Whoops.

Without wishing to launch into a tedious lecture, that would never do in  a blog devoted to whimsy, there are several ways that airbrakes can fail. The most spectacular shouldn’t ever happen. Overheated brakes leading to runaway trucks are down to bad driving, no more, no less. But a leak in the air line can happen to anyone and it depends a little where you are, and how catastrophic the leak is, what happens next. The normal brake-pedal brakes work by compressed air being pumped into the brake chambers, but the emergency/parking/handbrake thingy works when air is taken out. That one’s called a spring brake, because, well, it’s got a spring in it for leaping into action when required. Trouble is, when things are faulty and the air pressure drops, the spring brake can pop on anyway. It's a safety feature, but you don’t want it happening all of a sudden on the highway. That’s why a warning alarm goes off before things get that drastic.

I’d noticed, about a mile or so from Guelph, that my low air warning had started to go off at traffic lights. I'd put it down to being tired and using too much welly on the brakes instead of judging my approach from a distance. But, while the truck sat on the dock being unloaded, whatever was leaking air must have got worse. With pressure dropping in all the tanks, the trailer spring brakes wouldn't release when I tried to leave. Still in blaming-self rather than blaming-vehicle mode I checked all the stupid, tired-person mistakes I could have made. Like trying to pull away while the dock clamps still had hold of the back bumper. Or forgetting to take the chocks out from under the wheels. But an air issue it was. I switched the engine on and sat for a while as the gauges registered an illegally slow build-up. The truck would be going off the road for repair. But I was in the way, other people were waiting to get onto the dock, unload and go home. This was a very antisocial spot for a breakdown. Finally I built up just enough air to release the brakes; if I didn’t use the brake pedal for the scant kilometre back to the yard I could maybe park up and declare the truck out of service somewhere convenient. I still had some freight in the trailer, I could use its weight and the gears to slow me down.

I turned off the dock, left in front of the other trucks, ready to make another left turn, past the dumpsters, through the car park and out onto the road. But the car park was full of people in cars, in a hurry to get home. One of them zoomed out in front of me and I had to brake sharply. The trailer springs sprung again and I was now stuck at an angle across the car park. I had one more go at revving like mad to get some air pressure going. Then I released the clutch to see if I could get the truck to move. It leapt forwards, and a spot to the left, whereupon I twigged that I’d taken the turn round the dumpster a little tight. Under normal circumstances I’d have had time to correct it.

In my defence I maintain most stoutly that if the crappy, falling–to-bits-wreck of a tractor they gave to the rookie hadn’t inflicted a brake failure on me, that dumpster wouldn’t have ripped the back door of my trailer completely off. Or maybe it would, I was very tired and making some crap decisions.

I had no idea what to do next. I just stood there, nonplussed. What do you do with a trailer door on the ground? Apart from wishing that the last 10 seconds could be rewound. That I’d closed the doors before trying to release the springs, that I’d looked at my mirrors instead of my air gauges. Fortunately (in a manner of speaking) I had an audience. A couple of avuncular Linamar drivers took over. They regaled me with tales of how many times everyone they knew had ripped a trailer door off and how it wasn’t a big deal really. They picked the door up, popped it in the back of the trailer and strapped it to the inside wall so that a forklift could still get in and unload the rest of the freight in the morning. They followed me slowly back to the yard in case the brakes gave trouble again. Back at dispatch, more people told me that everybody does it. But I was devastated, exhausted, hungry and miserable. With my tractor off the road for repairs for a couple of days, there would be time to think about how exhausted, hungry and miserable I actually enjoyed being.

Be careful what you wish for.

The next pickup came through just as I pulled in to the ‘J’ for fuel. Saint Mary’s, Pennsylvania. I looked it up. It was on the way home all right but not via any main roads. On the edge of the Allegheny Forest in Elk County, it was smack in the middle of the mountains. I would be driving across the Appalachians and through the Alleghenies to get there and I had to be there by 8 in the morning. It was lunchtime. Forgoing the shower (thank goodness for baby wipes, they make a tolerable strip-wash at a pinch) I headed off, determined to get as far as I could in daylight. 

Then I thought better of this plan. Once off the 81, I would have very limited access to places to sleep. There would be nowhere safe to pull off the road once I was in the mountains proper. The route Betsy planned out for me included two short stretches of Interstate, a bit of the Turnpike and then a smaller bit of Highway 80 further north. I would have to stop for a legal break on one or the other. The 80 looked as though it only had one rest area within reach of the bit I needed; and that would involve going past my exit and having to double back in the morning. I opted to stop on the turnpike, earlier rather than later. It would mean a lot of driving in the morning, but I could stop at 6, say, then start at 4 in the morning and be there on time, even allowing for bendy roads and slower speed limits.

