SIZE MATTERS

"Every mornin' at the mine you could see him arrive
He stood 6 foot 6 and weighed 245
Kinda broad at the shoulder and narrow at the hip
And everybody knew you didn't give no lip
To Big John"
James Dean, Big bad john


I have often wondered how I would run my trucking company if I was 6'4" and weighed 245 instead of 5'7"...in shoes with thick soles and heels...160. I mean, would I have more confidence to push my agenda (on employees, customers, etc.) through at six four than the five seven little bugger that I am? You betcha. People look at six four and five seven differently. Who would you rather ask for a raise? The Rock or Dustin Hoffman?
Six four, 245 is a hunk of man. What employee is going to charge fuel to my fuel card and put it into another trucker's tanks when he has to answer to six four, 245? Who would dare sell a load lock for cash because they spent all their expense money on scratch-offs? (And then tell me somebody stole the load lock, or they inadvertently left it on a dock. What if I found out the truth?) Or tell me they were sick and couldn't drive when they wanted to stay home, knowing that six four would come knocking at their door...or break it down.
Who would dare be late for a delivery?
Who would dare get in an accident?
Who would dare give s__t to a customer?
Who would dare break into a customer's building and take a dump on his office floor because that customer closed before he got there?
Who would dare, because...
I'D SLAP THE SNOT OUT OF ALL OF THEM...TIE THEM UP BY THEIR ANKLES AND LET THEM SAMPLE THE BASTINADO!
And what about my customers? Woe to the person who does not pay within my terms...late charge, 2 per cent of his flesh. And how could a customer refuse my rate increase if he knew I could put a hole in his chest with my fist and rip his heart out before he had a chance to say no? I mean, two truckers go into the same customer's office looking for a rate increase. The customer is a scrawny five nine nonentity with spindle-thin legs and arms to match. The first trucker, a five seven, one fifty-five pound twerp asks somewhat demurely for a dime a hundred-weight increase. The second trucker...me...a six four, 245 pound mass of sinew and beefcake, demands a quarter a hundred...or else. Who is the customer going to give the rate increase to? Or, who is he most likely to say no to, knowing that one guy will simply turn around and walk, muttering to himself that maybe the customer can't afford a rate increase now and he will try again next year...and the other might castrate him?
I would take on the greedheads in Albany and Washington, DC and squish them like a bug; make them ride with my drivers and see first hand, up close and personal, the manifestations of their manager-trainee sized thoughts, rules, and regulations. I would force them to pay my lumper fees for a month.
And the lady in the Lexus who pulled in front of my truck in March and slammed on her brakes causing my driver to rear end her car; who said she was not injured, had very little damage to her car (no damage to my truck), and zipped away from the scene only to have a lawyer now claim she is suffering "serious and permanent" injuries. I would be the insurance company and settle this claim, making sure her injuries WERE "serious and permanent."
Yes, sir. If I were six four, 245, I would have employees, customers, et alia marching in lockstep in my parade. All the world would be my stage. And my company would be Fleet Owner's perennial FLEET OF THE YEAR, and top dog in Commercial Carrier Journal's TOP 100. But...
Alas, I am not six four, 245. I am five seven...in shoes with thick soles and heels...and 160 pounds.
It makes a difference.

SOME MAKE IT...SOME DON'T

"The only place where success comes before work is a dictionary." Vidal Sassoon, quoting one of his teachers.

Why is it I have problems with the same owner-operators over and over again; and never have problems with other owner-operators? Why is it that whenever I get a phone call in the middle of the night, before I pick up the receiver, I usually know who it is? I just don't know the problem du jour. Or when I get a phone call in the morning wondering where a truck is, because it is not at its destination, why it's always the same few owner-operators who are late?
ALWAYS!
And when you call their cell phone they never answer because they don't want to hear it. Or they answer their phone and blame their tardiness on everything from their wife not calling to wake them up, to the weather (always a good excuse in upstate New York), to the proverbial flat tire that nobody could fix until morning. Why is it never their fault?
NEVER!
Why can't they just say, "It's my fault. I screwed up."
To wit:
ME (9am--on the phone to Dewane): Dewane, I've got one from western New York to Swedesboro, New Jersey. You want it?
Why is it I have to ask the same owner-operators if they want to work and just tell others what to do because I know they want to work?
DEWANE: What's it pay?
Why do some of my regular owner-operarors always ask this question and my other regulars, the ones who want to work, just trust me? And why are the worker's 1099s always considerably more than the owner-operators who ask, "What's it pay?"
ME: Thousand dollars. Nine hundred to you.
DEWANE: Yeah, I'll take it. But first I have to go to the DMV to straighten out my license. It'll be a couple of hours before I can go.
Why is it the same owner-operators always have something to do before they can go and others just go?

