scrounge up from one week to the next. It hasn’t been all bad. While full-time positions are scarce, there’s always someone who just “needs something done.” I’m not especially proud, so I can keep the bills paid and the lights on.

I’ve done a bit of work for a guy who buys and sells all manner of used equipment (cars, trucks, construction machinery, etc). Since I’m a “professional” driver, I pick up various vehicles at auctions around the Southeast and bring’em back to his business in Mississippi. The pay is pretty good, and usually whatever I’m driving is a decent ride. Usually.

The other day I rode with another driver to Charlotte, NC to pick up a “crane truck.” It’s an old railroad construction vehicle with a small crane and a “man bucket” like those used by utility companies to lift a line technician up to a power line. The truck also has small railroad wheels underneath. These are lowered hydraulically to allow the truck to travel on the railroads just like a train.

So there I was, tooling along I-20 through Tuscaloosa, AL. The MS state line was only 71 miles away. It was early afternoon and I was already thinking about what I was going to fix myself for dinner when I got home. Then all hell broke loose.

The tires had good tread, but the truck had been sitting a long time so dry rot was a factor. All involved felt the old girl would make it home and I wasn’t terribly worried about the tires. The right steering tire blew. It’s always an adventure when this happens with a truck, but in this case it was even more interesting. When the right side lost height due to the blowout, the railroad wheels on that side bit solidly into the asphalt, making the truck almost impossible to steer.

The truck was doing its damndest to rumble off into the steep, 75-foot ditch along this section of I-20 (just west of exit #71, if you’re familiar with Tuscaloosa). I had to turn the wheel a full turn to the left just to keep it straight. I-20 is a fast and busy highway through Tuscaloosa. The speed limit is 70 mph and most folks roll along about 75 or 80.

Funny thing… when I finally got stopped in the breakdown lane, NO ONE was going by me. The whole westbound side just stopped, evidently for fear that the truck was going to spin around to the left due to how I had twisted the steering wheel to hold it straight. Once I was stationary, people started easing on by and in short order all was back to a normal level of mayhem.

Anyway, I got the old bitch girl off the road and into the breakdown lane. The equipment dealer I was working for is a helpful and concerned sort of guy, but in spite of his best efforts it still took 2 hours until a service truck arrived with another tire. Then three and half more hours until I arrived at the equipment dealer’s sale lot. Then a 40 minute drive home. And here I sit, with a cold glass of my own iced tea and relaxing in my comfy “executive” leather office chair. Home never felt so good. :-)

August Adventure

By Alan Burkhart

As some of you already know, I’m currently unemployed and hunting a new job. This has actually proven to be more work than having a job. It’s the first time I’ve been out of work for longer than a week or two, and it’s frustrating. The whole process of applying for unemployment, wallpapering the town with job applications and stressing over bills is frustrating to say the least. For me, it’s uncharted territory.

Anyway, one of my best friends recently had a death in his family. He’s an independent trucker and was already under a load bound for South Carolina. He called me to inquire if I’d be willing to deliver the load and bring another load back to Mississippi. Two friends in need: One needing some extra cash to get through the next week or so, and the other needing someone to deliver his load to keep the customer happy. Problems solved. I packed my duffel and made the 50-minute drive to his house to grab the truck.

The delivery was simple. One piece (a small dredging tool), two chains, no problem. I delivered during the morning while the weather was relatively cool. Then I was off to make the 150-mile trip to Hazlehurst, GA and reload at an equipment auction.

En route, I stopped in some little community at the junction of US Hwy 1 and I-16 for a quick pit stop. It’s a tiny little country store with a 10-ft grocery aisle, a 20-ft beer cooler and a pool table. Now folks, I’ve been driving trucks for 30+ years and I have seen some truly revolting public restrooms in my time. This one was less than pristine, but not so filthy that I feared catching leprosy from the door knob. However, as public restrooms go, it was a tad too “cozy” for my taste. Note in the image the charming “shared” TP dispenser. I was unsure if the brush between the toilets was for cleaning, or if it was assumed one might want to scratch his back whilst using the facility. Thank God the door had a functioning lock. Otherwise I’d have been forced to go find a tree.

By the time I arrived at the auction yard, it was 3:45 pm and the sun was like a blowtorch. High humidity, few clouds, no breeze. I backed up to the dock and a guy brought out the three pieces I was to haul: An asphalt roller, a street sweeper, and a Ford L-9000 dump truck. He drove the stuff onto the trailer, bid me a fond farewell, and I began tying down the load.

This was when I was reminded that:

• I’m not as young as I used to be
• I’m not as slim as I used to be
• My gimpy leg (broke my ankle last February) doesn’t like jumping and climbing
• I am, after all, a heart patient and,
• I’m way out of practice tying down machinery

I became fatigued almost instantly. So, I pulled outside the auction yard to an open area with lots of welcome shade. I cranked up the a/c, stole one of my buddy’s Dole fruit cups from his cooler, and settled in to wait for the sun to drop a bit lower.

Once the sun dropped behind some convenient clouds I crawled out of the cool of the cab and set to work. I got the load secured with little trouble although I was exhausted by the time I was done. While I don’t plan to return to machinery-hauling (which I did for a living in the 80’s and early 90’s), it was fun to get to mess with it once after all these years. Had I taken better care of myself in the intervening years, I’d still be able to do it without it being such a chore. But those days are behind me and I fear best left behind. Hindsight is always 20-20 as the saying goes.

 

The trip back to MS took me through Plains, GA. For some reason, this town still seems to think it’s a good thing to acknowledge its one famous resident. At least Jimmy-Boy can legitimately claim that he is no longer the worst president in US history. He’s 2nd worst, or perhaps third, depending upon your opinions of Barack Obama and George W. Bush. Or, did you think I’d be able to write a blog post completely free of politics? Me???

Not a chance.

Freeper Comments: http://www.freerepublic.com/focus/f-bloggers/2579247/posts

Climbing Monteagle

By Alan Burkhart

I’m presently en route from Lawrenceville, GA to Kansas City, MO, which takes me up I-24 through the town of Monteagle, TN. Monteagle sits at the top of a small mountain pass, and the frozen springs in the rock walls along the highway caught my attention. So, I have dutifully provided my typical low-resolution images in bad light for my faithful readers. The road appears icy in the images, but it’s actually just leftover brine solution that’s dried to the road surface (nasty, crusty stuff).