The Turnpike turned up trumps for me with a real service area just before I had to turn off it to head north. It had parking space, coffee, and pizza and sandwich places for supper and breakfast. If I’d been able to unknot my stomach enough, I’d have been able to eat well. As it was I opted for another nibble of trail mix and fell asleep wondering how long it would be before I would be able to eat properly.

Starting at 4 in the morning is getting easier. The brisk walk to collect coffee helped with waking up, whereupon I realised that it was decidedly foggy. The road had already started to climb, I’d forgotten about altitude and fog. It wasn’t too thick though, I decided as I ran around the truck completing my morning check of lights, tyres and other checkables. It wouldn’t slow me down too much. But I’d forgotten about mountains. Driving off the highway took me onto little winding roads through woodlands and the fog got thicker. Terrible visibility, bends and hills all had me exhausted with churning up and down through the gears. I made very slow progress. With less freight on board, I wasn’t as heavy as I’d been the previous day, but the grades were steeper off the Interstate. They had the sort of percentages that meant big signs demanding that trucks STOP at the top to select the right low gear for getting down it safely. I hadn’t seen that sort of thing since The Rockies. But I had seen it before, and in winter on roads that were too slick for the Jake brake. Once I remembered that I’d done this sort of thing before in worse conditions and survived I perked up enough to take a few photos of a truly stunning dawn. And think a few beautiful thoughts.

I didn’t pass a single rest area, service area or truck stop. None of the junctions were large enough for a joining ramp and if there had been a safe pace to park I would probably have missed it in the overnight fog. I declared my decision of the previous day, to sleep before leaving the turnpike, another stroke of genius and decided, somewhat complacently, to put it down to experience.

Saint Mary’s was in the middle of a mountain. I passed the ‘highest point in the Alleghenies’ to get there. There was a sign. I was an hour late. The foundry itself was a huge building but didn’t have any apparent driveways in or signs for trucks. I stopped by the side of the road opposite a little barrier with a hut and ambled in to ask directions.
“The shipping docks are just down there,” the guard pointed down the road.
“I can’t see a driveway.”
“No, they’re on the side of the building, you can just see a truck backing in now.”
“What, that one reversing across the street?”
“Yes, you can turn around in the parking lot over there,” he indicated a bit of waste land, “the traffic gets a bit impatient but it’s the only way.”
I thanked him prettily, parked where directed and wandered over the road to fret about the docks. There were two of them, both offset to the right so that a right-angled reverse would have your blind side out in the traffic .They were also set back under a roof so that the usual ‘can’t see the dock til you’re in the building’ rules applied as well. The only way in would be to back across a busy road. Oh dear.

The shipper was a charmer called Ray. He parodied my accent for a while as he bustled about checking papers. One of my shipments was ready but the other one would have to be collected from somewhere else by a little van, which would need to unload at the dock before I could pull onto it. At least nobody cared that I was late. Could I wait an hour? I quipped that I could wait an hour for them if they could wait an hour for me to reverse over the road. Ray promised, in an accent worse than anything Dick Van Dyke ever produced, to come and collect me when they had the dock clear. He also undertook, sliding into an accent from Frazier, to stop the traffic on his way back over the road for as long as it took. Anticipating embarrassment I headed off for a snooze. I’d been working for 5 hours already that day and had at least 7 more hours driving to get home. That would have been too many hours driving in the US of course, but crossing the border would give me 2 more legal driving hours. I was learning how to cheat.

The embarrassment wasn’t too bad in the end. There was a bit of jiggery-pokery with lining up under the roof, but all in all, a tolerable effort.
“After all that about your backing,” Ray used the opportunity to try a little more Cockney “and you knew what you were doing all the time.” Gratified, I beamed.
“Ah, well, always under-promise and over-deliver” I put on a truly terrible American accent, “it helps people have a good day.”
Trailer loaded, skids strapped down, paperwork faxed and all in order I headed away from another foundry having made another friend. I was starting to feel like a real trucker at last. One who doesn’t screw up, delay people, apologise for being new or otherwise let the sisterhood down.

The drive from Saint Mary’s to Buffalo and the border was one of the hardest physical things I have ever done. Mountains, little towns, villages, the only road north wound its way through what felt like every community In Pennsylvania. Each little place had a sharp turn into a little main street, with buses, children and shoppers all hell-bent on throwing themselves under my wheels, and a sharp turn out again off into the hilly, bendy bits. As soon as the road widened out into some semblance of a highway, the construction began. By the time I hit the border I was feeling the effects of four days’ worth of too much anxiety, too little sleep and even less food. My three customs dockets were stamped with no trouble and I breathed a sigh of relief, floored the throttle and rejoiced that being in Ontario meant ‘nearly home’. All this adventuring was turning out to be a lot more tiring and stressful than planned.

