It Is Not The State Of Virginia’s Responsibility To Provide You With A Place To Park.

About an hour or so after sunrise, as I drove southbound on I-81 in Virginia, with the sun beating in through the drivers window, I became drowsy and needed to find a place to take “power nap”. I pulled into the next rest area, parked next to the 2 hour parking limit sign, pulled my pillow out of the sleeper, laid it over the steering wheel and slumped over it, of course only after drawing a line, bringing myself into an on-duty not driving status (O.o)

I was jerked awake by a Virginia State Trooper, nearing the end of his career, pounding on my door. I rolled my window down and the Trooper told me to wake up, get my credentials ready for him and he would be back to “take care of me” in a few minutes. Shaking the sleep from my head, I watched as the Trooper strolled down the line of three or four trucks pounding on their doors, I suppose repeating to them the same orders as he had just given me. When I glanced further down the line of trucks past the Trooper, I noticed he had parked his cruiser cross ways, blocking the exit of the rest area.

After about a half of an hour, it is now my turn to walk with the officer back to his cruiser to sit beside him as he wrote the ticket. As I climbed down from my truck I shake my head, having noticed the blue chalk mark on my steer tire. As I walk beside him, I explain that I only pulled in because I needed a short nap and had overslept a little. The officer told me that I should have set my alarm clock for less than two hours because when he had “knocked” on my door I had been parked there for two and a quarter hours.

Sitting beside him in his cruiser, as I watched him write the ticket for “Failure to obey a highway sign”, I told him, “The next time, I hope that it will not be a member of your family that I roll over the top of, as I fall asleep at the wheel because I sure as hell won’t be going through this again.” He said, “Well, that is your choice.” I asked him, “Where am I supposed to park for a nap, if not in a friggin’ rest area.?” He said, “It is not the state of Virginia’s responsibility to provide you with a place to park.” I said, “But the state of Virginia sure loves the revenue and commerce brought into its state by these trucks.” He shrugged, looked at me smugly and said, “Well, we’ll just have to agree to disagree. Sign here.”

“Olga”

The permit routing had me making my way through thick, steadily flowing traffic on the eastbound side of the southern loop around Indianapolis, with my oversize escort trailing close enough behind, to keep the four-wheelers from getting between him and the twelve feet of utility poles overhanging the rear of my trailer. I try futilely to keep a space cushion in front of me so he won’t catch the ends of the poles with his face, should I have to bind ‘em up, if traffic comes to a stop. If traffic keeps moving like this, we should be able to cross the Slohio line shortly before sundown. Then after paying him, I’ll cut him loose, run for another five or six hours and shut it down at the W. Virginia line.

In some states, utility poles are considered construction materials and are not subject to oversize regulation. It has been a chess game of over size regulation since loading these 80 ft. poles in Arlington, Wa. and it has been no small feat collating my hours of service with oversize travel curfews and various unavoidable delays. The customer insists on trying to nail me down as to what HOUR I will arrive, southwest of Atlantic City, N.J. Hell, I can’t even tell him for sure what day I will be there. It amazes me how a fifteen to twenty min delay anywhere in route can set the delivery schedule back by an entire day. I can’t count the number of heart beats I have wasted, hoping, with my heart nearly pounding out of my chest,  that the “good old boy” on the radio wasn’t lying when he said, “The coops, this sida da line, are locked up and nobody’s home. I ain’t seen nothing else worth talkin’ about ‘tween here and there.” as I have pushed to make it to the  border into an unregulated state, one half hour AFTER sundown curfew in the state I was in, because of a few minute delay here or there.

We have safely made it around the loop and it has been pretty smooth sailing on the stretch between Indy and the line and as sundown hits, I am sitting in a line of trucks waiting to cross the Slohio coop, a few hundred feet east of the line. I tell my escort, over the radio, “After I cross the scale, I will pull around into the back lot and pay you off there.” I pull onto the platform and the voice of a woman in clipped tones, comes over the load speaker, “Driver pull it around back and bring in ALL paper work!” No big deal, I was gonna pull around back anyways. Climbing down from my truck, the escort driver pulls up beside me. I pay and thank him for the fine service he provided. As I am walking across the lot, he beeps his horn, waves and yells, “Good luck, be safe.” I wave back as I open the door and walk into the coop.

Inside the cramped little coop, stands a stern-faced, blond, heavyset, woman in uniform, leaning stiff armed with both palms planted on the counter if front of her. I can’t help but think, she reminds me of a bad actress in a b-grade spy movie from the ’50′s. I glance at her brass name tag half expecting it to read “Olga” but of course it doesn’t. Behind her sits a slightly built, dark-haired, man in uniform, leaning back in his chair, his feet up on his desk, with his arms up and the interwoven fingers of his hands resting against the back of his head, as he watches trucks crossing the scale in front of him.