I also tossed in an image of the little country road I had to travel a few days ago to deliver to a north Texas tree farm. I am truly glad I didn’t meet anyone. It would’ve gotten crowded pretty quickly. Anyway, hope you enjoy the images.

 

 

Pictures, Etc for May '09

Hello All...

Haven't posted in awhile so I thought I'd catch my millions (OK, dozens) of fans up on what's been happening in the World of Big Al.

On Thursday I rode with another of our drivers to Baytown, TX to pick up a truck that had been in a repair shop. The thing was just sick. No power, no throttle response, no nada. Took about two hours longer than normal to make the trip from Baytown back to our facility in Magee, MS. This is usually a seven and a half hour trip.


When I first arrived in Baytown, we discovered that the truck wouldn't start. Took a couple hours to finally get the thing going, and then discovered that the computer in the engine was shot. Dead batteries, too. The image here shows one of the mechanics basically burrowing his way under the cab to replace the battery cover after we got the thing to start. This dude was way over six feet - no clue how he managed to squeeze under there.

The reason I had time to do all this was because my truck was due for an oil change, and I had a tiny leak on the bottom of the oil pan. When I got back to Magee Friday morning, they'd pulled the oil pan off and found about a pound of metal shavings and a few chunks of metal inside. This was not good news to me since it means several days driving a spare truck whilst mine is repaired. I am of course thankful that this was discovered here at home and not in B.F.E. or some other equally unappealing place.

Today (Friday) I stopped in Laurel, MS on my way to load to grab something to drink. Spotted this old Mercedes sitting in the parking lot and shot a few pics. No clue as to the year model, although I'm assuming it's fairly old. This is due to the fact of it having a 3-speed standard shift on the column. Never seen that before on a Mercedes. The old girl is evidently road worthy, though; it has a New Mexico tag.







And hey! Who sez a trucker can’t thread a needle?! This image is from a customer of ours in Winchester, VA. Nice folks, but I hate their dock. It’s inside the building, and designed so that they can side-load a flatbed trailer, or rear-load a van. As such, the dock is ridiculously narrow. Check the microscopic amount of side clearance once the trailer clears the outer door. Worse, when backing in during daylight hours, the dimmer light inside creates a situation like backing into a black hole. You can see very little down the side of the trailer.

So far I’ve loaded there 5 or 6 times without destroying a trailer door.

Thanks to everyone who wished me well during my recent battery of tests. I'm back on my regular meds and no longer having to poke myself with a needle. My trucking career is, for the moment at least, safe.

Leaving MS Saturday morning for Clinton, IA (near Davenport), and after that points as yet unknown.

See Ya'll on the Road
Alan

Snakes on the Brain

By Alan Burkhart

Last night my son, Chris and I watched "Snakes on a Plane." I'm usually the last one in the family to see the current "hot" DVD release, but this one had my curiosity aroused. I love a good creepy movie. S.O.A.P. delivers big time in terms of creepiness, scares, thrills, gross-outs, and a ton of raucous humor. We had a great time with it.

After my boy and I had gone our separate ways and I had retired for the evening, I found myself thinking back over some of the “creepy critter” moments I’ve had whilst traveling about the country. I’d never really thought about the totality of my life experience in this vein, and was a bit surprised at just how many times I’ve had encounters with critters that bite, sting or devour human beings. Here are the highlights for your reading pleasure...

Snakes in the Leaves...
In early Spring of 1980, my ex-wife-to-be and I were heavily engaged in cleaning up the back yard. We had a thick stand of bamboo that grew along one side of our yard next to the fence. I was down on my hands and knees with one of those 3-pronged rake gadgets dragging the bamboo leaves out so my wife could gather and bag them.

I’ve no clue as to how I didn’t see the snake. I heard my wife gasp rather loudly and looked up to see her holding a double arm-load of leaves and engaged in a staring contest with a small Copperhead that had evidently just come out of hibernation. That’s the only reason I can think of for it being slow and sluggish.

She dropped the leaves and gave me room to hammer the thing with the rake gadget (what do you call those?). We found about a dozen more Copperheads before the day was done. Scary, when I dwell upon the fact that my aforementioned son (he was a toddler back then) had roamed freely about the “safe” fenced-in yard through all of the previous Summer.

Scorpions in the Bed...
In 1984, I was in Sweetwater, Texas at the (now defunct) Union 76 truck stop. The place had a trucker’s motel upstairs and I was looking forward to sleeping somewhere besides the truck for a change. I was bone-tired.

I spent a full half-hour in the shower, and dragged my now-relaxed body to the bed. I don’t know to this day what made me look down as I was pulling the covers up over my head. Perhaps Providence. Maybe just blind luck. Whatever it was, when I looked down towards my feet I saw a scorpion scuttling along the mattress. It was almost up to my knees and traveling north.

As you might imagine, I just about wrecked the building getting out of bed. I grabbed my big old Buck pocketknife and staked the thing to the bed, then carefully shook out my clothes before getting dressed. Sleep? After that? Not hardly. I was angry enough that I kept the little monster on my knife and went downstairs to present him to the motel clerk. The folks there were quite happy to refund my money if I‘d just shut up and not tell any other paying customers. It was about 3 years before I even entered that building again, and I never again stayed in the motel after that little encounter.

Gators in a Jar...
In 1987 I had just loaded a trailer full of bulk peat moss in South Florida bound for Texas. The peat moss farm was near the Everglades and a number of small creeks flowed through the area. There was never a shortage of alligators at this farm. The gators generally kept to the creeks, lying along the banks and just doing whatever large reptiles do.

I was traveling up the dirt road that led out of the farm when a baby alligator scurried out into the road. I had an empty big-mouth Gatorade jar sitting in the floor of the truck. No, I don’t know why I decided I needed a baby alligator. I stopped the truck and hopped out with jar in hand. The little guy took off for the creek that ran alongside the road. I caught up to him just as he reached the bank. I went down on one knee and brought the jar around with the idea of the gator running inside it (yes, I’m a genius).