DEWANE (Noon--at the garage): You said this load is nine hundred to me?
ME: Yes.
DEWANE: Where's my backhaul...Philly?
ME: Probably.
DEWANE: Then give me a five hundred advance.
Why do the same owner-operators always need an advance and the same owner-operators never need an advance?
DEWANE: Make that five and a quarter. I've got to give Brent twenty-five to change a tire.
ME (incrediblby): He hasn't changed that tire yet! It's been two days!
DEWANE: No.
Why do the same owner-operators take care of their equipment...make sure whatever needs to be done is done before they have to drive...and the same owner-operators wait until the last minute to have work done to their truck...or don't have it done at all?
DEWANE: I've got to go to the DMV while he's changing that tire.
ME (more incredibly): You haven't gone yet? (The DMV is two miles max from Dewane's apartment.)
DEWANE: I'm going now...

DEWANE (2 pm--back from the DMV): They suspended my license.
ME (most incredibly): Why!
DEWANE: That Camaro of mine my cousin totaled...I cancelled the insurance, but my wife never turned in the plates. She said the garage wouldn't give them to her because they claimed nobody paid the tow bill.
Why do the same owner-operators say "nobody paid the tow bill" when they mean: I didn't pay the tow bill because I didn't have the money and wasn't going to work hard enough to earn it; and let's just hope the DMV doesn't catch up to me.
ME: Dewane, it's 2 pm. I've got to cover this order.
DEWANE (ostensibly): Let me go back to the DMV. Maybe they can call Albany and get this thing straightened out.
ME: Call me.

DEWANE (5 pm--back from the DMV): There's nothing they can do. The paperwork has to be cleared in Albany.

Why do some owner-operators make it and some owner-operators do not?

The Highway Reporter

I'M BACK!

"As a dog returneth to his vomit, so a fool returneth to his folly." [Proverbs 26:11]
After a three week hiatus that included a trip to Florida for some golf and the Daytona 500, a vicious bout with the flu--sickest I've been in twenty years--and a brief period of mourning for my man, author Hunter Stockton Thompson, I'm back. While I was gone, sick, and mourning I had absolutely no desire to comment on this wretched business of ours. I mean, I'm in 70 degree Florida sunshine golfing, then thirty yards from the start-finish line where Aston Kutcher was seen canoodling with Demi Moore, swilling Coronas and Grand Marnier, and I'm going to comment on cutting fuel with kerosene to get through an upstate New York winter. I'm on a boat hopping from bar to bar on the intercoastal waterway and I'm going to stop to comment on the absolutely ludicrous (my opinion) 150 dollar unloading charge at Burris Logistics, Orlando, Florida. I should have driven the fifty miles to their warehouse and slapped the snot out of whoever arrived at the one-fifty figure and made them thank my driver for driving through a king-hell snowstorm to make his unloading appointment. And I did not even care when Mayrsohn International Trading Co., Inc., Miami, Florida did not exchange pallets with our truck (they never do) and we had to pay $132.00 for pallets for our backhaul.
No, sir, I was on vacation and did not care! Then, midway through our R & R, I was whacked by a savage bout of the flu and REALLY did not care. I do not take any medication because I am allergic to something--I have never bothered to find out what it is I am allergic to, although I think it is in Contact and NyQuil--so I stay away from all medications and tough my sickness out with orange juice. I'm in seventy degree Florida weather, my wife is tanning, and I am freezing because of a fever. When Jeff called to tell me two drive shafts and one rear end went on two tractors within forty-eight hours I just shrugged it off as an expensive cost in an expensive business. I usually go beserk, but I was shot, physically spent until my fever broke the day we left good ole Fla. for home.
On Monday, the day before we left while I was swearing at myself and wondering how I could possibly get the flu in Florida, I received a call from Lori, my daughter.
"Did you hear what happened to your friend?" she asked.
"What friend?" I said.
"Hunter Thompson," she said.
"MY MAN!"
"Your boy shot himself," she said.
"You're kidding!" I said.
"I'll e-mail you the article," she said.
I couldn't believe it. He didn't kill himself, I thought. He staged his suicide. This is just a cruel joke he is playing on us, his loyal readers. I could believe that my man dumped a motorcycle and wrapped himself around a tree after a gallon of 120 proof Wild Turkey. I could believe somebody put a bullet through his left eye while trying to whack an apple off his head...on a bet, of course...and after a gallon of 120 proof Wild Turkey. My man was one crazy writer, one of "The People Who Are Inexplicably Still Alive" according to Playboy (January 2004, pg. 223). After all the whiskey, after all the drugs, after all the outrageous behavior he was still alive. Why would he want to kill himself?
I found out later the good Doctor Thompson had been planning his death for some time. He wanted to die. Whether it was because of failing health or failed talent, he wanted to die. Anita, his second wife, said he did it right...very little blood, bone, and brain splattered all over the kitchen. He kept most of it together. He knew how to use a pistol.
So it was with a tired body and heavy heart that I returned home...to some cruel and expensive repair bills that made the cost of my trip seem like chump change. But I did not care because I returned home less one friend I had never met.

