Post Mortem

 

I got a notice in the mail the other day informing me that Citizens for Appropriate Rural Roads, CARR, has officially ended their efforts to at first stop, and then hold accountable the Indiana Department of Transportation's I 69 expansion. The new terrain section has already been completed, the damage done, and now they've exhausted their options to have a court consider their grievance of INDOT's negligence and abuse. I never had much hope that it would go anywhere, but still, reading the notice sounded a tiny death knell in my heart.

It was sometime back in the late 80's or early 90's, while I was a clerk at Pygmalion's Art Supply, that my coworker Sandra came into work with the news that she and her husband Thomas had found surveyors on their land southwest of Bloomington. They approached the surveyors and learned, well before most people, that INDOT was considering an I 69 expansion, and that one of the possible routes would cross their land. The Tokarskis (Sandra and Thomas) then formed CARR to try and stop that from happening.

I donated money, I went to rallies, protests and city council meetings. I didn't do as much as I could have, maybe should have but to be honest I was never hopeful that we could stop them. It was obvious that the big boys in Indy wanted to play with their earth moving machines and build a highway, sound economics and the will of the people be damned.

Why, the first study ever done to asses the economic feasibility of the highway, the "Donohue Study," found that they couldn't recommend building it at all. Did that stop INDOT? Heavens no, they just had more studies done, some of which also came back negative, until they got the result they wanted. Remember, I had a front row seat working with Sandra. INDOT wasted a lot of my tax dollars getting "objective scientific backing" for their project (the quotes are for irony, I don't know that anyone in particular said that).

I then had the pleasure of attending one of INDOT's public information meetings where I saw them stand up and say (to paraphrase), "Building this highway is a great idea. We've done blank number of studies, so we know what we're talking about." Oh, was I pissed! I wanted to go add my name to the list of people who wanted to speak but it was long and I knew I'd never make it up there. I'd have cooled down by then anyway and wouldn't have been half so eloquent!

The point was raised anyway, by more than one speaker. The trouble was that CARR was never allowed to present a coherent counter argument at these "information meetings." Instead each speaker was given five minuets. There was huge traffic light on the stage. The light turned green when the speaker began, turned yellow when their time was almost up, and when it turned red they were escorted off of the stage. Anyone who came actually seeking information would find it hard to integrate the dissenting opinion. Or maybe the entire audience was there in dissent. Certainly none of the speakers from the general public that I saw were in favor of the highway.

Poor Tokarskis. The route that was ultimately chosen cut through their land. Not only that, but during the new terrain section of the construction the crews worked 24 hours a day, with big earth moving machinery and dump trucks full of stone. CARR complained and Monroe County made INDOT stop construction at night so that people could sleep, but a judge overturned the order saying that the greater public was served by timely completion of the project, or some such.

Keep that in mind if you would, INDOT's concern for the public and its timeliness. I've got a lot more to say about I 69. I've wanted to talk about if for some time now, but didn't know quite how to begin. I'd finally decided that introducing it a little at a time would be a good strategy and am in fact about half way through the composition of another post that touches on it. Then I got that notice in the mail, felt the death knell in my heart and wanted to share.

 

City Turkey

 

I was down in Amish country the other day. As I approached an intersection two vehicles crossed in front of me, going opposite directions. One was a horse and buggy, the other a little smart car. “How cool,” I thought, “the past meets the future.”

 

*                        *                         *

 

About a year ago I told you about a road trip that my girlfriend and I took to Connecticut, to visit friends for thanksgiving; an over the road trip, in the big truck. Well, we did it again this year. The load that got us out there delivered Tuesday morning in Brooklyn, NY. I've told you before about what a nightmare driving a big rig in NY can be but this trip was supposed to be different. I was delivering limestone treads to a masonry supply store, a business, not a job site, and we had directions in the system, we'd been there before. Looking at the map it looked easy: turn along the shoreline just off the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, follow around the water for a little then turn inland; boom, we're there.

The reality wasn't quite so simple, as you've probably guessed. Cate had the direction all written out, ready to guide me, but the first turn we were supposed to make over the bridge had a sign that read,

 

LOW CLEARANCE PASSENGER CARS ONLY.

 

WTF, these were the directions that my company had given us; a trucking company. They'd said we'd been there before. Had the previous drivers not alerted dispatch that the directions were wrong, or did dispatch just drop that particular ball?

