A Long Way From Home: A Trucker's Life Through a Woman's Eye Volume 5

By C L Miller

It started out so innocently. I was working for a Las Vegas construction company in the accounting department. My husband, Harry, was driving one of the company's delivery trucks that took supplies to the job sites around the city. One weekend he had an out-of-town run and I got permission to go along for the ride. I was hooked before we'd traveled twenty miles.
Truck driving school lasted about four weeks. There were twenty students in the class and only two women, a ratio that reflects the entire industry. I was learning a new skill at age fifty-four, so very different from the quiet and predictable desk jobs I had done in the past.
Being a woman in a man's world can be challenging, is rarely boring, and is surprisingly comfortable. I have been treated with respect by my fellow Drivers and accepted without hesitation or condescension. There are no barriers.
If, a dozen years ago, someone had told me I'd be doing this job today, I would have assumed them to be certifiably insane.
Yet, here I am.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C L Miller
• Release date: Jun 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310972263

C L Miller

C L Miller is a sixty-two year old woman truck driver who teams with her husband. They drive over-the-road in the United States and Canada. Prior to getting her CDL, she worked in a library and in accounting.She calls this new adventure her ‘mid-life crisis career” and has recorded her journeys in the continuing series “A Long Way From Home: A Trucker’s Life Through A Woman’s Eye”. She occasionally detours into fiction, as in “Pivotals” and “First Fruits”.She welcomes comments and questions, and can be contacted at [e-mail].

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A LONG WAY FROM HOME:

A Trucker's Life Through A Woman's Eye

Volume 5

By

C L Miller

Thank you, Drivers.

Be Safe

C L Miller was fifty-four years old when she went on the road as truck driver with her husband. They drove over-the-road in the United States and Canada. Prior to getting her commercial driver’s license, she worked in a library and in accounting. She called this new adventure her mid-life crisis job and recorded her journeys in the continuing series A Long Way From Home: A Trucker's Life Through A Woman's Eye.

She occasionally detours into fiction, as in Pivotals and First Fruits.

She welcomes comments and questions and can be contacted at

[e-mail]

Copyright 2015 

by C L Miller 

Smashwords Edition.

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Coldfusion

A bunch of stuff

Cursives

Untitled

Climate controlled

Perspection

Sandwiches

Peripheral vision

By the numbers

Just for jiggles

Memory Lane

Tattle Tales

Segues

Comfort Zone

Cover ops

Safe Haven

And the answer is...

Home runs

It's not what we say...

Year-end clearance

Zoo-illogical

Cold snapped

Double take

Time will tell

Auto correct

Good decisions

Gimme a brake!

Whether permitted

Mary Poppins

Too much of a good thing

Big. Bang. Theory.

Muffins

Zoned out

Efficiency

Blowing through

Way to go

Sensitivities

Boundaries

Hot water

Superiorities

Then again....

Undisclosured

Fortuitous

Amusicals

Say it again, Sam

Coldfusion

August 16, 2012

Our new gig:

FedEx has a half dozen divisions under their umbrella. The logos are similar, but each has a distinctive mark. All of the Fed are purple; it is the Ex that sets them apart. Green is for Ground, orange is for Express (making them Federal Express Express), yellow is something to do with Customs, and red is for Freight. There is another group, Supply Chain, which has a lovely grey Ex. Until recently, the Custom Critical Ex was blue. (It was confiscated by FedEx Office.) At some point in recent months, Custom Critical fused with Freight and all trucks were EXpected to go red.

(I grew up with the idea that purple and red clash so I don't like the combination, but the Powers have decreed.)

Within Custom Critical there are other sub-divisions. The basic level is referred to as Surface, meaning the truck carries cargo of time-critical importance, but most of it is replaceable. White Glove (where we now reside) offers the services of extra surveillance, care, and handling; the cargo is more valuable and frequently one-of-kind. The training emphasizes a higher level of customer service, attire, and attitude. Drivers must be aware of all of those expectations before accepting other duties. The top level of Custom Critical deals with Government contracts and Department of Defense cargo.

Custom Critical has three styles of trucks, designated by letters in order of size. A and B are vans; C and D are straight trucks; E units are full size tractor-trailers. The most important thing that sets us apart is our cargo/customer ratio. Each load has one customer and typically one stop, regardless of the size and weight of our freight. Our entire truck and Drivers are hired, and the customer is our sole consideration until the freight is unloaded. This service is frequently called Expedited and we are just one of several companies that offer it. It is a relatively new but growing trend. It is a good place to be.