In my haste I had failed to notice the pair of eyes watching me from the water. I’ll never know if this was Baby Gator’s momma or not. All I knew was that I was suddenly running in the opposite direction with a 10-ft alligator roaring out of the water to give chase. I jumped back in the truck and left in a cloud of dust. Nowadays if I want to watch the alligators, I visit the zoo.

The Mystery Critter...
In about 1996 I was traveling through South Texas between Houston and San Antonio. It was about three in the morning. This area is the beginning of the Southwest. The deserts of West Texas and New Mexico are to the West, and the famous Texas Hill Country lies to the North. I had stopped in a primitive rest area (no restrooms) and walked out to the back fence to answer nature’s call. This, by the way, is something I only do at night. It’s uncivilized to do it in broad daylight right in front of God and 10,000 motorists.

I was still outside a few moments later, walking around and stretching my tired muscles when I heard something moving in the scrub brush farther away from the road. It was a brilliant night with lots of stars and nearly a full moon so visibility was good.

I looked around and spotted a dark shape running through the scrub. Toward me. Really fast. I couldn’t see the critter itself except for a vague shadowy shape, but I could see the scrub bouncing around in its wake. I didn’t wait around to see if the critter was friendly. The passenger door was locked, so I had to run around to the other side of the truck to the driver’s door.

My skin was absolutely crawling. All of my instincts were screaming at me to get to safety. I grabbed at the door handle and missed, then caught it the second time and gained the driver’s seat, slamming the door behind me. Shivering. Cold sweat. Stuttering. I whirled around to see if I was being pursued by a mountain lion, or maybe a bear, or perhaps one of those hideous sidewinder rattlesnakes.

And there it was, lumbering out of the darkness. It was sniffing around outside the truck and obviously hungry.

It was an armadillo. Go ahead and laugh at me. I did.

Related Reading:

• Snakes on a Plane

Image Credits...

• Armadillo


• Copperhead


• Alligator


• Scorpion

Flying Low

By Alan Burkhart

Being a long-haul trucker, I have worlds of time during the week to ponder upon the subject of my next column while riding along the highway. Sometimes the inspiration comes from talk radio. Others times it’ll be a local newspaper in a town a thousand miles from my home. And every once in a while, my ramblings spring from something that happens to me on the road. Today is one of those days.

I’m well-acquainted with the fact that trucking is a risky way to make a living. America’s highways offer a multitude of ways to die. Combine that fact with the utter craziness that permeates our culture these days and it’s no wonder that truck driving made askmen.com’s list of “Deadliest Jobs.”

Thursday, October 12th…

I was westbound on US 6 in Southern Nevada (near Tonopah) - a desolate region that would make Mars look populous by comparison. Mind-numbing stretches of flat, empty highway occasionally interrupted by a climb over a modest mountain. Hundreds of miles of nothing but barren desert. You can go an hour at a time without meeting another vehicle.

So I'm cruising along, and I'm approaching a short but very steep (I'd guess an 8 or 10 percent grade) hill. Being this steep, it is of course a blind hill. I had no clue what was on the other side. I was approaching it at a pretty good clip, looking forward to the brief rush of falling off the other side. Sort of like an 18-wheel roller coaster. I had the stereo blasting the Blues, my shoes kicked off, and my aviator sunshades on. Smiling.

All was right in my world... until I topped the hill and found myself nose-to-propeller with a small airplane. A Cessna if I’m not mistaken.

Everything happened in a flash. The pilot veered up and starboard, while I, being the cool and collected professional, screamed the “S-word” several times in rapid succession while jamming on the brakes (well, what would you have done?).

There was a sickening nanosecond in which I was absolutely certain the wing tip would clip the top of my cab. The plane cleared my truck and trailer by no more than a few feet, and went over the hill and out of sight. It appeared to be maintaining a low altitude.

I was too dumbfounded to do anything but just plod ahead with a death grip on the steering wheel for several miles. When coherence returned, I speculated that perhaps the pilot had been attempting an emergency landing. I doubt he’d have been making a normal landing on approach to a blind hill. I've seen private pilots use deserted highways near their homes for runways, and it's legal to do so in some areas. But under normal conditions, would one not circle first and look for traffic?

While chatting with my brother that night on the phone, he suggested that maybe the guy had spotted me from above and was simply buzzing me out of malicious mischief. I suppose that's also a possibility. Either way, I am grateful to be alive. That was definitely not something I’d care to experience again.

Okay, so I had a bad incident that lasted all of two or three seconds. What’s my point?

First, had either I or the pilot of that plane been in the middle of a sneeze, both of us would likely be dead right now. His quick reaction and my jamming upon the brake pedal gave us just enough room to miss each other. We’ve been blessed with the chance to learn from our mistakes.

My mistake? First, I was flying low (excuse the pun) while climbing a blind hill. While it’s reasonable to assume that one will not meet an airplane on a two-lane highway, it was grossly irresponsible on my part to have been rolling that fast when I couldn’t see what lay ahead, even if only for a couple of seconds. I was bored, just knew I had the road all to myself, and had a lapse of judgment. What if there had been a stalled vehicle in the road just over the hill? What if that airplane had been just a few feet closer?

Life is precious. Perhaps we all need an occasional reminder of just how fragile and easily lost our lives truly are. I could have been decapitated by the wing, or ground into sausage by the propeller. As it turned out, both the pilot and I ended up with a story to tell, and I’ve been reminded that even after 29 years of trucking, any day could be “my day.”

So the next time you think about doing something marginally foolish for entertainment’s sake, please do ask yourself if the rush is worth risking your life for. I’m betting the answer will be a resounding “No.”


Related Reading:

• AskMen article


• Guns, Road Rage and 18-Wheelers

A Trucker’s Guide to Drinking and Driving

By Alan Burkhart

As someone who constantly travels the USA and drinks a lot of coffee, I consider myself to be a coffee connoisseur. I can’t tell you who uses what specialty coffee beans and what South American nation produces the best coffee. But I can tell you where I find the best “on the road” coffee for my picky little taste buds. With so many Americans traveling these days, “to go” coffee has become a hot item (I know, bad pun). As an all-around nice guy, I will endeavor here to save you from the aggravation of getting a truly revolting cup of coffee while you’re traveling during the upcoming holiday season.