Arriving at the Guelph plant waiting for my various skids of stuff, I thought my trip was over. Easily onto the dock, perfect paperwork, I was done within 20 minutes and ready to run the scant kilometre back to the yard to park up and go home. But one should never relax too soon.

More friends

Oors’la had predicted that the 29 would be busy as well as full of mad speed limit changes; and that Interstate 81 would be nose-to tail-trucks. She was right on all counts, and I began to lose interest in trying to get to Roanoke by midnight. The nose-to-tail truck thing set me wondering how easy it would be to find a place to sleep. There didn’t appear to be an abundance of truck stops in and around Roanoke itself or on the way, that meant the rest areas would fill up early.

I opted to stop early, about 9ish, and find a place to sleep in daylight before the mass truck-parking binge began. Stopping about an hour from the morning’s destination would mean that I could take a legal 10 hour rest, start at 7 and be delivering by 8 in the morning. Perfectly acceptable. I found a rest area, parked relatively untroubled, sent my eta to dispatch by satellite, and settled down for some serious rest. I was beyond tired… too exhausted to eat even though I was hungry, too zoned-out to miss the shower I wasn’t having and wanting very much to turn for home as early as I could tomorrow.

A return message came through, had I exchanged one trailer for another at Culpeper? I replied that, no I hadn’t, they had unloaded while I waited and I was off now for my legal rest. Apparently they like to be told when you are going to sleep so that they don’t disturb you with unnecessary messages. Huh. Half way through the night an incessant bleeping woke me up. It was dispatch wanting to know if I’d delivered the Culpeper load yet, which inevitably led to some whingeing of the ‘don’t you people bother to read the messages I bother to send you?’ variety. I didn’t get back to sleep.

Finding Roanoke and the customer, loading up and sorting the paperwork all went remarkably smoothly in the morning. It was still before 9 when I call despatch to tell them I had four skids on board and was ready to come home.
“We may have another load for you to add first, we’re not sure yet. Call us in half an hour.” I sat for half an hour in the customer’s grounds but started to feel a bit in the way as cars and trucks arrived and left. I called back.
“We still don’t have a reload for you, give us another half an hour.”
“I’m a bit in the way here, can I start heading home while I’m waiting?”
“We don’t know which direction we’ll be sending you in yet, could be anywhere now you’re that far south, find somewhere local to wait.”

I wasn’t getting happier. I remembered seeing a truck stop just as I’d pulled off the Interstate and decided to retrace my steps and try to find it. At least there would be coffee, breakfast and maybe a snooze while I waited. Tales abounded among Linamar drivers of being expected to wait for a day or two once they had you that far from home. It was cheaper to keep you there doing nothing, waiting for business, than to bring you back half empty. I found the truck stop and it was bedlam. So many trucks were trying to get in and out that the road was gridlocked in both directions as far as I could see. It appeared to be the only truck stop in the region and clearly my assessment of the local late-night parking potential had been spot on. Maybe I was getting some experience. I declared my decision of the previous night a stroke of genius and waited my turn to pull in, realising with a sinking feeling that I would be competing for parking space with people whose reversing was much fast than mine. Once I pulled off the road though I twigged that I had been clever again. More trucks were leaving than arriving. I found a ‘pull-through’ space and, grinning again, set off in search of coffee.

There was a small restaurant advertising country-style, all-day breakfasts. I hadn’t eaten anything more substantial than half a peanut butter sandwich or a handful of trail mix for several days and I fancied breakfast so I headed on in. They bring you coffee pdq in a truckstop and I was on the outside of my first cup before the menu arrived. I ordered a veggie omelette and sat back to enjoy the conversation about what I would like to have served with it. Fries, hash browns or home fries? I usually ask for home fries because I never quite know what they will produce. Sometimes they are like sauté potatoes, all crispy with onions, sometimes they are shredded more like a rosti, sometimes closer to an oven-wedge thing. It’s a minor amusement. Then there is the litany of bread to choose from for your toast. There will always be wheat, white, sourdough or rye, but it depends how far south you are what comes last. “Or biscuit” is very southern and seems to start in the Carolinas. In Roanoke, Virginia, I can now report that they offer “or Texas toast”. I was tempted, because I’m not quite sure what Texas toast is, but settled for rye, because I like it and the need for comfort food overtook my customary writerly curiosity.

My omelette arrived, with shredded rosti-like home fries and toast. It looked good, loaded with fresh veg, no slimy tinned mushrooms. “Would you like Hot Sauce?” the waitress asked me. That’s another location thing; far enough south and the green and red Tabasco are already on the tables with the ketchup. “No thank you,” I replied “but I wonder if you have any vinegar?” She looked confused, they always do.
“It’s a Brit thing,” I added helpfully. She thought for a moment and brightened, “yes we do, I’ll bring it for you.” And she did. She brought me the little oil and vinegar condiment set from the salad bar and beamed from ear to ear as she set it down. I’ve not had raspberry vinegar on potatoes before, but it was actually very nice. Much nicer than the last time I asked for vinegar in the US and they brought me low-cal Italian salad dressing.

I messed about with my food for a while, pushing it around the plate. My brain was hungry but my stomach wasn’t. That knot of anxiety that hadn’t gone away since day 1 on the road was still huge enough to take up all the available space in my guts. To be honest, that has been another reason I’ve been happy to sleep in rest areas rather than truck stops. I don’t seem to be able to get a meal down while I’m on the road. What with being expected to cheat on my rest time it’s been remarkably helpful in a lot of ways, I can spend all the available time asleep. I’m losing weight, which is a bonus, but I’m not sure how healthy that will be long-term.


I had nibbled about a quarter of my brekkie when the waitress returned.
“Would you like another omelette?” I thought that she thought I didn’t like it and wanted something different, since I was making a very untruckerly job of ploughing through it.
“No thank you, it’s lovely, I just wasn’t as hungry as I thought I was.”
“Well, it’s all you can eat, so let me know if you want another one when you’re done.”
I let this piece of information sink in. She was offering me a second omelette after my first one because the restaurant advertised ‘all you can eat’. I’d not come across that before. All-you-can-ear buffets and salad bars, yes, and I’ve been offered extra toast, salad, garlic bread, etc. when they are sides to an entrée, but no-one has ever offered to recook my entire meal. I double-checked that I’d understood her right and we had one of those conversations that began with “I love your accent” and ended with “you come back and see us again now” and I wished I could have eaten my first omelette and made an attempt at a second, just to make her happy.

I bought a few bits and another coffee in the little shop on my way back out to the truck. The girl behind the counter asked me how I was today and when I replied we had another of those conversations that began with “I love your accent” and ended with “you come back and see us again now” and I was minded to declare Virginia the friendliest state I have visited so far.

I called dispatch and they had nothing to tell me. I snoozed for an hour or two and called again. I had decided that I would head for the shower if I had to sit there any longer, despite the fact that I was at a TA truckstop and would have to pay for it. We only get free showers at the chains we refuelled at…the Flying J or Pilot group. They still had nothing to tell me. I whinged a bit. They had a bit of a conflab and then told me to start heading home and call in a couple of hours. Hooray. There was a Flying J half way up the 81, I’d get there, have a free shower, another attempt at a meal, and then call.

I was sufficiently perked by the prospect of going home and a shower to pop the radio on and see what Virginia had to offer by way of weird radio stations. I’ve moaned before about how the US seems to have nothing but religious stations outside of major cities, even around Memphis there had been was no country music to laugh at, just more hymns and sermons. But I struck lucky in Virgina. I found a station of such countryness that I started to compile a list of song titles in my head for the purposes of adding a little US flair to the travel writing. I was charmed by Redneck Romeo, amused by Everything’s Good in the Trailerhood and then utterly horrified by something nasty about three crosses by the road. I didn’t catch all the words but it was about a road accident and some preacher waving a blood-stained bible about. It made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. I went right off Virginia on the spot, turned the radio off and went back to my audio books from the library.

I looked the lyrics up later, just in case I had imagined it in some sort of starvation-induced waking nightmare. Here they are for your edification and delight:

A farmer and a teacher, a hooker and a preacher,
Ridin' on a midnight bus bound for Mexico.
One's headed for vacation, one for higher education,
An' two of them were searchin' for lost souls.
That driver never ever saw the stop sign.
An' eighteen wheelers can't stop on a dime.

There are three wooden crosses on the right side of the highway,
Why there's not four of them, Heaven only knows.
I guess it's not what you take when you leave this world behind you,
It's what you leave behind you when you go.

That farmer left a harvest, a home and eighty acres,
The faith an' love for growin' things in his young son's heart.
An' that teacher left her wisdom in the minds of lots of children:
Did her best to give 'em all a better start.
An' that preacher whispered: "Can't you see the Promised Land?"
As he laid his blood-stained bible in that hooker's hand.

There are three wooden crosses on the right side of the highway,
Why there's not four of them, Heaven only knows.
I guess it's not what you take when you leave this world behind you,
It's what you leave behind you when you go.

That's the story that our preacher told last Sunday.
As he held that blood-stained bible up,
For all of us to see.
He said: "Bless the farmer, and the teacher, an' the preacher;
"Who gave this Bible to my mamma,
"Who read it to me."

There are three wooden crosses on the right side of the highway,
Why there's not four of them, now I guess we know.
It's not what you take when you leave this world behind you,
It's what you leave behind you when you go.

There are three wooden crosses on the right side of the highway.

It’s by Randy Travis. I won’t be dashing out to buy the album.