Actually it was doubly my fault. My first mistake was in trusting the directions in the system, always a big no, no. I should have called the customer like I usually do. My second mistake was not noticing on the map that the road we were to turn onto was a parkway. Duh, trucks use expressways, only passenger cars can use parkways. I guess I just wanted to believe it would be easy, and I was so looking forward to that drive along the shoreline.

Not to fear though, I had my GPS turned on with the coordinates of our destination entered. It was a truck route database and I had noticed that it wasn't asking us to turn where our directions had said to. So from there on we would simply follow technology. Cate chucked the paper she was holding and sat back to enjoy the ride.

We were being told where to go but New York is never easy for a truck. At one point I had to go up onto the sidewalk to make a turn, but that's not unusual. Determined not to fail once again in my diligence I double parked on a four lane street to look at the map. I'm so glad that I did because Gipus (GPS) left out a turn entirely. It was a soft right but with an elevated railway before us we couldn't go straight and there were several other options. Gipus let us down again when she told us to turn left to our destination, but we'd been following the elevated railway and there was a solid medium to the left. I had to go down a few blocks and do a U turn under the tracks, but we made it to where we were supposed to be.

Fortunately we were on another four lane road (divided by the railway) so I double parked again with my flashers on and went to see how we were going to unload. There was a fenced yard with equipment and materials that looked promising, but it was locked up and I couldn't find a soul about. I went back to the truck and called the company. I told them I was there with a delivery. The guy on the other end of the line wanted to know where I was. I gave him the address.

”Ah, that's our old location, we haven't been there in a year and a half.”

”Oh, OK, can you please tell me how to get from here to where you are now, in a big truck?”

Silence; a hem and a haw.

”OK, just give me the address and I'll put it in my GPS.” Done, and we were off again.

We retraced our steps at first, then headed into unknown territory. I'm not sure what happened. We were looking for 56th street and were only at 2nd but suddenly Gipus sang the little tune that means we're at the turn, as we were going through the intersection. Then she sang her “uh oh” tune and started thinking about a new route. That happened over and over again as she kept wanting me to turn down streets I couldn't possibly fit down, despite the fact that she was supposedly operating off of a truck friendly data base. At one point she started asking us to make left turns instead of right, which was easier, but then we came to another impossible right at a T and I had to turn left. The way ahead looked doubtful and I was afraid we were going to get into something we'd have to back out of, (can you imagine that?) but it lead to another four lane road and I double parked again to check the map.

Hallelujah, we were close! There was just one more right hand turn and then it was a left onto 56th street and our destination. I negotiated the right OK but then there was a hold up. They were doing construction just before our intersection. I could make the turn, I knew, but the traffic flagger didn't want me to. I'm pointing to the left and he's shaking his head. I lower my window and roll forward to talk to him.

He say's “Go around the block.”

I say, “I've been going around the fucking block all day,” and make the turn, causing him to have to step back out of the way of my slow tracking trailer wheels. I don't remember using the “f” word but Cate assures me that I did. It was a tight squeeze, what with the stupid dump truck parked right there, but I made it and then we were there, our destination, Sandman Building Materials.

We'd arrived, but there was nowhere for us to be. It was a narrow one way street. I wasn't just double parked, I was blocking the entire roadway. There was a worker stacking bags of material on a pallet so I rolled down my window and shouted, “Hey Mister Sandman!” There was no response so I got out of the truck and spoke to him again, then clapped my hands loudly. I get that he probably didn't speak English, but this guy was willfully ignoring me, or maybe he was sleepwalking(?). I gave up on him and started toward the office. A guy on a forklift zipped out of an alleyway, lifted a finger as if to say, “Uno momente,” then barked orders in Spanish. A couple of vehicles were moved, opening up a space for me along the curb.

They started unloading me quickly, with two forklifts, before I was finished unstrapping. I was apprehensive again because this was supposed to be a COD and it was already too late to say “You can't have the product until I have the check.” My fears proved unfounded though as the proprietor had the check all ready. Only when I called in to see what dispatch had planned for us they asked about the check. They asked if it was a certified or cashier's check. “No, it's just a plain old company check.” Dispatch wanted me to go back in and haggle with the people over the kind of check they gave me. I refused. I just don't think that's my place. I was willing to wait there as the afternoon lengthened if they wanted, but I sure wasn't going to go twisting any arms.