By 4:30pm Friday we were done with our second level of training. We'd spent the day learning about Radioactive, Explosive, and Department of Defense cargo. In order to qualify for the last two, we have to get government clearance at a much higher level than we currently hold, so that was mostly informative. California has its own separate set of rules, occupying nearly an hour of our classroom time, which made most of us decide that there is plenty to do in the remaining forty-seven States.

We took the Final Exam and both of us passed with room to spare. Since it was open-book and -note, I've committed an hour or two in the near future to reading all the information again, with a goal of actually understanding it. Fortunately, we are only expected to grasp the basics and fill in the holes as we go; every load is unto itself so memorizing the procedure is almost pointless.

Our next project was the Temperature Control Unit. It is frequently referred to as a refrigerated unit or reefer but it is designed to hold temperatures that range from three to seventy degrees Fahrenheit. While the majority of the considerations are keeping cargo cool, occasionally the item needs to be kept warmer than the ambient temperature, especially in the winter. A standard reefer trailer is equipped with a cooling unit that is set to a temperature and must be monitored and fueled to prevent a shutdown. Our training took it a step further. We can provide a printout that proves the temperature readings at increments as small as five minutes apart, providing the Customer with written proof that their shipment stayed at a precise temperature for the entire duration of the run.

To our great joy, we got squeezed into the reefer class on Monday morning. It ate up another day, but then we were DONE. Of course, that meant staying in the area for the weekend, but it was better than figuring out how to get back again. Part of the qualification process is running the reefer at three different temperatures for several hours each time to make sure it will hold steady; that occupied part of our layover.

And, yes, we will be well compensated for our efforts.

While we waited we languished at the T/A in Lodi, Ohio. Saturday evening I moseyed into the game room and found a TV tuned to the Olympics. A fellow viewer, James, and I enjoyed watching the various events and were cheering on Team USA. Another Driver came in and sat in the chair next to mine. I judged his age to be mid- to late-twenties. He immediately stepped into and onto my chat with James. His first statement was to inform me that he was born in Australia, and he must have assumed I didn't hear him the next eight times he told me. He assured me he has done everything exciting, and proceeded to tell me all about all of it. I tried letting him know he was butting in by leaning forward to talk around him to James, but it wasn't working.

Monday morning had us bright-eyed and bushy-tailed (hahahahaha) at 6:00am, waiting with the rest of the TCU crew to do the final phase of our training. Harry had managed to complete two of the three testing procedures for the temperature controls, which took much longer and later Sunday night than we expected. We were weary and bleary, but eager to get finished. To our delight the printed materials were easy to understand, and the quiz was straightforward; we were out the door by shortly after noon. We had the third temperature test to complete, but we could email it off, so we were clear to roll.

As it always seems to happen in any training with more than two attendees, there were the Usual People. You know the ones I mean:

(1) He starts his first question by announcing that he has been doing this job for almost two hundred years. He never asks an actual question, but continues to share his expertise at every opportunity.

(2) She frequently interrupts the instructor to say You might want to tell the group ... then proceeds to tell the group what the instructor hasn't (yet) managed to say. Most of it is already known by most of the listeners and she knows that, but it doesn't stop her.

(3) He has an issue that is outside the scope of the specific training subject, but repeated attempts by the instructor to keep him on pace are ignored. He gets annoyed at the instructor for not running off to fix his problem and is thereafter unpleasant to everyone he encounters.

(4) She pays zero attention to the instructor or the training manual. She asks questions that have already been answered at least twice and are in front of her to read.

They make a long day longer and less productive.

Doncha just love those folks!

The cafeteria food was delicious and complimentary. Breakfast Monday was some fresh, hot, fragrant, blueberry turnovers that caused my taste buds to cheer. We both chose a wonderful hot turkey sandwich for lunch, done in a different way: Instead of the usual thin slabs of meat, they used deli-sliced turkey; it was piled onto the edges of the bread with the potatoes plopped in the middle and gravy poured over all. Yummy.

Trukker Skool

Unlike most parking lots, there is no such thing as a tow-away zone in a truck stop. If your truck in not blocking a driveway – and I mean rendering it completely impassible –you can usually have the spot. You may annoy all the other Drivers who are forced to squeeze past you, but that attitude is based on envy that you got there ahead of them. He basic rule is If You Can Fit, You Can Park. Of course, Fit is sometimes open to interpretation and you should also consider damage that might occur to your personal truck

The truck stop closest to the training facility is small. It has only three rows of parking, two outside singles and an inside double. This makes for a very tight turn between Two and Three. The end section of the backside of Two is marked No Parking to allow incoming trucks room to make the turn. Our straight truck can fit in that zone because we are so much shorter, and we will frequently take it and leave the bigger trucks a full-length space. Monday afternoon we arrived early enough to get an actual parking spot. The end slot by the back turn is a challenge for the bigger trucks, so we slipped into that one. We tucked ourselves in as far as we could, giving the other trucks space to get around without clipping our front fenders. We spent the evening watching Drivers maneuver around and were glad to be out of the way.

I'm sure I sound cranky. This recent lack of activity is getting on our nerves. I said our bank balance could stand a hit; this has been a tsunami. We set our alarm for early early Tuesday morning, hoping that our availability would encourage a good load offer. We are qualified, we are equipped, and we are ready and able. Will drive for pay......

Ironically, we were getting the run-around from our satellite television provider. No, we do the running around!

No sooner had we resolved our satellite issues than we got offered a load to Massachusetts. Not our first destination of choice, but worth doing. It wasn't going to put our newly-learned skills to the test; it was just plain old Surface cargo. (Yes, we can still take those.) However, our new status soon became obvious.

Our load travel time is estimated at forty five miles per hour. In other words, if we have a distance of 450 miles, we are given ten hours to make the trip. Of course, that is rarely the average speed, so at sixty miles per hour, we can actually complete the run in less than eight hours. I have mentioned in previous notes the annoying computer-generated Critical Check-Out Time messages that come over the QUALCOMM. Supposedly they are set to correspond with our dispatched miles-per-hour, but we have been given three hours warning when we were three miles from the Customer. We generally ignore them.

Tuesday afternoon it became clear we were done with those pesky messages. We had a 120 mile drive to the Shipper, and an appointment of 4:30pm. At 1:00pm a personal message, from a live Human, came over the QUALCOMM suggesting we might want to get on the road by 1:45pm, in keeping with the 45mph speed. As it turned out, we had already fired up the truck and were getting ready to roll; Harry advised them of that. The return message simply said You guys are awesome! While I tend to reserve that word for God's work, I appreciated the spirit.

I have several Rules that I live by. Number One: I never wear out my welcome. Number Two: I always have chocolate nearby. I have now added a third: Never drive a truck in Boston during the morning commute. From what I could see (not much) the original city planners lost the architect's page labeled Roads. They built everything, then realized People might actually want to come into town. All they had left was underground, so the freeway is in a tunnel. I don't mean an underpass, I mean of the type that houses a subway system. According to one sign, I was near Fenway Park; it is quite possible I was under it.

After a few minor delays en route, due mostly to malfunctioning windshield wipers in a torrential rain, we arrived at the Consignee an hour ahead of schedule. When we were without cargo, we drove to our friendly T/A in northern New Hampshire. An hour later we got offered our first radioactive cargo. It was a short hop -- for which my eyelashes and toenails are grateful -- but just enough to give us a taste of the process. We'd barely gotten used to that when we got offered an equally short TCU load. Together, they would only occupy the daylight hours of Thursday -- assuming nothing went horribly wrong -- and would leave us in the general neighborhood of a regular Surface customer. The best part was an entire day to relax following our watery trip.

The radioactive Shipper was in a military facility, as was the Consignee, so we were ready for a truck and identification search. The cargo consisted of two large-ish cardboard boxes weighing just under thirty pounds each. Five people watched us secure the freight. Three of them waited while we called Dispatch with the details of our load; one listened to our end of the conversation. We were asked for an ETA. At the other end, we presented our paperwork and were waved in; security seemed much more casual. The Consignee was in a building a tissue-toss from a submarine -- my money is on nuclear powered. Two people walked out to the truck, hoisted the boxes out, and hand-carried them to the warehouse. I hope they know what was in them, or were wearing lead tee shirts.

Our next project was the TCU load. Harry turned on the reefer, ran our temperature check, and headed for the Shipper. Alas, it was not to be. We arrived on the property and informed Dispatch of same. Five minutes later we got a message that the load had been cancelled. Fine time to tell us that! But so it goes, sometimes. We drove south in the general direction of New York City, and planted ourselves at a truck stop in Connecticut. Here we will wait until given a very good reason to move.