My comparison of “to go” coffees involves national and regional chains and is based upon how I personally like my coffee at home. I daresay that this is how everyone else judges their coffee while traveling, so it’s a valid method of comparison provided that you know how I like my coffee. At home I brew a fairly strong pot of Folgers Classic Roast. Smooth, but bold. Absolutely no bitter aftertaste whatsoever. Best coffee on the planet. I drink it with just a touch of Sugar Free Coffeemate (Hazelnut) and a teaspoon of Splenda. As I write this piece, my Camel Cigarettes coffee mug is sitting right next to the keyboard.

So, who has the best “to go” coffee?

In my opinion, the best is found at “QT” (“QuikTrip”) stores. Their coffee is good no matter how you drink it. I add Splenda or Equal to mine. They generally offer “gourmet” flavored creamers and your choice of either sugar or several artificial sweeteners. But you don’t have to add anything. It’s good black as well, and even the decaf is pleasant. The only drawback to QT is the fact of their having limited locations (only 9 states).

Running a very close second to QT is “Pilot Travel Centers.” Pilot also offers a wide selection of sweeteners and flavored creamers, and they offer a diverse selection of coffees. I prefer their “House” coffee. Not too strong, but bold and quite smooth. And, Pilot Travel Centers are scattered all over the country. Wherever you’re going, there’ll be a Pilot along the way.

My only real objection to Pilot is slow-moving lines at checkout combined with the fact that they often place a hot dog service right next to the coffee. The odor of greasy hot dog franks (on rollers), onions, slaw and mustard is markedly unpleasant at 5:00 AM. If you can deal with the stench, the coffee is worth it.

Third place belongs to Waffle House. If I were rating breakfasts, they’d be the grand prize winner, but we’re doing coffee, not steak -n- eggs. Waffle House doesn’t offer gourmet creamers or vast selections of imported coffees. But they do provide a smooth and tasty cup of coffee. It’s always fresh due to the sheer volume of coffee they sell. Service is fast and friendly, and they don’t charge an arm and a leg for their products. Good stuff!

For fourth place, the nod goes to IHOP for many of the same reasons that Waffle House earned third place. The coffee is about 95% as good as Waffle House, but usually costs just a tad more (maybe a nickel or dime). Unlike Waffle House, many IHOPs also offer flavored creamers as well.

The nod for fifth place goes to Flying J Travel Plazas. Unremarkable, but drinkable. I rarely have complaints about Flying J’s java except for the occasional coffee grounds in the bottom of the cup. They offer flavored creamers and the volume of sales through the day keeps it fresh. My principal objection to Flying J is their slow service at the cash register. It’s like checking out at Wal-Mart on a Friday. Good coffee, but if you’re in a hurry you should look elsewhere.

Holding down last place for good coffee is Denny’s. Decent coffee, but I avoid their food. Get a cup to go or sit and enjoy it if you’re skipping breakfast. Why anyone would actually eat at Denny’s is beyond me.

Okay, so who has the worst coffee (rated worst to “least worst”)?

First off, if you visit a truck stop or convenience store, look at the coffee dispensers. If the establishment proudly proclaims that they sell “Community Coffee” then you should bolt for the door. The stuff tastes more like insecticide than coffee. Farmer’s Brothers commercial coffee isn’t much better. Both of these companies’ offerings are bitter and leave a despicable aftertaste. I’m told that their coffee sold for home use is better, but I’ve not tried it.

Okay, I realize that Starbucks is chiefly responsible for the “Designer Coffee” phenomenon. I tip my hat to them for causing c-store and truck stop coffee to be better now than it was some years ago. I wish them well, but I don’t like their coffee. I’ve tried it several times. The regular coffee was bitter (and expensive), and their specialty drinks (lattes, etc) were like drinking liquid candy. I’ve also tried their “Frappuccino” product sold in many convenience stores. The first one was enjoyable simply because it was different, but I grew tired of it after the second one. What’s the big deal about Starbucks?

TA (Travel Centers of America) has added flavored creamers in some locations, but in my opinion this is mainly to mask the taste of awful coffee. It’s quite bitter and you’ll taste it for a half-hour after you choke down the last sip. Their restaurant coffee is marginally better than the icky goo found in their c-stores.

Petro Stopping Centers has drinkable coffee if you get it from the restaurant or adjoining convenience store. If you’re a trucker, you already know how bad the coffee is out back at the diesel islands. As an industrial cleaner or degreaser, it’s top quality. But as coffee? C’mon guys. What’s that stuff really made of?

Next on the list of All-time Bad Coffee we find Love’s Country Stores. These are great stores and I fuel at Love’s quite often. My objection to their coffee is a lack of consistent quality. No two Love’s coffees will taste the same. Sometimes I get a good cup, other times it’s undrinkable. I have no idea why this happens, and I’m not one to speculate. FYI: When you pour a cup at Love’s, give it a sniff before you add anything. It’ll taste almost exactly like it smells. You be the judge.

McDonald’s, Wendy’s Carl’s Jr., Hardees, Burger King, etc… The fast food folks’ coffee is generally survivable, if unremarkable. Most Love’s and Pilots have fast food restaurants onsite. If I’m at a Pilot and grab a fast food breakfast, I get my coffee from Pilot. If I’m at Love’s, the fast food coffee is better. McDonald’s at one time had amazingly bad coffee, but they’ve improved it over time. As fast food coffee goes, The Clown probably has the best these days.

Okay, that covers the national and regional chains that I frequent. Many independents offer good coffee, but there are too many to rate them all. I will say that the Lehigh Truck Stop in Lexington, VA has great coffee. Favorable nods also go to Simmons’ Truck Stop in Bracey, VA, Sam’s Restaurant in Fairfield, TX, Mom’s Diner in Minden, LA (the restaurant, not the store), Jimmies Truck Stop in Madison, FL and the Davy Crockett Truck Stop near Greenville, TN. Additionally, all of the aforementioned independents have great food - especially Sam's and Lehigh.

