10-4 Magazine December 2022

10-4 Magazine / December 2022 57 I had run over three of those reflectors on the inside median strip. When he stopped to breathe, I asked again, who he was and how he would know that and remember it 45 years later? I have never told anyone about that incident, but I’m reminded of it often because I still have that truck and there’s a dent just under the driver’s side windshield where the reflectors hit the cab. “Dennis, I was riding with you that night, and I grabbed the wheel before you drove into the rocks,” the old man said. “Another time you were hauling chemicals for Corder out of Belleville, Michigan, when you were returning to the yard from Texas, and you fell asleep again, this time just north of Monroe, Michigan, on I-75. We took a ride down through the grass right there where 275 goes north, remember? It took both of us that night, gripping the wheel, to keep it from turning over, but it didn’t, and we kept it upright.” I stood there unable to move, not comprehending what was happening. Once again, he spoke, and this time he started with... “How about that time in Wisconsin when you got your first new truck, the red one called Spirit Chaser. It wasn’t more than a couple weeks old when we ran into a snowstorm. You were so sure of yourself you hung it out in the left lane and pushed down on the throttle. To the devil, be damned, I’m gonna deliver this load on time, you said. Well, we were damned, and as the snow got deeper you continued to push the limits of man and machine,” he said. “You didn’t see the drift until it was too late, and the truck was sucked off into the ditch. Fortunately, it wasn’t as deep in the center of the road, and I hit the gas, sending us up onto the other side of the road and up the westbound side entrance ramp. As I remember it, you lost all your confidence that night, and had to change your clothes, too, before we started out again, at a much slower pace,” he said. “Old Timer, how can you know these things, I’ve never seen you before?” I asked with a puzzled look. Once again, I check my watch and politely tell the old timer I have to go or I will be late and have to reschedule, and there’s no money in that. He waves goodbye and starts off into the night, walking down the row of parked trucks, then stops and turns to remark, “Dennis, don’t drive faster than your guardian angel can fly.” He then disappeared into the darkness. Needless to say, I was more than a little shaken by that crazy old man, but I just chalked it up to a trucker’s tale and hit the pavement. Rolling through the gears, I took inventory of the cab, making sure I’m the only one in it. The miles roll past my window and I making good time, but I hadn’t eaten all day, so I headed into the nearest mom-and-pop diner and sat at the counter. The waitress called out, “What will it be, Sweetheart?” Since the night had turned cold, I was not felling my best, and thought maybe I had a fever coming on. I asked if the soup was any good, and she said she didn’t know, but to ask the customer on the end of the bar. Sitting there was a man that looked like a traveling salesman, eating a bowl of soup and a sandwich, quietly by himself. When he looked up, I nearly passed out, as it was that crazy old man again, except this time he looked much younger, but it was still his face. Once again, this man called me by name, saying, “Dennis, try the bean soup, it will be good for what ails you and it will really warm you up.” I must have looked a sight, as even the waitress asked if I was feeling alright. I shrugged it off and told her to forget the soup, just get me a bologna sandwich and coffee to go. I didn’t have time to get into another long conversation with that traveler who seemed to be following me. Back on the road, I was upset, and maybe even shook up. I couldn’t have slept if I found a place to stop or had the time, so onward I went. As the hours ticked away, I couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to me back there at the fuel stop and again at the diner. Am I so stressed out and exhausted that I am losing it! Have I become so consumed with making money that I no longer have any life? Could it be time for me to hang up the keys for good? I don’t want to retire, but I’m no longer young, and this truckin’ game is a young man’s sport. Maybe it’s time for me to rethink how hard I run. I feel strong, and all through my life, there has never been any task I couldn’t accomplish. Could it be that old man is right – I’m careless? My whole life I have counted in dollars and cents. I do find myself taking chances that I would not expect from men half my age. I tell myself, “Now is no time to stop, I still have things I want to do before my days are finished behind the wheel. Someday, I hope to make a run from Miami, Florida, to Dead Horse, Alaska. I have been most of the way already, but there is still the northern most leg that remains to be completed. Maybe next year. My old truck has completed yet another haul, and I find myself parked in the holding lot, waiting for them to get my trailer unloaded. The bunk heater is on and my cab is warm and toasty, so I decide to settle down for a long winter’s nap. As my eyes close and the muscles of my cramped legs relax, there’s a knock on the door. I know there hasn’t been enough time to off-load that trailer yet, so I drag myself out of the bunk expecting to be insulted, injured, or instructed to do something more for the receiver.