Fortunately they let it slide. The afternoon was getting on and even though we'd strategically gotten an early start we found ourselves on the Cross Bronx Expressway at 5 PM, then we ran into the same traffic that we did last year at the Connecticut line. We ultimately weren't able to make it all the way to Tom and Sue's that night but found a spot in a truck stop. That is to say I struggled into a spot that all the other drivers on the CB radio looking for parking places had avoided. Then, to top it off we locked ourselves out of the truck. It's not like I was tired and forgetful or anything, right? Fortunately a very nice hoodlum working in the truck stop jimmied the lock for us, then told us where we could find a bar to have dinner and a few beers in.

I love it when a plan works out!

 

Prodigal Return

 

November woods

      Summer's secrets revealed

 

*                        *                         *

 

I've set a new record for silence. Lamely I said, “But I've nothing to share.”

“You've got a lot to share,” she said, then ticked off a list of things. “Brooklyn, Thanksgiving, the accident, our trip to Italy.”

She's right, of course. I have no reason not to have written in all this time. I've plenty that I could say. I've even been thinking of telling you about the new interstate 69 extension from Evansville to Indianapolis, but have never gotten a handle on just how to start. That's a big subject. Perhaps, if I should continue to write now that I've started, I'll get to that. It's important. It has altered the tenor of my nightmare, some for the better, some for the worse.

But what inspired me to write today has nothing to do with the long list of possible subjects that Cate enumerated. It harkens all the way back to my first trip to Europe, about two years ago. But let me start at the beginning:

Last winter was exceptionally mild. The forecasts for this winter have been all over the place, from another mild season to a brutal one. Our autumn has been mild, for sure, but given recent events I'd lay odds the later prognostication is more likely; “brutal.” It's not yet officially winter and already we've had freezing rain, snow and bitter cold temperatures. Our high today was only 18°.

I've been wearing long underwear, but for today's cold temperatures I dug out my good hiking base layer. It reminded me of where I got it and how lucky I can be.

I was with my daughter touring Wales in a rental car. We'd started out that morning from her home in Leeds, visited two castles and then got to our bed and breakfast as the light was failing. Our plan for the following morning was to take a hike in Snowdonia National Park, a route chosen for it's “many spectacular views of Mt. Snowdon.” True to it's name Snowdonia was covered in snow.

I was apprehensive because I'd left my long johns in Leeds. We were ditching the car outside of London, staying there a few nights, then taking the Eurostar to Paris for four nights, so I was living out of a day pack and had sought to lighten my load. I knew I'd be alright, it's not like we were heading into the back country, but also knew I'd be more comfortable with a thermal under layer. I was resolved to buy one if we saw a department store, which we hadn't in all of Wales, and didn't expect to find one in the quaint little town we were in then. Besides which, in the UK everything closes up at night, unlike here in the States, so even if there had been one...

So what are the odds? Walking into town to find a pub, under the streetlamps, we came across a mountain outfitter's not only open, but with a store wide sale happening. I got an awesome base layer and though I spent more than I would for your run of the mill thermals the sale practically negated the difference between the dollar and the pound. And they are unquestionably better than your run of the mill thermals.

I think I worked up a sweat on the hike. Unfortunately the world was enveloped in fog that morning and we couldn't even see Mt. Snowdon, but still had a great time. I think you can see why digging them out from the bottom drawer this morning brought a smile to my face, why I wanted to share.

 

It occurs to me now that I might have already told you this story. I'm not going to go back and look, nor am I going to worry about it. Why waste all this writing when it's so hard for me to get to doing it anymore? In the past when I've had a long hiatus I've always come back saying, “I'm going to do it, I'm going to write regularly,” then never do. So today there are no promises, only possibilities.

 

Wolf Whistle

 

I saw them looking from across the truck stop, time after time. My first thought was a defensive, “What are you looking at, Buster?” Then I realized that they weren't looking at me at all, they were looking at the beautiful woman I had by my side. A woman in the truck stop is a rare thing and the drivers are lonely. I'd looked at other couples in just the same way before, envious of the lucky driver to have such a companion. This time I got to be that lucky man.

Of course some of the women one sees in truck stops are prostitutes, “lot lizards.” They're never as attractive or smartly dressed as Cate though, no one would mistake her for a whore.

We took another road trip out east, this time to Connecticut, for Thanksgiving. Shoshana had flown back from England to have Thanksgiving with Amir's family so we stopped in Cleveland on the way to see them. We had a full holiday meal with his mother. The timing was perfect since the kids were going to leave Thursday morning to drive to Buffalo to be with Amir's father. I was afraid we'd pack up after dinner and they would take us back to where we'd parked the truck, at a customer of Stonebelt's on the outskirts of Cleveland, but we played Cards Against Humanity till around midnight and we were all beginning to yawn. It was still too short of a visit but damned nice to see my daughter and her man.