A bunch of stuff

August 23, 2012

I looked it up. There are approximately 908,000 dollar bills in a ton. Just in case you were wondering.

Trukker Skool

It is an interesting contradiction: You spend the majority of your work day sitting down, butt most your off-duty pursuits require a ton of walking. There is no park close to anything.

We got a second chance to practice our TCU skills. This run originated in New York (not the city) and delivered in Michigan. It picked up Monday morning and delivered on Tuesday. Our trailer had to be very cold. Very very cold. It had to maintain that coldness for seven hundred miles. We got offered the load on Friday, which gave us almost seventy-two hours to worry about it. I found out I can do a ton of worrying when I have that much time.

Joel asked us to discuss getting the new truck regulated so we can go into eastern Canada again. We may concede our need for speed in favor of the going across the border. We've had a ton (okay, six) offers of loads into Ontario that we had to turn down. Those cross-border runs would have paid a ton of money (if measured in pennies) so it is a consideration.

After a ton of repetitions, the word ton starts to look weird.

An actual conversation I had with a cell phone service provider:

Customer Service Person: Thank you for calling VRZN. How may I assist you today?

Me: Hello. I would like to arrange a payment extension on my bill.

CSP: Your bill is due today, but not past due until August 29."

Me: Okay. But I will not be able to pay it until September 4.

CSP: It isn't past due until August 29.

Me: Yes, I understand that. However, I need an extension until September 4.

CSP: I cannot arrange an extension until it is past due and you are unable to make the payment.

Me: Oh, I'm already very sure I won't be able to make the payment on August 29. I'd like to make arrangements today.

CSP: I cannot make arrangements until the payment is past due. If you cannot make the payment on August 29, you need to call us back that day and set up an extension to prevent late charges on your account.

Me: So, even though I am on the phone with you today trying to do this, I must wait ten days, then have a 24-hour window to take care of this?

CSP: That is correct.

Me: . . ? . .!

Saturday morning we moved closer to the New York customer and parked ourselfs at a truck stop west of Albany. It sits on Riverside Drive, aptly named because the Mohawk River is on the other side of the road. I meandered to a nearby McDonalds and perched on a stool facing a window facing the river. I had a nice chat with a woman sitting at the same window. Betty told me she comes to the restaurant almost every day, orders a cup of coffee, and watches the water roll by. She said there are cruises that take passengers up to Lake Erie, along the St Lawrence River, and back around to the starting spot downriver from our location. I want to float a Great Lake.

Trukker Skool

You will discover that the Value Menu doesn't exist in truck stop fast food restaurants. Do not expect to find much of anything for a single dollar. This is the origin of the phrase highway robbery.

At the freeway interchange near the truck stop is a New York Highway Patrol office. Their front lawn was heavily populated by some very big geese. Not sure if their proximity to persons with legal firearms was a good or bad thing.

The New York Shipper deals drugs. Well, technically pharmaceuticals but whatever. They had to be kept at minus-20 degrees Centigrade. At least this time we didn't have to be wary of being followed, unlike our last drug run in Los Angeles. We had more than enough to do making sure our load didn't defrost.

When I punched the Consignee address into Sam2.1, I was pleased to note she had shaved a lot of miles off the total given to us by Dispatch. Aside from fuel expense, it meant a shorter driving time. Then I pulled up the route details. She was cutting us across Ontario, as in Canada. I couldn't fault her reasoning -- it was a straight shot -- but we both had to laugh over the reality: Hi, there, Canadian Customs. We have a truck full of drugs, completely legal of course, and this road gets us to our United States destination faster. So, whatcha think? Can we cut across your front yard, eh?

It seemed our GPS had a bit too much tequila over the weekend. As we approached the Consignee (not via Canada) we were instructed to Make a U-turn if possible. Not possible on the freeway. Nope.

Our trip to Michigan was almost the reverse of our route to Massachusetts last week. Most of it was on Interstate 90. This time of the year, it is spectacular. The Fall colors are just beginning to peek through the green foliage, a splash of crimson here, a dash of yellow there. I want to retrace our steps in a month.

Another highlight of the trip was a repeat of a superior roast beef sandwich from a truck stop deli on I-90 in Pennsylvania. It is at Exit 45, just before you pop into New York, in case you find yourself in the neighborhood.