The Highway Reporter

RANDOM THOUGHTS: 1-4

"You can't think rationally on an empty stomach, and a whole lot of people can't do it on a full one either." Lord Reith, British administrator.

1) Every time I fill out a "renewal alert" for one of our trade magazines I have to smile; but I fill them out, although I don't know why. I guess I just feel like the trades are simply out of touch with my trucking company, and the renewal alert is the epitome of their indifference. Take, for example, the question about job function that appears on all alerts: What is your primary job function? (Check only one):
A) Corporate Management
B) Marketing/Administrative
C) Maintenance/Fleet Management
D) Operations Management
E) Logistics/Traffic Management
F) Other (specify)
Man, I'm an owner! Let me check them all! And add loan officer, father figure, psychologist, coach, and gopher.



2) "Getting rid of the term 'dispatcher' can go a long way toward rebuilding trust between drivers and managers. Dispatching a load implies a one-way conversation...Once instructions have been given to the driver, the dispatcher's job is finished. A fleet manager has more to do, just as the title implies. The job is to manage driver performance and to produce positive results for the company and driver." (Refrigerated Transporter, April 2004, pg. 21.)

Semantics! Who comes up with this stuff? Just be honest, fair, and compassionate whether you're a "dispatcher" or a "fleet manager." It works.



3) Five u-joints in the last two months and the man who services our equipment says he is greasing the drivelines.

And I was at the Last Supper.



4) Driver calls me last Monday. "Hey," he says. "I've got a major problem. My pipes are frozen and have cracked under my house. I've got a plumber coming to assess the damage."
"Call me by noon to keep me posted," I said.
"I'll do it," he said.
He doesn't do it.
I call him Monday afternoon. Someone tells me he is under the house with the plumber and can't come to the phone. I leave a message for him to call me.
He doesn't call me.
I call him late Monday afternoon. No answer. I leave a message. "Nick, give me a call. Let me know what's going on."
I call his cell phone. No answer. I leave a message. "Nick, give me a call. Let me know what's going on."
He doesn't call me.
Tuesday morning I call and get no answer. I leave a message.
He doesn't call me.
Tuesday afternoon I call and get no answer. I leave a message.
He doesn't call me.
Wednesday morning...no answer. I do not leave a message. That's it, I say to myself.
Thursday evening another driver sees someone, he thinks it is Nick but is not sure, cleaning out Nick's truck.
Friday morning the phone rings. It is Nick. "What's going on?" he said.
"Nothing," I said.
"Listen," he said. "I've had some major problems at my house. It was the main drain. We had to install new pipes and I didn't know how I was going to come up with the money...eight thousand thousand dollars. I had to refinance my house."
"Why didn't you call me at noon Monday like I asked?" I said.
"I was under the house helping the plumber," he said.
"All you had to do was call," I said. "I called...left messages."
"I didn't get your messages," he said. "My cell phone was dead."
"I left messages on your house phone," I said.
"Didn't my aunt call you and explain the situation?" he asked.
"Nobody called us," I said.
"What about my job?" he asked.
"You quit!" I said. "You...somebody...cleaned out your truck last night."
"Somebody told me I was fired," he said.
"I don't care what anybody told you!" I said. "I'll tell you if you're fired. I don't send messengers to do my work!"
"So..." he said.
"Nick," I said. "This is the second time you have done this. The first time I let it slide because you did me the favor of going to Florida on short notice. But this time...I want to think about it. I'll call you."
I never called him.
At times like this I think of the movie, "Nine To Five," starring Dolly Parton, Jane Fonda, Lily Tomlin, and Dabney Coleman...and just shake my head.