I was restless that night, uncomfortable in the confines of the sleeper and I had to pee an inordinate amount, having to climb over Cate, slip my cloths and shoes on and stand behind the dumpster in the frosty stone yard time and again. Sometime before dawn I'd had enough and started my work day on the electronic log. It was a long trek all the way across Pennsylvania, through New Jersey and a bit of New York, past New Haven to Madison. Plus it was going to be one of the busiest travel days of the year, through some of the worst traffic in the nation. An early start was good.

It promised to be a full day but there was plenty of time. I'd calculated the trip and figured there would be a couple of hours to spare on my 11 hour driving time. On top of that we made good time. The load that we were carrying was light so there was no trouble climbing the mountains and could use the upgrades to pass heavier trucks that might have been governed just slightly slower than my truck, making the trip easier.

We ran into traffic in Jersey, of course, but that was to be expected. We were tempted to cross the George Washington Bridge in order to admire the Manhattan skyline but quickly chucked that option for the Tappan Zee Bridge. Traffic would be bad enough on 287 the afternoon before Thanksgiving as it was. Almost to 95 there was an overturned truck on the westbound side, traffic backed up and at a standstill. We were thankful that we weren't going that way.

All in all we were making great time, until we crossed the CT line. Almost immediately traffic slowed to a crawl and the overhead sign read, “Expect delays next 29 miles.” We crawled along. I thought, “Hmm, at 5 mph it will take us an hour to go 5 miles.” Of course it wasn't that slow all the way, traffic opened up occasionally. I wonder if I ever even got to ninth gear though, I'm sure I never got all the way to tenth. There was one time one of the signs said, "Bridgeport (or somewhere) 6 miles, 45 minuets."

I was seriously beginning to wonder if we were going to make it all the way to Madison legally. I was questioning whether I'd go on if my hours ran out. I was in good shape, despite my lack of sleep, but still, if anything were to happen due to some idiot, and there were plenty of those in evidence on the road that afternoon, it would automatically be my fault since I wasn't supposed to have been in that place at that time. And the logs were electronic, there was no possibility of fudging them like in the old days. Fortunately there were a couple of truck stops on the way. If we stopped we'd either have to finish the trip in the morning or have the Schneiters come get us. As it turned out I pulled into the service plaza that sits directly behind their house, where we were going to park for the weekend, with 11 minutes to spare.

 

Lost in the Fog

 

Fog is probably pretty common early mornings in the valleys that surround the confluence of the Whitewater, Miami and Ohio Rivers, outside of Cincinnati. I've driven through it there on numerous occasions, and have looked down more than once from the top of the hill in Kentucky at a lake of mist, the tops of the power plant's stacks rising out of it, belching their own vapors. I'm not familiar enough with the area to know the various forms the fog takes, or their frequencies though. I was in a fog the other morning that I can only call Epic.

What made it so dramatic was that it wasn't uniform. In places the fog was so thick visibility was reduced to a matter of yards; traffic crawled at a snail's pace. In others it was patchy, thick and thin, striated, or in dense clumps like dirigibles struggling to rise. But the best were the clear spots: blue sky above but with clouds filling the surrounding valleys, clinging to the hillsides in ragged tatters. The power plant was hidden, its stacks protruded from the wrack belching vapors of their own.

All in all it was awesome, it was Epic.

 

*                         *                         *

 

I guess fog is a morning thing, for the most part. A little while back, traveling down 37 with the sun lighting the landscape but not yet over the trees I was grooving on the delicate mists filling the hollows and rising off the ponds. I was surprised to find a dense fog when I turned into the industrial park in Mitchell. I supposed that it was due to the lie of the land and the proximity of the White River, the way that Martinsville is often shrouded in fog when everywhere else is only misty.

As I drove along, carefully, I thought I could see the start of the lifting of the veil. I could see a patch of density several stories up in the air. As I got closer I thought it strange that it was so localized, only in that one spot. Closer still and I thought, “Weird, that blob of mist is almost symmetrical.” That's when I first noticed that it was trailing tentacles. I almost swerved off the road, “What is it, a huge floating jellyfish, an Alien attack!?!”