We saw a hawk on the ground, not their typical spot. It sparked a discussion on animal phobias. Can you imagine an eagle that is afraid of heights? You're gonna teach me to FLY by throwing me off this CLIFF? I don't think so!!

Our delivery was north of Detroit, so we tackled that city in the morning commute. The maximum speed limit for trucks is 60mph and the minimum for all vehicles is 55mph. That gave me an operating range of about seven miles per hour. At 54mph, I'm going too slowly; at 61mph, I'm going too fast.

We delivered our cargo, then headed for the T/A south of Detroit. Our first plan was a bagel at Tim Horton's, then a nap. The first goal was accomplished, but the second was interrupted by a load offer we couldn't resist -- a short hop to Grand Rapids. Either we've never been to GR (local-speak) or I wasn't paying attention, but on this trip we got two passes through the downtown area. I'm not sure where my previous assumption was born, but it was not at all as I pictured. What we could see from the freeway was some beautiful churches, modern buildings, friendly neighborhoods of homes, and trees everywhere. The Grand River runs through it, and we saw several parks along the shore. If it weren't for the rather brutal winter weather, I could easily put it on my short list of potential homes. In late summer, it is wonderful.

We decided to stay in GR after we made our second delivery of the day, and our decision was rewarded by a nice run to Kansas City, Kansas. It didn't pick up until after noon on Wednesday, so we lingered over a fine dinner at the 76 Street Truck Plaza on Highway 131 -- the meatloaf is delicious -- and got caught up on sleep. Wednesday we were off to K.C.

We stopped at an Indiana rest area in the early morning hours. A woman in the restroom commented to her traveling companion that she did something from her home in Las Vegas. Small world. That started a conversation that drifted outside to join with Harry. Our profession came up, and the two women wondered what the Life is like. I gave them 58,000 words on the subject.

Reefer Madness!

The GR load required our trailer temperature to be set at five degrees Fahrenheit. We started the meter three hours before our arrival at the Shipper, and it was perfect when we hit the dock. Unfortunately, the system allows for a regular defrost cycle; it kicked in and raised the temperature by fifteen degrees at the most inconvenient moment. We waited that out, then backed into the warehouse. The dock persons opened our doors, then left us sitting in eighty degree weather for thirty minutes. They put the cargo on board, shut the doors, and said we could park in the shade while we waited for the temperature to drop back to the set point. It took two and a half hours, putting us nearly four hours behind schedule.

The Consignee was a manufacturer of animal enhancement products (No! Get your mind out of the gutter!), those food additives that beef up the number of steaks we can get from cattle. We chatted with the dock persons. It turns out the medication has a warm-temperature shelf life of seventy-two hours, rendering most of our efforts unnecessary. It also turns out we had a very, very expensive bunch of stuff in our trailer.

Alas, the decision was made to clip the tail feathers of our truck. We took her into a KC repair shop, and she came out unable to exceed sixty-five miles per hour. It was a difficult decision, but one we can all live with.

A Friday morning airport run is on tap, so Thursday evening is a quiet one in Oak Grove. We can think of far worse places to be.

Cursives

August 30, 2012

One of my pet peeves is condescension, and know I share the irritation with a lot of others. Most of us dislike being in the company of those folks, regardless of their motivation or best intentions to be helpful. It is particularly grating on me when the other person is a woman my age who treats me like a child.

It's a big, wide, long, tall country, so I'm constantly amazed at how often we re-cross paths with other Drivers. Occasionally I am dismayed when that happens. The domineering couple from Mississippi that we met last December in Ontario popped up at our TCU training session. We were trapped for an eternity of five hours. She is one of Those. She called me Baby and hugged me every time our paths crossed, jumped up to wait on us as if she was our slave, and rarely let me finish a sentence. She also tried to take over the training as if the rest of us were too dumb to understand what was being said. As a casual student of human psychology, I compiled a list of possible reasons for her attitude, including but not limited to an overbearing husband. We were glad to be shed of both of them.

Alas, what goes around shows back up at the least convenient moment. We stepped into the Oak Grove Petro, and there They were. She was involved in a long-winded discussion with a man and He was on his way to a haircut, so we were able to keep it brief. But even Her conversations come to an end, and He doesn't have a lot of hair to cut, so we spent the evening dodging Them. On Friday afternoon she snagged me again, asked me a question