But I’d trade all my tomatoes
For a single yesterday…
Butchered lyrics
from a great travelin’
song
I’d be deadheading a flat rack down
the coast on US 101, overnighting about King City, then headin’ out before dawn
fueled only by dishwater coffee and a pancake sandwich slathered in imitation
maple syrup and a couple of eggs.
And a side of hash browns. And
rye toast. (If my mother calls,
tell her I had the rye toast dry.)
My destination? Lompoc:
Roger Ramjet’s home base back in the 60s.
There, I’ll load up. The
manifest? Tankards of bulk Chardonnay,
strapped down good. I’ll swing back
north through Salinas and Frisco, and across the Gate. We’ll off load ‘er a couple of hours
north, near the southern edge of the Emerald Triangle. Then I’ll find a neon lit boot-scoot in
Healdsburg and throw down a cold one.
That’s the plan, at least.
In preparation, I purchased an iron rod so I could
occasionally stop by the side of the road and bounce it off the rig’s tires and
a new deck of playing cards to roll up into the sleeve of my t-shirt so it’d
look like I was toting a pack of Marlboros, or better yet, Chesterfield
straights. That’s what the long
haul truckers do, right?
It’s a two-day run.
One I’ve looked forward to: the freedom of the open road, the whining of
the tires on the slab, the rhythmic slap of the wipers streaking across a
pitted windshield, sunburned elbow out the window, singin’ “Bobby McGhee.” Truck
stops with dyed-red-haired waitresses I’d never see again but who’d refer to me,
like a regular, as “honey.” Sweet, blue diesel fumes. Sleepin’ in the back of the cab with only a musty, moth-eaten
army blanket and an AM radio for company.
Maybe I can pen me some lyrics overnight. You know: about the romance of life out on the four-lane.
Reality often differs from fantasy
or the dream world. While in
college and during my first few years of teaching, I did a little trucking to
help make ends meet. My rig this weekend would bring new meaning to the term
“little trucking.”
The winemaking daughter lashed six empties onto a
five-by-twelve trailer and sent me eight hours south to pick up some raw
material she’d secured through a broker.
I didn’t find myself racked out in the sleeper because a
Nissan crew cab doesn’t come with one.
Rather, I made arrangements for a night in a motel about half way down
and ended up in a room that had been declared “non-smoking” about 48 hours
prior to my checking in.
Breakfast, ninety minutes down the road the next morning, was an omelet
and some weak coffee and banter with the waitress was pleasant, even a bit
flirtatious.
Barreling down 101 with a trailer, I found it a better plan
to maintain some sort of a schedule than to stop for any of the historical or
scenic attractions along the way. Besides,
parking with a trailer is a pain.
Therefore, added to my motorcycle bucket list is a comprehensive tour of
all of California’s missions using 101 as the main corridor for the ride.
Forty years after my stint as a casual trucker, I still
harbor nightmares of the freight I improperly stacked only to have it collapse
and spill and the hours I spent at the end of my shift swabbing out gallons of varnish that didn’t make it
to the paint store. So I was delighted that the folks at the facility from which
the bulk was being purchased were able to fill the barrels without having to loosen
them from the trailer.
The return trip began shortly before noon and it would be
ten o’clock before I would finally shut ‘er down. Periods of heavy showers through the Bay Area brought out
many of the western hemisphere’s amateur drivers. Just south of Morgan Hill, an empty pickup hot-rodded past
me on the left and slipped into the truck lane I was using. At about 70, he hydroplaned across a
flooded section spinning 90 degrees.
I braced myself for a crash.
When his back wheels met traction he rocketed off the freeway and up an
embankment about forty feet where he still may be mired in the mud. One can only hope.
North of San Jose, 101 was clogged because of Friday
commute, lousy road conditions, a spate of rain-induced fender benders in the
gathering dusk, and the fact that a parallel freeway was closed due to some
civil disobedience over a recent grand jury finding elsewhere in the nation. Then there are those surface street
miles in downtown San Francisco where US 101 ceases to be a freeway.
A stop at the north tower vista point of the Golden Gate
Bridge afforded the only scenic shot my camera would take on this little
adventure.
The sixty-eight miles from the south bay to here consumed two hours and
forty-five minutes.
By 10:15, I am at home (I am to deliver the goods locally
the next morning) sitting in front of a gas flamed fire with a dram of Knob
Creek over ice and reflecting on my days as a long haul trucker. I’d listened to a lot of NPR and other
than the omelet, all I’d had to eat was some pie and ice cream at a Denny’s
outside of Soledad. But I'm not
hungry. Just tired.
And satisfied.
© 2014
Church of the Open Road
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