Real Panic!

 

Have you noticed that I tend to exaggerate? I was nowhere near "panic!" We're talking heightened excitement, at the outside. It was noteworthy. I made a note of it. It got me to write. I'm writing still, I hope.

There's more about that day that was noteworthy. I was told to come in at 7:30 in the morning like usual so I did. The boss wasn't in yet so I went out and fired up the truck. The turn signal on the side of the cab wasn't blinking so I went into the shop to borrow a screw driver and Chris said, "You're supposed to be in Louisville, what are you doing here?"

"Nobody told me," I said. Seriously, I thought he was joking. Ten minutes later, as I was returning the screw driver the head honcho of the whole company, my bosses boss comes up to me and said, "There are bills on the desk that you need to take with you," then stalked off in his accustomed hurry, with a look back that said I need to follow.

I'm thinking, "Take with me, take where?" In between I'd seen Herk, my boss in the parking lot and he didn't say anything except "Hi Steve, how are you?"

I went to investigate. Herk wasn't in his office so I perused the papers sitting on the desk and voiced a general query to the dispatchers at their stations. Steve said, "That's them there, Alero Steel, Louisville."

OK, I look for a trailer number and don't find one so I ask. "4968, it's on the Jeffersonville yard. You have a ten o'clock appointment so you'd better get going." It all falls into place. I am supposed to be in Louisville and everybody knows it, including the freaking mechanics, except me.

So what do I do? It was then 7:59. It takes an hour forty five minutes to get to Jeffersonville, seven minutes in a hurry to hook to a trailer, making sure it's safe to haul, and another twenty minutes, at least to get to someplace you know where you're going in Louisville, if there's no traffic on the bridge. The ten o'clock appointment was blown already but the situation salvageable. I jam into overdrive. I hate being late, especially when it's not my fault. I'm sure to be the one to suffer, anyway.

It was foggy; heavy fog. I would undoubtedly get behind some spineless slowpoke on IN 60 so I wanted to make as good time as I could on the four lane. The directions that I'd lingered long enough to get from Steve (you can't hurry anywhere if you don't know where you're going) said, "No room to park," so I had all sorts of nightmare scenarios going through my head.

Suddenly a stopped vehicle materialized in front of me. "What the hell?!" I checked my mirror and there was a car back there but not beside me so I hit the turn signal and changed lanes probably before the signal had a chance to activate. Then the red light materialized out of the fog. I'd completely forgotten the light at Walnut Street!

How wrong, how wrong. Now that was a panic situation and I played it wrong. There was no possibility in hell that I could stop but I checked my mirror and changed lanes with the assumption that I could keep moving. I was merely lucky that the car behind me was able to stop too. I should have taken the shoulder.

Sigh, nobody was hurt, that time. Hopefully that will put the fear of Death and mangled machinery in me to last another six months before I inevitably grow complacent again, forgetting how dangerous this enterprise really is. There were no squealing brakes or angry motorists either, just for the record, but I know that I played it wrong.

Much sobered I continued on. I was still in a hurry, I'd just forgotten rule number one: don't let anyone else drive the truck for you; not your boss's boss, nor the fear of retribution for something that might even have been your fault.

I made good time to Mitchell. I went as fast as I thought safe. I passed people, people passed me. I know the road and believe me I didn't forget any more traffic lights.

Sure enough I got behind a slowpoke just outside Mitchell on IN 60. This guy or gal was doing between 35 and 40 on a 55 mph road. Do you know how long it takes to get from point A to point Z at 40 mph (that's a rhetorical question)? I was only second in what became a long line of cars, and bob-tailing, but passing was out of the question in that fog. What gets me is the discourtesy. There were plenty of places that I could have pulled over to let people by even if I'd had a trailer attached. At that speed he couldn't have been in a hurry, or was it the power trip again?

Wait for it. You guessed; there's a moral to this story, as if you haven't osmosised it already. Seriously, I cannot believe it myself but despite the delay and though I was hurrying on the four lane I wasn't going as fast as I would have normally; given all that it still only took me an hour and forty five minutes to traverse the distance. Same difference. How does that happen?

I was still late, of course, that was a given. What did I say, it would take twenty minutes to get across the river to somewhere you knew you were going in Louky? Well I didn't know where I was going and the directions were coming from the south so I got lost. It took me thirty minutes. I was half an hour late. Not bad enough to call in the National Guard under anyone's rule.

Not only that but "no room to park" must have meant "no overnight parking" because the place was wide open, even if there'd been a line of trucks ahead of me. As it turned out there wasn't. I was the only one, though there was a line by the time I'd left. When I apologized for being late I was told it was first come first served anyway.

When I'd started this mad journey that nearly cost me my life I was all ready to lay the blame on Herk, but by the end of it I choose to adopt his attitude: Relax.

But what I really wanted to share was the beauty of the Knobs, those hills along the Ohio River that resemble the larger ones on the other side in Kentucky. I don't know their geology, but you'll know what I mean if you've ever seen them.

All the leaves have fallen save for the Oak, Beech and whatever other species hold on throughout the season. At this early stage their leaves are still plentiful, deeply muted but colorful no less. So the Knobs were golden on my way back north. The fog was gone but the atmosphere still humid. With the bright sun low to the horizon the light was so diffuse that nothing was clear but a golden glow on the hillsides. Only oil paint could have captured that, under a master's hand.

Thanks for reading.