“YIKE-YIKE-YIKE-YIKE!!!!!!” We arc off the highway at Mach one, bouncing about violently at first, which is followed by the horrible sound of metal dragging on the highway for what seemed like a millennium. The truck is listing towards my side, and that sound of rubber being torn asunder when the steer tire exploded is still ringing in my somewhat superior ears.
The truck shudders with an almost death-like rattle after surviving the sheer velocity we attained before skidding to a halt on the steer’s rim, in a blurry, quiet cloud of dust and gravel. It’s the wee hours of the morning and the heavy fog slowly envelopes our rig, but I’m happy there’s enough of a shoulder on Emigrant Hill in Oregon to keep us out of the right lane. Even with the shock of our rim encountering the asphalt with no warning (which happens apparently when steer tires explode), I am stunned that I am still in my seat and in one piece. The poor GPS flew across the cab (no longer attached to its mount), narrowly missing the dash cam (which has been recording fog the last hour). Joining the GPS was my driver’s headset, his Zippo, and a 10’ long colorful “truck stop brand” charging cord which now hangs like a purple snake on the back of my seat.
I look over at my silent driver. He’s illuminated by the soft array of coolant, turbo and exhaust temperature lights in front of him. The speedometer and oil pressure cluster bathe his face in a bright green glow. I expect him to be looking over at me, scowling with disgust at the ear splitting, almost pre-pubescent, girly scream that uttered from my mouth when the tire’s explosion happened under, what felt like, my butt. My shriek mimicked that truck driver’s screech last week who forgot to do a tug test and dropped his loaded trailer on ill-prepared landing gear while pulling out of the truck stop for all the world to see and put on social media.
My driver respects Cabbage Hill and drives with caution and confidence, especially when there is fog. The LAST thing I remembered before blowing my anal glands, swallowing my tongue, and screaming in girlish terror was dozing off, listening to my driver attempt to, for the hundredth time on Bluetooth repeat, and with no mistakes, sing the entire song “I’ve Been Everywhere” by the Man in Black himself, Johnny Cash. Listening to my driver rattle through cities and hearing the seductive sound of our jake brakes as we lazily cruised down the mountain was mesmerizing… until suddenly, it wasn’t.
I wonder why my driver doesn’t have that look on his face from every last bit of his adrenaline dumping into his system in 1.36 seconds? He looks calm, as though had he had anal glands, he would certainly have kept them intact. He is just sitting there, serenely staring at each gauge, listening intently to the truck, gazing at his mirrors. Then, leaning slowly back in his seat, he calmly reached to the floor for the tragically flung Zippo lighter. With commanding presence, he decisively lights up a well-deserved cigarette. He has an almost James Bond coolness about him as he strokes his beard to calm any wayward hairs, then draws on his cigarette slowly, watching the ribbon of smoke dissipate in the cab. I’m intrigued by his silence, so I don’t think I’ll inform him just yet that the stress my backside suffered has made me want to go outside.
My driver is usually chatty, telling me what he thinks about everything, what he wants and doesn’t want, and how he would solve all the problems in the trucking industry if only he was “king for a day.” I’ve been stumped by why his ideas are not taken more seriously as most drivers, scattered about truck stop lounges, emphatically agree with him. He knows how to fix broker fraud, enforce broker transparency, educate the public that there is no driver shortage, establish free truck parking (punishing those companies who desire to make everything a paid spot), and remove fly-by-night trucking companies run by overseas bosses. I agree with it all, of course, which is a requirement for a dog. This extends to his decision to give me leftovers from Piggy-Pork’s Barbecue last night (though my terrified intestines disagree with that at the moment).
We sit in silence as my driver closes his eyes and drags out the last ember and I wait patiently for words of wisdom about why his newer tire detonated in the early morning, interrupting Johnny Cash. He’s always preached of pocket gauges, rock drilling, and avoiding recaps at all costs on tires, regardless of perceived savings. Rubber pieces from recaps on the highway are a nuisance to all CMVs. One reason is that once encountered, they must be avoided by an alert driver behind said truck with recaps.
Shredded tire treads can cause both driver and dog to be thrown violently into the dash when the useless automatic emergency braking system mistakes these “gator tails” for a school bus full of children. He tells me gluing a tread to a semi’s steer tire is as intelligent as these ridiculous Idle Shutdown Timers (which can boil a bulldog and his driver in the summer should the APU fail), as some companies will always put the survival of the driver and dog below saving a few bucks on fuel. It makes me love my driver’s pre-emissions truck, as he calls it, but he apparently hasn’t noticed the previous “release” from my emission system just moments ago.
Without a word, my driver pours out of his seat into the soupy fog, shaking his flickering flashlight, which makes the batteries work better, while he walks over to what is left of the right steer tire. I can hear the occasional semi-truck whisk by in the hammer lane which gives me a sigh of relief that they can see our murky hazard lights flashing. Poking my head out of the window I see him, flashlight slowly following the lines of the hood, the wheel well, and the mangled rim which is still hanging on to what’s left of our right steer tire. He stands back, folds his arms across his barrel chest and stares at the one thing discovered by the flickering flashlight’s beam.
It’s that same comatose stare I get when expecting my red ball to somehow re-animate itself and go hurling across the grass so I can chase it. It’s not the bent rim that draws his attention, not the pieces of tire that are causing his frozen face, but one thing only. The dangling, partially painted red hook, jammed into the rim (which once lived as a binder), responsible for the murder of his newer Michelin X-line steer tire. He stares intently at the item that has caused this morning’s terror of exploding rubber, then strolls back to the driver’s seat, pulling himself up with ease, and then gazes over my way. I can’t help but shift uncomfortably as, with a low, guttural growl he very calmly says to me…
“Why in the flying **!#@** was there a ratchet binder in the middle of the highway at *!#@* three in the morning? Some *!#@* hick driver, who couldn’t drive a *!#@* Tonka truck, couldn’t manage to keep a *!#@* binder in his headache rack or tighten it enough to keep it off the *!#@* highway?? And of all places, it’s gotta be Dead Man’s Pass on a switchback with *!#@* fog as thick as their brain!!!”
That was it. He didn’t yell or fling his arms about, didn’t point or light up another cigarette, he just sat there and looked at me. This made me strangely nervous, enough to abstain from even asking him to let me relieve myself so as to avoid him making me look like that twisted-up binder. However, his face softened quickly, and he began stroking my head as I put my grizzled muzzle in his lap. His look is not of frustration, irritation, expectation or amusement – he looks unconcerned about pre-trips, DOT, brokers, oil leaks, ELDs or Google maps. Looking up I can’t help but notice my driver’s soft eyes, surrounded by years of honorable wrinkles about the edges, with his rough, reddish-blonde beard needing a trim and ever-loyal Kenworth baseball hat attached to his head.
He’s speaking softly to me, not of trucking, not how frustrated I make him or my shedding six tons of hair per day, but how thankful he is. That after that 15 seconds of bowel-bursting shock and chaos we were now sitting in the cab, my home, warm and safe, just waiting on the “tire guy” that will show up in ten hours or so. I see how happy he is that nothing was damaged – our hood is intact and all he hears is the slight wind outside the cab and not the turbulent whooshing sounds of damaged air lines.
He mentions how lonely it is for so many drivers on the road today, those without families or devoted dogs (wait, I’m devoted?). Believe me, I know truck driving can be a thankless job for the most part, but it runs in my driver’s blood, maybe even mine, and we wouldn’t have it any other way. He thanks me for just being a dog, a companion to listen to his chaotic complaints and hours of off-key singing. Then, patting his thigh, I crawl gently up into his lap as he wraps his large arms around me, squeezing me tight with a power that makes me sound as though I have an air leak myself. But, in this case, it’s a sound we both welcome and love to hear.