The Two Thousand Dollar Racquetball Trophy: Lose a tournament...lose a reefer

"We are often saved from exclusive addiction to a single vice by the possession of others." LaRochefoucauld, "Maxims."

I started playing racquetball in the late seventies with three of my best friends from high school. And although playing coincided with the seminal stage of our nation's fitness craze, we considered our Tuesday night rendezvous more of a boys night out than exercise. It was two-wall racquetball at the Y in Rome, New York; an hour of novice-class doubles and then beer and burghers at Tosti's. The night was a net caloric gain, but it was a night off. A night I could forget about trucking for three hours--a brief, but oh so pleasant respite.
When the leader of our athletic quartet was temporarily transferred out of the country on a job assignment our Tuesday night affair fizzled. But I was bitten by the racquetball bug and convinced one of the original four to join a racquetball club in Syracuse, New York. I was getting better and I wanted to play with the big boys on real four-walled racquetball courts. We still "celebrated" after our matches, but the games were serious; and at some point the exercise actually became good for me. And I got better. And the better I got the more I wanted to play until...I became addicted to the game.
I began reading racquetball magazines. I started playing three times a week: with somebody I could stomp (John), somebody who was my equal, and somebody better than me--just like the magazines said I should in order to get even better. I started reserving court time just to practice: serves, ceiling shots, down-the-line passes, V-passes, offensive shots, defensive shots until...
I decided I was good enough to play in single eliminatiion racquetball tournaments where, for an entrance fee you got to play, food and beer for the entire weekend, and a tournament tee shirt proclaiming to the ignorant: I am tournament worthy.
My career as a tourney player began at the Meadows in Liverpool, New York. I entered the C class, one step above novice, and won my first match. I lost my second match to the top seed in the class, but I was satisfied with my one and one and decided...
I wanted more tournaments. And the more tournaments I played the better I became. I eventually won a C and moved up into the B class where I usually made it to the quarters, semis, or finals in every tournament I entered. Going deep into the tournaments meant I was spending tourney weekends at various gyms in the Syracuse area and less and less time at the shop where, on weekends, we put our trucks back together for the upcoming week. But I didn't care. I was hooked until...
One Sunday morning Marshall calls me at home to tell me his reefer is knocking. He said he thought it was a fuel knock, but it could be a rod. I told him to bring the unit to the shop and I would look at it later. I did not tell him why it had to be later. It's not cool to tell an employee I'm playing in a racquetball tournament when his refrigeration unit is knocking. He'll think I don't care. And that's not good. Because if I don't care, then why should he care. But I was ADDICTED!
I won my semifinal match, lost the championship match, and hung around for the awards banquet to collect my second place trophy. When I finally made it to the shop early Sunday evening the reefer was off and there was oil all over the ground and deck plate of the tractor. The reefer had thrown a rod. I quickly transferred the load onto another unit and brought the damaged reefer to Thermo King of Syracuse. The second place trophy I had just won cost me two thousand dollars.
Today, I am still playing racquetball. No tournaments and only once a week, but I am still playing. In fact, I have been playing with the same guy once a week for the past twenty-four years. Three games to fifteen and then to Applebee's for beer and wings...and a net caloric disaster on our boys night out. But I wouldn't have it any other way. It's too expensive.

The Highway Reporter

Weekend In The Catskills

"And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings." W. B. