When it rains, it pours – and when it pours, it usually snows. At least that’s how my luck often goes. Recently, I’ve been dealing with some minor (and not-so-minor) issues with my truck. It’s something every truck owner deals with from time to time. It’s very discouraging to be hit with such issues, and they always seem to pile up on top of each other. A faulty sensor is annoying, but it’s not a huge deal, unless it coordinates its own demise at the same time as an air leak is born. And then a quick walk-around the truck reveals a seeping wheel seal… or a fault code on the reefer unit, etc. A cold snowy night bums me out, but not as bad as when it’s followed by a truck that won’t start in the morning. But as my dad used to say, “That’s truck drivin” – it just happens! I call this poem The Broke Down Blues. I wrote it for those of you who know that feeling of having one little issue after another, and feeling like the guys at the shop are far too familiar with you than they really should be.
THE BROKE DOWN BLUES
By Trevor Hardwick
So I grabbed a pair of dirty jeans,
And a shirt that I convinced myself was somewhat clean.
Once I realized that I was in a pinch,
I got the clunker runnin’ with a monkey wrench.
So I warmed it up and headed out,
And I mumbled over what the fuss was all about.
Then I heard the inauspicious hiss,
Of an air leak that would punctuate a day like this.
So I pulled it over to the side,
I tried to let ‘er idle but she upped and died.
As cuss words start to come to mind,
I couldn’t help but think I’m runnin’ way behind.
So what’s a good ol’ boy to do,
When your hood is in the air and your rig won’t move?
I strike and set a couple flares,
And then I meet a super-grouchy full-grown bear.
He says I better move along,
I told him I would love to but there’s something wrong.
My Cat is being quite a dog,
That’s about the time he asked to see my log.
Isn’t that the way it goes,
Always fixin’ something when it rains or snows?
Issues never seem to stop,
Somethings always got me headed towards the shop.
If it aint the mother-lovin’ clutch,
It’s pesky little sensors, seeping seals and such.
And then they get me on the hook,
And pages start flyin’ from the old checkbook.
I try to turn the other cheek,
The positive in everything, I try to seek.
No sense in getting’ in a funk,
Maybe I just should have stayed inside my bunk.
But here I sit beside the road,
Reefer unit faulted on a frozen load.
It’s not a game of win or lose,
It’s just the way it goes with the Broke Down Blues!