Whew, it was only a water tower. It can be taxing having an active imagination.

 

*                         *                         *

 

I have long said, “When driving a big truck don't get lost in the mountains, and don't get lost in the city.” Having done both I know whereof I speak, but the wiser statement would be, “Don't get lost at all.” Driving a big truck is stressful enough when you know where you are. I was almost lost recently, right here at home in Southern Indiana with no mountains and no cities, in Amish country.

It's amazing how much industry there is in the Amish community. They don't drive themselves but many of their goods and materials are brought in on trucks. There are lots of roads in Davies County that are heavily traveled by semi-trucks, horse drawn wagons, buggies, bicycles, and the occasional golf cart. This is par for the course for me. We deal with the Amish mafia a lot.

I was on my way to Graber Farm Supply. I'd been there many times before, but this time I came in from another direction. They'd widened and sealed a section of road off of US 231 that made it easier than coming down from Odon like we used to. So, coming from the opposite direction I turned at the wrong intersection.

At first it was like, “Wait, is this right?” Then, as the road narrowed and went up and down some small hills I thought, “This definitely isn't right.” I wasn't too worried though, it's not like I was in the hills of Martin County or something, there were lots of trucks that went all over around there. But I got to an intersection beyond which the road narrowed again and went up and down some larger hills and thought, “Time to find out what's what.”

Fortunately there was a fellow who had seen me and I didn't need to go far to get directions. “Graber? If you stand over there by the barn you can see their buildings.” I knew that I wasn't far off. But what really struck me about our little conversation is that mannerism that I'd taken to be idiosyncratic to one individual were in fact communal; not just the accent. The world is always larger than we first imagine.

So I turned left, then turned left again. Everything was as my guide had said it would be. I went through the bend in the road, saw the grave yard on the right and thinking that I could see my destination ahead thought, “That's what I like about my job, it takes me to these interesting places.” But when I realized the complex of buildings wasn't GFS I was again gripped by anxiety. Let's remember that I'm out in the boonies with a big truck. These roads may be traveled by trucks but they aren't highways, and where I happened to be at that point they weren't even paved. They weren't nearly as bad as I've seen them in winter but it had recently rained and I was suddenly worried that I was still lost. “That's why I hate my job.”

I wasn't lost. After another bend in the road I hadn't been warned about the road leveled off and my goal came in sight. When I pulled in one of the hands came up and asked, “You make it alright?” I'm thinking, “What do you mean, I'm here aren't I?” but he continued saying, “We saw you go by. I called Herk 'cause if you'd gone down that dead end road it gets mighty narrow and the shoulders are soft. You'd probably have gotten stuck.” I checked my phone and there was a missed call from Herk. My dispatcher. It must have come in while I was getting directions.

Whew, catastrophe avoided. But I thought wistfully about the adventure, being on a road that had seen no more motorized vehicles than the trucks that had laid the gravel, the mail carrier and maybe the car of an estranged daughter? An adventure best left to the imagination, for everyone's sake.

 

*                         *                         *

 

You'd think that I'd be used to being treated as a stationary, unfeeling traffic barrel by now, but no, I guess you never get over it. I haven't anyway. The rudeness, the insensitivity. Is it my imagination or is it getting worse? In any case I'd like to know what makes everyone not only expect, but often demand that I accommodate them? When I last checked maneuverability, visibility, acceleration, braking for heaven's sake are all much easier on four wheeled vehicles. If I give up the speed and momentum that I've established it's going to take me a long time to regain it, and use a lot of fuel. What about the Environment? I don't know what you all are doing out on the road, but I happen to be at work.

 

Won't You Be My Neighbor?

 

I saw the old man sitting on his stoop but looked past him, kept walking. After all I was in New York City and that's the way people do it there; city mode, mind your own business. But my instincts told me that I should have acknowledged him, said hello. I felt as if I'd missed an opportunity to make both of our lives just a little better.

Jonah later confirmed that my instincts were in fact correct. Talking about the Brooklyn neighborhood he now lives in he said that everybody was really friendly, except the white people moving in. He said, “The white people are singular,” and made a flat plane of his hand, bounced the tip of his index finger against his forehead a couple of times then forcefully extended his arm away from his face. “Singular.” That's exactly what I had done with the old man thinking it was what was expected of me. Of course Jonah and Brandon are white, but then they're gay, perhaps there's a difference?

Over the course of our stay I found that to be true, that the people in the neighborhood were friendly. In fact I'd already noticed it, in a way. Not that people were friendly, but that they certainly weren't hostile. We'd gotten in Thursday afternoon and parked the truck at the Brooklyn Navy Yard, where I'd loaded the back haul for our return trip. Tashicka, the security guard who is stationed outside of the facility we parked at saw us walking with our backpacks on, Cathy trailing a wheeled carry on bag. She asked to make sure that we'd cleared parking with the office, which we had, and where we were going. “Oh, that's right around the corner. I'm just getting off work, hop in, I'll give you a ride.”

If there were a theme for this trip it would be how nice everybody was, how neighborly, in a city known for cold indifference.

Apparently Tashicka trusted our vibe. Right around the corner turned out to be several miles away, through cross town traffic. The whole time her purse was sitting on the back seat next to me, open. Perhaps she was testing me, watching in the rear view mirror ready to claw me with her extravagantly painted nails if I tried anything. Between the demands of driving and her continuous monologue about her sister, her niece, and her friends I'd probably have had several chances to have stolen something, but even if I'd had the inclination I know better than to underestimate a native New Yorker.

An unintended consequence of the ride was that we had hours to kill before Jonah got home from work. If we'd had to orient ourselves and find public transportation at least some of that time would have been used up, but as it was we wandered around for quite a bit looking for some place to land for the wait. It was a residential area and there weren't many options. We finally found a little tree filled park right around the corner from Jonah's brownstone, but until then we got quite the tour of the neighborhood. The area is overwhelmingly black and we passed quite a few people, including groups of young black men loitering on street corners, but I never felt threatened. My radar never once registered danger, and believe me I had my radar on.

There was one time when we'd crossed the street to avoid just such a gathering when we accidentally walked right into the middle of another group of young black men coming around a corner. One of them was in front of us, separated from the group. He didn't pay no never mind, he turned around and started walking backwards, still talking to his buddies. But the rest of the group stopped and one of them actually called the guy ahead of us back, then they waited until we'd walked on a ways before they followed.

Courtesy, what a quaint old fashioned notion.

The park we found was quiet. We claimed a bench under some trees, basketball goals before us and playground equipment behind. After awhile school must have let out or something. The basketball court developed a real game and the playground got busy. Some beat cops came in and spent about twenty minutes talking to some young mothers watching their children. I remember thinking then that Sesame Street must have been somewhere close thereabouts.

*                         *                         *

But no, I haven't gone back over the road. I was determined not to let years go by before I visited my son again. I was asking for time off to do just that when they offered me a load to take out there, rather than buying a plane ticket. They said they'd find me a place to park. I waited for months for this to happen and then all of a sudden it did. There was enough lead time to clear everything with Jonah and Cathy, the woman I've been dating for about a year, so we did it. They still hadn't found us a place to park when we'd left, so I was biting my nails over that, but it all worked out.

Yes, believe it or not I actually volunteered to drive a big truck in New York City. As expected it was a trip. We drove out to the truck stops in Bordentown NJ to overnight, then enter the city in the wee hours to make a 8:00 AM delivery of cut limestone in Maspeth, Queens. I got the directions from the contractor but when I compared them to the map they didn't match. I called back. “I don't find Maurice Ave. off of the BQE (Brooklyn Queens Expressway), I find it off of the Long Island Expressway.”

”The BQE turns into the Long Island Expressway.”

”Excuse me but it doesn't,” I thought, but didn't bother to say. I could certainly get onto the Long Island Expressway. Then I went over the rest of the directions again from there, twice, because the dude was Scottish and a wee bit hard to understand. Coming from Brooklyn get onto the LIE east, get off at Maurice, turn left under the freeway then left at the second street, just past the BP station, park and call him. Got it.

Everything seemed to be going according to plan. I took the second left under the freeway on Maurice avenue and there was even a BP station there. We were on time despite an unexpected construction backup over the Verrazano Narrows. Parking, however, meant occupying my lane with my flashers on, but this was NY, people double park all the time. There was a grave yard on the right and a police impound lot on the left. I was just hoping we didn't end up parked in the latter.

I called the contractor. He said he'd be right there. Twenty minuets later I called back. He said he was looking for me, where was I again? I had to move a couple of time to allow other traffic to do things. In fact I was running out of road to move forward down when the contractor called back. I very carefully repeated the directions he had given me the evening before. “Oh, I know where you are.” He then gave me further directions and said I'd see him and could follow him then. Having looked at the map and compared the directions I'd been given the first time to the directions I'd been given the second time, and inferring from the street numbers that hadn't ever matched either I'd intuitively guessed that what he now told me to do was what I was supposed to do all along, but I wasn't about to go following hunches when I had explicit instructions. At least I was comfortable with this next step.