“Good evening, what can I do for y’all?” “Olga” snaps, “I want to see your permit” I tell her, “I don’t have a permit.” Incredulously, “Olga” sneers, “You don’t have a permit?” I state, matter of factly, “No Ma’am, the state of Ohio does not require a permit to transport over-length utility poles.” “Olga’s” eyes narrow as she glares at me, “Oh, it doesn’t? We will just have to see about that!” “Olga” spins around, marches (I considered using the term “goose-steps” here but chose not to, as some might consider it’s use as going a tad over the top but I digress.) over to a bookcase and snatches a tome from one of its shelves. The uniformed man in repose’s disinterested gaze falls upon “Olga” as she flips through page after page of regulation, nearly tearing each from its binding as she does. With her back to me, she stops, having found the section she was looking for. As she reads, I can almost swear, the air above her head begins to shimmer and waver, as the heat of her anger vents through her ears.

“The uniformed man in repose”, his interest now slightly peaked, asks, “What does it say?” Reciting from the scorched page, “Olga” says, “Utility poles and the equipment used to transport them are not subject to oversize regulation.” With his feet now on the floor and his arms folded across his chest, the uniformed man asks, “What do you want do?” With a severe snarl, “Olga” spits, “Let Her Go”. I stood there for a moment waiting for her to turn around and address me because while I had heard what she had said, no one had told Me that we were through and I could leave. The uniformed man assumes his earlier position of repose and resumes watching the parade of trucks pass by his window. I wait a moment longer for “Olga” to turn around and either start going through my paperwork or tell me that I may leave but she does not. Having gathered up my unmolested log and permit books, I turn, walking toward the door, I raise my hand in salutation and chirp, “Well, y’all have a good night.” Not hearing any kind of response from either of them I head out the door and go on my way.

A month or two later, I had to pass through the same way again. This time I was not running over size. Coming east I had heard on the radio that the Slohio coop was open but as I approached the line they had just closed up. Passing by, I glanced at the coop and there, standing in the window, with her arms crossed in front of her, was “Olga” with her glare affixed directly on me, as I motored on by. I couldn’t help but wonder, if I hadn’t spent an extra half hour starting my day, this morning, what fun might “Olga” have had in store for me.

Cry Me A River

I had the opportunity, in one of my jobs as a first seat driver, to give another driver, early in her career, the benefit of my experience. I hope that she was able to take away with her, from the time she spent with me, some information and experience, making her life as a driver, a little easier and a lot more safe than if she had never met me.

She taught me a few things also, such as how tears can get you out of a level two paperwork and walk around inspection. We pulled into the south bound scales in Woodburn, Or., I was in the bunk and as “Vera” rolled the  truck on to the scale platform, a coverall clad gentleman came out of the scale house, walked up and asked her how she was doing today and informed her that he was going to do a level two inspection and needed her license and logbook… having never experienced the exquisite pleasure of such an intensive “interface” with federally mandated law enforcement and being a slightly high-strung woman to begin with, she became flustered to the point, where she stunned herself into silent inaction. The inspector asked her twice more for the paperwork, each time increasing the pitch and treble in his voice as he stepped upon the running board of the truck. I pulled aside the sleeper curtain and “Vera” looked at me with tears streaming down her face.

The inspector now had his face inside the open driver’s window and was reaching to open the locked the door from the inside. While still standing in the sleeper, with a smile I said, “Good afternoon, what’s going on?” He stopped reaching for the door handle and “Vera’ gushed, “He wants to do an inspection .” I said, “It’s OK, calm down. Everything is legal and it will be OK.” Looking at the inspector I said, “I’m sorry, she is new to trucking and this is the first time she has been through this.”  He stepped down from the side of the truck and I told “Vera”, “Just calm down and give the man what he asked for.” She handed him her logbook and license. He then told her to pull around, into the back lot and then come in, bringing with her all other paperwork, and he would begin the inspection.

Still visibly shaken, “Vera” haltingly pulled the truck into the back lot and set the parking brakes. As she sat there for a few minutes, I gathered up the permit book and bills of lading, handed them to her and told her that she needed get in there before they became more suspicious that we had something to hide. She told me she did not want to but reluctantly, she got out of the truck and trudged to the scale house. I’m thinking, “This is NOT going to unfold very well.” I got out my logbook and drew a line bringing myself, on duty not driving. Carrying my logbook with me, I followed “Vera” who was now inside, into the scale house but as I opened the door to go inside, to my bewilderment, “Vera” came through the open space, carrying the permit book, her logbook, and everything with her. I turned around and followed her asking,”What’s going on?” As we walked back to truck, she said, “They said I could go.” I asked, “What happened?” She told me that they had asked her for the truck’s Oregon Fuel/Weight Registration/Permit Thingy and in her agitated state, as she frantically flipped through the pages of the permit book, she could not find it. Embarrassed and frightened she broke down into sobs. The inspector asked if he could look for it and she gave him the permit book. He found the permit, looked it over, handed the book back to her, told her everything looked in order and she was free to go……without completing the paperwork inspection nor performing the walk around inspection part of the level two inspection. Remember guys, with the upcoming CSA 2010 “crack downs”, this technique may come in handy.