Travel safely, enjoy the coffee, and I’ll see you on the road.
Related Reading and Websites:

• Folgers Coffee


• Starbucks raises prices of coffee drinks


• Starbucks


• QuikTrip


• Pilot Travel Centers


• Flying J


• Petro Stopping Centers


• Love’s Country Stores


• Travel Centers of America


• Sam's Restaurant

The Boat

Copyright 2001 By Alan Burkhart

It was in 1992, if I remember correctly. I was chugging along I-70 in western Indiana, gabbing with another driver who was about a half mile in front of me. It was pretty late, probably ten or eleven o'clock. The guy was telling a joke when he suddenly exclaimed that there was a boat in the middle of the interstate. I saw his brake lights up ahead, and quickly slowed to a stop behind him and put on my emergency flashers. Sure enough, a twenty-foot pontoon boat was sitting crossways in the eastbound lane. His wife was on the CB warning other truckers of the dangerous situation, and he and I grabbed our flashlights and began flagging traffic. Someone went to a phone and called the cops, and before long two Indiana county mounties were on site with us.

The cops were as flabbergasted as we were. They sent word by radio ahead to look for someone pulling an empty or partially loaded boat trailer, and then we set ourselves to the task of shoving the thing out of the road. How the Hell anything that heavy can float is beyond me. It required both cops, the driver I was chatting with, two other drivers, and myself to finally get the boat off onto the shoulder of the road. By then, traffic was backed up for miles and there was little else we could do but sit and wait for the jam to untangle itself.

Word came by police radio that the driver hauling the boat had been found, and was under police escort back to the site of the incident. The cops onsite told me and the other driver (I can't recall his name) to wait. About a half hour later, the dude finally pulls up, acting bewildered as to how his boat could have slid from the trailer. The cops were not very understanding about it, nor should they have been. As I recall, one of them said something about writing him a ticket for "Stupid in a No-Stupid Zone".

I had thought it difficult enough just pushing the boat off of the highway. But when it came to lifting one end of the thing up onto the trailer so the driver could winch it back into place, I found out just how out of shape I was. That thing was HEAVY! We got it done, and everyone began to laugh at the silliness of the situation. The driver apologized repeatedly and promised to be more careful about tying his loads down in the future. The cops of course gave him a well-deserved citation, but he accepted it with good grace.

It wasn't until later that I began to think about how bad it could have been. What if a family had been following close behind him when the boat slipped its moorings? What if a loaded gasoline tanker had collided with it? It could have been a disaster. Fortunately it ended as well as it possibly could have, and I had yet another weird story to tell.

See y'all on the Road
Alan

Beggars and Salesmen

Copyright 2001 By Alan Burkhart

Okay, It's July 5th, 2001, and I have HAD it!!! I'm in a Chicago-area truck stop; marooned until tomorrow morning. When my dispatcher told me that I couldn't reload until the next day, I accepted the news with good grace and found myself a place to (I thought) rest and relax. I believe in making the best out of any bad situation.

So, I walk into the truck stop (it's one of the big fancy "Travel Centers"), make my way through the tangle of mindless tourists and grab myself a couple of cold, fresh Lipton bottled teas and head back out to the truck. As I'm nearing the exit, here's this dude with a tiny fold-up card table stacked with some unidentifiable green substance in little plastic bottles. A humidifier is also on the table emitting a steady cloud of steam.

"Excuse me sir," he says, "let me have your glasses for a moment."
Let me say here and now that my glasses were not dirty. I don't like dirty glasses, windshields or windows. I glanced at the pile of stuff on his table and took a guess: "No, thanks," I said, "my glasses are clean."

"But sir!" he began, and then launched into a sales pitch about his ANTI-FOG product for glasses and all but demanded that I give him my $120.00 specs so he could clean and "treat" them for me. I'd be so amazed, he promised, that I'd surely wish to purchase a lifetime supply of this green gobbley-goop so I could smear it on my glasses. I was utterly amazed at the temerity of this guy. What, I'm gonna let some total stranger put his hands on something that I put on my face? I finally just walked away and left him talking. He raised his voice and shouted at me across the store, still making his pitch. I jammed my tired body into high gear and got out of the store before I lost my temper.

I walked out to the truck and dropped off my drinks, then headed across the street to another truck stop that happened to have a Hardees onsite. I have a real weakness for the "Monster Burger". As I approached, I noticed a middle-aged fellow in a wheelchair sitting directly in front of the entrance. Another man was standing there beside him, politely declining whatever it was the guy was selling, giving away, or begging for. I stepped around them (QUICKLY) and went inside.

At Hardees, I walked up to the counter and a young lady bustled out to take my order.
My exact words were: "I'd like a Monster Burger to go please; not the combo, just the sandwich."

She asked me if there would be anything else, and I replied (politely and with a smile, I might add) that I only wanted the sandwich.

"But sir!" she began, and started a sales pitch about the two for a dollar apple pies or whatever it was they were pushing that day. I interrupted and reminded her that I wanted only the sandwich. Looking like a spanked puppy, she retreated to fill my order.

As I approached the exit, I noticed that the guy in the wheelchair was still partially blocking the doorway. I pulled my cap down tight, got a good grip on my Hardees bag, and charged out the door, straight across the gasoline islands towards the street. The guy was yammering at me the moment I exited the building.

"Hey buddy!"

I kept going.

"Excuse me! Hey there!"

I kept going.

"Hey! You in the black hat!"

It's a CAP, not a hat. I kept going.

"Well I guess yo' ass is deaf and blind ain't it!"

I almost turned around, but decided not to satisfy him by rising to the bait. I crossed the street, returned to my truck, and locked the door behind me. I've now eaten my burger and I'm slowly sipping the remnants of a bottle of tea and enjoying a cigarette. And, I'm thinking that by now you're probably wondering what the point of my rambling may be?

To the point: Is it just me, or is importunity becoming an accepted practice in this country? I encounter people like this almost every day! What's wrong with walking into a business, doing business, and walking out without having no less than three people hassling me for various reasons? Can't I just go get what I want and do it in peace?

At most every truck stop I visit, I encounter people who have one thing in mind: MY WALLET. They're selling pre-paid phone cards, t-shirts, used computers, metal polish, sex, drugs, cheap gold plated watches and jewelry, and just about anything else you can think of.

There are representatives of every religious faith passing out pamphlets to save my soul, grass roots wannabe's trying to sign me onto their cause (and get a donation of course) and recruiters from half a dozen trucking companies who all claim to have the best deal going (I like my present job just fine, thank you).
And then there are the BEGGARS. Each one has his or her own story:

• The car's outta gas and Aunt Mable is in the hospital and I just GOTTA get there to see her!


• I'm a trucker myself, and I need to get some money to get to a job interview (by the way, most trucking companies pay travel expenses for new hires).


• I'm outta work and I got seven kids! Can you spare some change?


• I got robbed and I need money to get home!

I'm not insensitive to needy people, but I'm not stupid either. You don't see nearly as many of these people in Wal-Mart parking lots or shopping malls. They gravitate to truck stops because people seem to have this notion that truckers are: (A) Made out of money, and (B) Dumb as a sack of rocks. By the way, I'm NOT made out of money. I drive a 1993 model Rice Burner, I live in a trailer house, and I'm up to my freckled ass in debt. Hmm… Chances are you didn't really want to know about the freckles on my ass. Oh well, too late now.

The vast majority of these people are frauds. How low does one have to sink to go out and impersonate a homeless person? Gimme a break! A lot of Americans are running low on pride. My advice: Don't give in to these people. Don't feel guilty. If they truly need help, they'll go to a shelter and get it. It's easy to fall prey to the notion that this person might really be in need of help. I know that feeling. It bothers me to see good people fall on hard times. But you must remember that thieves and hustlers will use this honorable trait to milk you for hard cash.

Back a few years ago, I was sitting in the little truck stop in my hometown when this guy came in carrying a stack of what appeared to be business cards. Without saying a word, he walked to each table and passed out cards to each and every person. The card stated that he was a deaf mute, had no means of being self-supporting, and was humbly requesting donations. After distributing the cards, he returned to the first table and stood there, staring expectantly at the good-natured old trucker who had been eating his supper. The guy smiled, albeit uncomfortably, and fished out a bill for the guy. At that, EVERYONE started pulling out their wallets and handing money to him. As he walked out, he was smiling. We all felt so good about ourselves. It really does make you feel nice inside to help someone, right? Then he hopped into a Corvette (I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP) with a beautiful young woman and burned rubber leaving the parking lot.

Upon seeing this, the waitress called the police, who caught the guy a few miles down the road. The truth came out a few days later: He and his little woman did this on a regular basis! They were hustling people for money to finance a summer road trip! They were both gainfully employed, but didn't want to dip into their savings to pay for their vacation. The county put them up in the "Cross Bar Hotel" for about three months. Hey, free room and board!

My ex and I (before she was my ex) were sound asleep in the truck one night when these two guys started knocking on the door. They were trying to get to work, you see, and one of their vehicles broke down. The other guy came along, saw his car, and stopped to pick him up. Hey, this could happen, right? Read on...

They explained to me that they didn't have much time (hence I didn't have much time to think about their story) because they could not afford to be late for work. Would I please LOAN this perfect stranger twenty dollars so he could get the part for his car and go fix it on the side of the road so he wouldn't be late for work? I politely said that I did not have twenty dollars (a lie), but I wished them all the best luck (a bigger lie) and see ya later. They promptly went to the next truck in the line and woke the man up. To his credit, he declined as well. I was too tired to sit up and watch, and returned to bed.

How did I know he was lying to me? Well, if he really was in a hurry to get to work, then he didn't really have time to go fix his car, did he? And, couldn't his buddy loan him twenty dollars? It was also very late at night in a small southern town. There were no auto parts stores open right then. You won't get someone to come down and open up for free. These dudes probably did this little trick once or twice a week, preying on the tired, the sleepy, and the gullible to get their beer money.

Please do be careful of those who pander to your sympathy. There are, I know, people who really do need our help. But, remember that there are legitimate organizations out there to help these people. I donate clothing and canned goods to the Salvation Army once or twice a year. I stop and assist motorists on the roadside when I can safely do so. I share with my neighbors and family. But I ain't gonna loan you twenty dollars at two in the morning. I was born at night, but it wasn't LAST NIGHT.

Oops!

Copyright 2000 By Alan Burkhart

Trucking tends to be hard on relationships, and I have three ex-wives to prove it. I don't harbor any ill will for any of them. They are good girls, each in her own way, and I wish them all the best. Perhaps the most chaotic marriage of the three was to Deedee. This is her nickname; I'll not use her real name here so as to protect her privacy. If you should happen to read this Deedee, I hope it gives you reason to smile.

Deedee went everywhere with me. We were both pretty young. I was in my mid-twenties and she was eighteen or nineteen. I had pulled into a truck stop in Tucson, Arizona late one night to make a trip to the men's room and to grab a cup of coffee. Deedee was sound asleep in the bunk. I had and still have a standing rule for all passengers. It is thus: If you're in the sleeper, and you wake up and find the truck is parked and I am not in it, leave me some way of knowing that you are not in the truck if you get out. In Deedee's case, she always left her shoes sitting in the floorboard in front of the passenger seat when she went to bed. If I stopped, got out, and then returned, I'd look to be sure those shoes were still there. If so, I'd know she's still in the bunk. If not, she's inside the truck stop, probably looking for me. It was a good system, or so I thought.

On this particular night, she awoke with a need to answer nature's call, but rather than bother with lacing up her sneakers, she slipped her tiny feet into her "flip flops" and groggily made her way into the truck stop. I couldn't have missed her by more than a minute when I returned. I glanced at the floor, saw her sneakers, and prepared to roll out of the parking lot. It was at that moment that a frantic-looking trucker came dashing up to me, wide-eyed and breathless. "Hey!" he said, "are you headed east?" I replied that I was, and he informed me that he'd been asleep in the bunk, and got out when he discovered that his wife had stopped. He'd visited the men's room as I had, but when he attempted to return to his truck, his wife had pulled out without him.

I told him to jump in and we'd try to catch her. I fairly well flew out of the parking lot, and got on the CB radio, telling other drivers to pass the word ahead in an attempt to catch up with the poor guy's wife. It went like clockwork; each driver giving his location and stating the message, then another driver up ahead would pass it on up the line. In a few minutes, we got word that she was headed back west, having discovered that her old hubby wasn't in the truck. We all laughed about it, and prepared to stop on the side of the road so he could rejoin his wife.

It was right about then that I heard another message on the radio. "Big Al? How about that Big Al in the red Peterbilt?"
"Go ahead," I replied.
"Hey pal, I've got your ol' lady here with me, and boy, are you in trouble."
Oops.

Pervert Alert!

Copyright 2000 By Alan Burkhart

This one may raise a few eyebrows. I don't recommend this story for children. The main reason I'm finally telling this story is that along with being one of the strangest events in my life, it's also one of the funniest. It wasn't funny when it happened, mind you. But, nowadays I can look back on this event and… well… chuckle nervously while shaking my head in disbelief.

It was late on a summer night in 1989. I was traveling south on Interstate 79, and had just passed out of Pennsylvania into West Virginia. As I recall, I was on my way to Charlotte, N.C. It was a cloudy night, although there was no rain. I passed a sign that stated that there was a parking area one mile ahead. I elected to pull in and answer nature's call, since the truck stops are generally pretty crowded at night.

The parking area had no lights. It wasn't even paved. It was just a rough gravel driveway that widened out to allow for parking, and then narrowed again as it returned to the interstate. As I rumbled down the ramp into the parking area, I noticed that there were three vehicles already parked inside. There were two 18-wheelers and a car. One of the trucks had its parking lights on. The other was dark. As I neared the car, I noticed that the dome light came on briefly, although it didn't stay on long enough for me to discern anything within the car.

It was right about then that the driver in the truck with its lights on spoke up on the CB radio: Hey, driver… will you help me with something?"

"Of course I will. What do ya need?" I replied.

"Well… there's something REALLY strange going on with that car, man. But I don't wanna check it out alone. I've been sittin' here half an hour waitin' for someone else to stop in."

My curiosity was instantly piqued, and I stopped the truck just ahead of the car, relieved my aching bladder (first things first!), then joined the other driver, who introduced himself as "Rick". Rick was a helluva specimen, about six feet three and built like Tarzan. He was carrying his "Tire Thumper", so I stopped in my tracks, turned back to my truck, and grabbed mine as well. If by chance you don't know what a tire thumper is, think of a miniature baseball bat. We use them to "thump" the tires to be sure they're not low on air. A tire thumper is also a very good "head thumper". Whatever Rick had seen or heard had evidently upset him pretty badly. If something was scaring this big guy, then I figured there was reason for concern.

As we approached the car, the left front door opened just a crack, and the dome light came on again. My heart almost popped out of my mouth. Kneeling in the backseat was a tall blonde woman; my guess age-wise would be mid-twenties. She was wearing only a pair of white cotton panties. Her hands were tied to the hangers that support the seatbelt shoulder straps, and there was a gag on her mouth. She had evidently nudged the door, which was ajar, just a bit with her fingertips to make the dome light come on. My first impulse was to yank the door open and "rescue" this damsel in distress. I can't stand to see anyone suffer. Rick laid a hand on my shoulder, and whispered, "Go slow."

We conferred for a quick moment, and determined that he would stay a few steps behind and cover my back while I freed this poor woman… if indeed she was actually a prisoner. We were concerned that the whole thing might be a trap of some kind. Don't call me paranoid… this has happened to truckers in the past. There could easily have been a couple of guys in the shadows waiting for someone to attempt to free her alone. We weren't taking any chances. As I approached the car again, I saw the look on her face. Her eyes were reminiscent of a frightened animal. I opened the door and was about to say something like "Don't worry, it's gonna be all right," when I noticed the first thing that didn't make sense.

There were hard-core porn magazines scattered all over the interior of the car. Most of them, I noticed, were of the "guys doing guys" variety. I carefully removed the gag from her face and asked her if she was okay. She said, "Yes, I think so," in a voice that just didn't sound at all feminine. Let me say here that she had pretty breasts. I'm not being rude or nasty here, okay? The simple fact was that they were very pretty breasts. And, they were obviously real, although I was beginning to suspect that they weren't original equipment.

"How did this happen?" I asked.

"I just stopped here for a minute and these guys rushed me from the woods."

"They tied you up?"

"Yes."

"Where'd the porn come from?"

At this point the story started to fall apart, so she started begging for me to release her. I motioned for Rick to come closer. He was a bit uncomfortable with the idea of looking in at the girl given her current state of undress, but I insisted.

"Listen." I said.

As he listened to her babbling about rapists and robbers, Rick's eyes widened noticeably. "Look!" he said, pointing downward.

"Her" cotton panties were beginning to have a difficult time containing whatever was in them, and by that time I was pretty sure as to what it was. That's when I noticed the feet. No woman EVER had feet this ugly.

"That sonofabitch!" Rick muttered, and actually pulled his pocketknife.

"WHOA!!!" I exclaimed, and pulled him away from the car.

"C'mon man," I said, "Let's just get the hell outta here."

We left in a heckuva hurry, and stopped at the next exit and found a department store parking lot we could fit our trucks into. I grabbed a pay phone and called the cops. The dispatcher laughed and said that yes, this little pervert was up there one or two times a week, and always left when he suspected trouble was afoot. He'd be gone before an officer could get there.

I was flabbergasted, to say the least. I turned to Rick and related to him what the police dispatcher had told me. He shook his head and stared off into space for a moment, then turned around and looked me in the eye.

"I'm glad you came along," he began, "because I'd have probably cut the little ##bleep## if I'd been alone."

We shook hands, and headed down the road. When we reached the junction with U.S. 19, he continued down I-79, while I jumped onto 19 and headed for Charlotte. I've never seen him again. As to the little pervert in the parking area, I've never seen him/she/it again either, and I hope I never do.

There's a lesson to be learned from this. In 21st century America, we are told to be tolerant of those who are different from us. I believe in this, and practice tolerance as a part of my own lifestyle. I have no real objections to homosexuality, pornography, etc, etc. But, if those who wish to practice what is considered by many to be deviant sexual behavior wish to be tolerated by the rest of us, they should have the common sense to act in a tolerable manner. I have several friends who are either gay or bisexual. Their bedroom preferences are not an issue for me. They are decent, everyday people who lead decent, everyday lives. You won't see them cross-dressing in an interstate parking area, and they have no desire to change their gender.