Sure enough when I turned onto 55th Ave. an arm waved out of a red pickup truck which then jumped into traffic in front of me. We were off. He led me through a warren of narrow streets driving like a New Yorker, which is to say fast, and without turn signals alerting me to set up for a left or right turn. I went through a red light to keep up with him. At one point I had to go up onto the sidewalk on the other side of the street to make a tight right hand turn, but then that's not unusual for NY either. We ended up on a narrow one way street above the Long Island Expressway.

There's more that I could tell you about the unloading process that you might find amusing but I'll move on to the next phase of the adventure, getting to the Brooklyn Navy Yard. I'd gotten directions to that at the same time that I'd gotten directions to the Queens delivery, back in Jersey. We had our eyes peeled on the way in. “There it is, exit 30, cool.” Only that was on the way in. There was no exit 30 going west on the BQE. I got off at the very next exit which put us in downtown Brooklyn during noon traffic. Oops. I knew the general direction that we needed to go so I took what roads I could make turns onto but we weren't getting there. Cathy used Hello Google to map it. The congenial voice of Google kept telling me to turn left at the next street, only those turns were impossible with a big truck, even going left. These directions were clearly meant for a passenger vehicle, not a semi-truck. There was one road I could have turned down but a beer truck was double parked there with it's flashers on. We finally made it back to where I could simply ignore Google, which was trying to take us to a different gate, and follow my original instructions.

Oh yeah, driving in NY is always fun, especially in a big truck. Cathy tells me she has new respect for what I do for a living.

Given my druthers this would be a work in progress, but I figure I've left my readers dry far too often and won't withhold what I've already written until I feel it complete. Hopefully I'll be back with more on our trip to the big city and more...

 

Long Nightmare

 

I guess staying tuned doesn't yield high rewards. My apologies. Hey, I work long hours, and often have to be back at work soon after I get home. I worked a 14 ¾ hour day today, the difference being that they need my truck for training purposes tomorrow and I'm only supposed to call in around 9:00 to see if they're done yet. Why, that's more than 12 hours from now; unheard of.

So; (I get a kick out how people preface a remark with “So” these days. I've heard it a lot lately).

So; I was driving from Nashville back to Bloomington when I passed a sign for Nature's Way Landscaping. If I'm not listening to music then any little thing will spark a tune in my head. I started singing Nature's Way by Spirit, off of their Twelve Dreams of Dr. Sardonicus album, which I used to own back in the day.

Not that there was anything wrong with the music in my head, but I realized that I was near Bloomington and wondered if WFHB, the local community radio station was within range. I turned it on and it was. They were playing what sounded to be some obscure psychedelia. “Wait a minuet, I know that song...” It was The Morning Will Come by Spirit, off of their Twelve Dreams of Dr. Sardonicus album. I haven't heard or thought of that album for a dozen years, at least. How's that for serendipity?

So; (here we go again) it's been a little while but earlier we had a rash of oversize loads. We only have one trailer that is extendable and had only one truck with an oversize permit. Then we delivered three bridge beams to...I forget where, but we used the pole trailers that the precast outfit owns, the company that makes the beams. So my company bought two more permits and since then these oversize loads keep popping up. At $600.00 a year for the permit I'm sure they're just trying to get their money's worth.

 

 

One of the first of these loads that I hauled was also the longest load I've ever hauled. It was 76' long and seemed huge to me. I was feeling all special driving down I-69 with my “Oversize Load” banners on, and the red flags flying from all the corners and the middle of the load. Then I came to a small traffic backup. It was due to two truly huge bridge beams, their ends supported on sixteen wheeled steerable platforms, with a squadron of State Police for escort. When we'd get to an overpass the Police would block off any entrance ramps and make a rolling road block so that only the beam itself, one at a time, was on the span. There was too much weight there for anything more.

When I finally got my chance to pass I felt like a micro bus next to those things. Humble Pie.

I was pulling another load almost as long out of the same place and had just gotten up to speed on US 30 out of Columbia City when I head a loud POW. I thought I'd had a blowout but when I turned my head to check my right mirror, to make a controlled stop on the shoulder, I saw that the back window of my day cab was a mass of cracks and was dimpled inward at its center. “WTF” was all I could think, then the window fell just like in the cartoons with a few chunks falling first, a few more, then suddenly the bulk of it all at once. A few lingering pieces continued to tinkle down even after I'd come to a stop.

I've seen rocks knock a ding in a windshield, but never saw nor heard about one breaking to pieces. I thought maybe I'd been shot at. I didn't want to but my safety manager insisted that I call 911. If I had been shot at then it should be reported. The sheriff who responded assured me that a bullet would have passed through the windshield, not shattered it. Looking at the extendable trailer I was hauling I saw how the front of the drive wheels were left exposed. The difference was between a rock flying up and hitting a window, and a rock being flung by a drive wheel directly into a window. Since then I've heard a plethora of stories about broken windshields, usually while bob tailing (without a trailer). As for me, I wore my hardhat all the way back. I figured if another rock got thrown I would no longer have a window there to protect me.

But the gravest misadventure that I had with an oversize load was outside of Greencastle. Usually the contractors on these oversize projects are very conscientious in scouting the route and making certain everything is safe and doable. They sometimes even have flagmen stationed at key locations to stop traffic. Yes, just as you've guessed, not this time.

Everything seemed straight forward enough, until I got to the turn that I was supposed to make that was in fact a one way street going the wrong direction. It turned out to be both easy and hard to get back on track. Easy because downtown Greencastle is laid out on a grid, hard because the streets are narrow and I was 60 some feet long. By completely stopping traffic I made it. After that I left town and it became a drive in the country, until I got to the job site spanning some “Unnamed Tributary” to the Big Walnut Creek.

Another thing that the contractors usually do is tell the driver whether to pull in or back in. In the absence of any instruction I'd pulled in. After a half an hour's deliberation they decided that the beam was positioned on the trailer wrong and I was going to have to back that behemoth out of the narrow wooded valley, then come back in backward.

It was mid morning and most everyone was at work but on the way up I spied a surly looking man watching me suspiciously from beside his house. “Don't worry old man,” I said to him though he couldn't hear me, “I won't get onto your lawn.”

The turn around would have been much easier if the intersection had been a cross street. I could have backed straight through, turned, backed straight through, turned, then backed straight through again. Unfortunately it was a “T”and I had to back out and back in again around the turn. On top of that it wasn't at 90° either. The way out was easy, the way back in not so much. I tried really hard to stay on the pavement but found it impossible. My job would have been a lot easier if I'd gone up onto the front lawn of the people across from the entrance, but I kept the damage to around the corner itself, where one might expect to see tire marks anyway.

This whole operation took awhile and every so often a car would come from one direction or another. When that happened I'd pull over to one side and let them by. On the way back in a car came from in front of me. I pulled over but it didn't pass. I motioned it on and it slowly came abreast of me and stopped. The man driving rolled down his window. He didn't look happy. He said something that I didn't catch, except that it was about his lawn.

“Oh no, here it comes,” I thought as I shut my truck off to hear what he had to say, and so that he could hear me apologize and assure him that he would be made whole. Instead he said, “I don't need to get by, I'm just going to pick up that trash off my lawn.” Looking in my mirror I could see the pile of fast food refuse he was indicating.

We chatted about the beautiful weather for a bit then he said, “You're pretty good at that,” indicating the truck with the long beam pointed the wrong direction. “Well,” I said, “I'm getting practice anyway.” At that his grim expression softened into a chuckle. Later he wished me a good day. “It can't get much worse than this,” I said, hoping for another chuckle. Instead his expression hardened and he asked, “You sure?” “No,” I had to admit. As it turned out he was right, but that's another story.

A little later I saw that same old man I'd seen on the way up still out watching me. I repeated my mute assurances then gave my attention to my mirrors. Suddenly I realized he was on the very edge of the road giving me a thumbs up, then he stood at attention and saluted. I was touched.

Wow, two strangers out in the country whose countenance I'd interpreted as hostile, yet both were congenial and gave me respect. I was reminded of my jaunt through the mountains of Wales. I think I told you about the narrow one lane road that GPS routed us across. We passed several pedestrians out there; a farmer, a shepard, a woman walking her dogs. I was worried about a Deliverance scenario, or better yet Wicker Man, afraid they were going to sacrifice us to some ancient Celtic god to ensure the harvest. Each time we approached their expressions were hard, each time we'd wave and each time they'd wave back.