32 mph Over The Speed Limit

East bound, I-10 on the last downhill before entering Las Cruces, New Mexico. The speed limit is 55, I have been through there a thousand times I know the staties patrol it heavily. I dropped two gears and using the Jake I was keeping it between 50 and 55. This empty RGN passes me like a bat out of hell, as a Highway patrol is coming the other way. The cop hits the blue lights and flips a U’y in the median, as I pass him. I’m thinking, “Well he got him”. No, he pulled ME over, as the RGN jumps off the next exit. The cop comes stomping up, snatches my door open and yells, “WHERE’S THE FIRE.” I asked, “What are you talking about?” He said, “I got you on radar doing 87 in a 55″ I said, “You don’t have me on radar, you got the RGN that passed me.” He says, “What RGN, there was no body else but you.” I said, “The RGN that jumped off the exit when you flipped on the blue lights, he’s probably still hiding under the overpass right now.” He says, “There was nobody else but you, give me your license, registration, log book….. As he is demanding my paper work, I felt myself flush and go numb with rage. I am thinking to myself, I am going to jail tonight for the first time in my life because I have had ENOUGH, I am out here doing the best that I can to keep on the right side of the law and every time I [truckin] turn around, they either change the [truckin] rules or I have to deal with an ignorant “Trucker [trucker]“, like this Mother [trucker]!! How do I defend myself against such [truckin] idiots with badges, carrying guns? After a moment or two I realized that he was still demanding my paperwork. It took every ounce of composure, that I could muster, to keep my mouth shut because, while I may have been ready to go to jail, I was not prepared to suffer the beating, for what I was going to do to the PIG, before being taken to jail.

As I handed the moron, with a gun and a badge, my paperwork, with hands trembled by rage and boiling tears streaming down my face, I never once looked at the son of a bitch. He went back to his car and stayed there for 25 minutes. Then he gets out and does a walk around on my truck and gets back in his car, for another 15 minutes. He comes strutting back up to my door and says, “I need you to come back to my car with me, please.” I get out of my truck and walk back to his patrol car and he lays my paperwork on the hood. In front of his dash cam, he says, “I stopped you for speeding, 87 mph in a 55 mph zone. I performed a level 2 walk around inspection. I am not going to cite you for the speeding, I will only issue you a warning. None of the violations that I found, will place you out of service but they must be addressed before you receive your next dispatch.” He presented me with the paper work to show me the violations and for me to sign. As he explains the violations he had found, one bulb out in a two bulb fixture of the two extra, on each side, above that required by law and a “chaffed” electrical…… I’m staring at the very first “violation” noted on the Federal Motor Carrier Safety Administration Inspection report “Speeding: 87mph in a 55 mph zone”. I asked him,”At what point during your level 2 walk around inspection did you observe this truck doing 87 mph in a 55 mph zone” He said, “That is the violation that initiated my inspection of your vehicle.” {At this point I have been “safely” detained on the side of the the interstate for over an hour and a quarter but according to this FEDERAL document, I had only had the pleasure of this [truckin] moron’s company for 25 minutes}. He says, “But I am not citing you for the speeding.” I said, “There is no way for me to depute this, like I could in court by subpoenaing the dash cam recording, from your car” With a smirk he says, “No, there is no way for you dispute it.”

Ice Pick Retribution.

Sisseton, S.D. pulled into a roadside spot safety inspection. Was asked for all paperwork, I complied and paperwork was gone through, it was handed back to me. I asked for a copy of the level 1 inspection report for the inspection that had just been performed of which I had passed. Was informed that since “I wanted to play that way” I was now going to be subjected to a level 3 inspection and see if there wasn’t something that I could be shut down for.

Low and behold 40% of my brakes were found to be out of adjustment and one of my service air lines on the trailer had a HOLE in it, not where it had chaffed on something but a hole that looked as if someone had stuck it with an ice pick.

4 hours later, the road service mechanic found none of my brakes out of adjustment and agreed that he had never seen an airline “spring” a leak in such a manner. I left the roadside “safety” inspection with NO citation for operating unsafe equipment but I had to explain to my carrier why I had been placed out of service and why they now had a mark on their federal safety record.