The little wacko in the parking area must have been in the final stages of a sex-change procedure. By now, he probably doesn't have that lump in his panties anymore. Hmm… that still bothers me when I think about it. I don't like the idea of a man getting a lump in his panties for me. If two guys can get it with each other, that's fine with me, as long as they don't expect me join in. I don't have a moral problem with it. It simply does not appeal to me, nor do I believe that it ever will.

The point is if he wants to be a woman, that's okay, he can be a woman. But the stunt he evidently pulled on a regular basis in that parking area goes well beyond tolerable. That's the kind of aberrant behavior that creates animosity between gays and straights. It doesn't faze me at all to see a gay or lesbian couple holding hands in the mall. But tying yourself up in your car, hoping to get raped is something else altogether! That guy (girl?) needs help in the worst way.

I asked a gay friend if he or his partner ever considered a sex change. He was shocked at the idea. He informed me in no uncertain terms that they liked men, and that a sex change by either of them would have destroyed their relationship. They have, by the way, been together for almost 20 years. A bi-lady I chat with on the net from time to time considered this tale for a day or so before replying to me. She said that the guy was probably in a state of confusion because of hormonal changes brought on by the on-going sex change. She was thinking that he'd be okay after he was finished. When asked if she thought this justified what he was doing, she replied with a hearty "HELL NO! That's too weird!" and we had a good laugh about it.

The bottom line: If you don't want to be treated like a freak, then DON'T BE A FREAK. Tolerance is a two-way street.

Guns, Road Rage, and Eighteen-Wheelers
Sept 20, 2005 by Alan Burkhart
On Thursday, September 15th I came fairly close to being a corpse. First, let me say two things… one is that this little tale is absolutely true, and also that because criminal proceedings are currently in progress, it is necessary that I omit specific places and names. Suffice it to say that it happened very near to where I live in Mississippi.

Here's the whole sordid tale…

I was on my way to pick up a load bound for Dallas, TX. My route included a narrow and windy two-lane road. While on this road, I caught up to a convoy of 3 large farm tractors, each pulling wagons loaded with the big round bales of hay. They were moving at best maybe 15 mph. An older fellow was following them on one of the little 4-wheel vehicles often seen in factories... like a miniature pickup truck. This is a common occurrence on all rural roads, not just in Mississippi but all across the country. In this case it's a chance I often take because the route cuts about twenty miles off the trip.

I sat behind them for 5 or 6 miles waiting for an opportunity to pass. Traffic was backing up rather quickly as this is a busy road. I came to a straight stretch and the way was clear, so I moved to the left and hit the accelerator. The guy on the 4-wheeler swerved in front of me and began waving his arms and cursing at me. I was both surprised and highly irritated, but I slowed and returned to the right lane. I waited a moment, then eased back to the left. The guy immediately swerved in front of me again and all but stopped. More arm-waving and cursing. At this point I realized I had a certifiable fruit-basket on my hands, so I pulled back in behind the convoy and waited.

About a mile up the road the convoy began turning left into a chicken farm. Evidently this was why he didn't want me to pass, although I'd have had plenty of time to do so safely. I had no way of knowing they were planning the turn. Let's face it, hay bales don't have turn signals. As they drifted left, I drifted right (about 5 mph) to get around them. The guy on the 4-wheeler again started shaking his finger at me and slinging insults, evidently wanting to make sure I knew my place before we parted ways..

I'll admit having a weak moment at this point… I gave him a rather dismissive middle finger as I was easing by. That's when the gun came out. The nut-job on the 4-wheeler was going to shoot me!

Earlier, the batteries had been down on my truck and our shop gave me a jump start. I was running with my windows down and no A/C so the batteries could recharge more quickly. Good thing, too. When I saw the gun, I grabbed my 1-liter bottle of drinking water and threw it at him. It was an act of sheer desperation, but I messed up his aim just enough. The bullet pierced the cab behind my head. I hit the gas and got away as quickly as I could.

It was only three miles to the next town. I pulled in and called 9-11 (no cell signal) from a payphone. Within minutes two county cops joined me at the truck. After taking a brief statement and examining the bullet hole in the cab, one stayed with me while the other took off to see if the guy was still there. He was, and he gave up without resistance and was taken away in cuffs. One of the county cops showed me the gun… a .22 magnum. Not a big gun by any standard, but I'm rather glad he missed.

All in all, an interesting afternoon… but why am I sharing this little incident with you?

After it was all over and I was running up the road with a little gob of silicone sealant in my new bullet-hole, I found myself thinking that people like this crazy farmer shouldn't be allowed to own guns. When I caught myself, I was jolted by the notion that I, of all people, could even be capable of thinking such unconstitutional thoughts. It was purely a knee-jerk reaction, and after taking a few deep breaths I realized that in the future this fruitcake may indeed not be able to own a gun. If so, that would simply mean that the current system worked.

If the anti-gun lobby had its way, he wouldn't have had a gun in the first place. But then again neither would you or I. This short chain of events has helped me to better understand just how some people on the Left come to believe that ordinary citizens are better off without the right to own a firearm. The liberal thinking process doesn't question the initial knee-jerk reaction. It runs with it, builds upon it, and eventually ends up with a non-solution to a non-problem. Our society is pumped full of such legislative boondoggles.

The most important time to stand by your beliefs is when your beliefs are severely tested. It would have been easy for me to go with the flow and join one of the left-wing anti-gun groups, and I'll freely admit that I spent a full day reexamining my beliefs about gun rights. In the end, I was reminded of a simple truth: Freedom does not come without risk. On that particular Thursday I could have easily been killed, but I'd take that risk again if I had to. It's easy for us to say that freedom is worth dying for when we're not the ones getting shot at by a bunch of freaks in a desert far from home. It's something else altogether when you're staring at the business end of even the smallest handgun.

We have to remember that the principles upon which this nation is founded are far more important than a single life, even though all lives are precious. History has proven that an unarmed populace is far more vulnerable than one with the capability to defend itself. If that means that I run the risk of having some maniac taking a shot at me then so be it. It's a risk I'm willing to take.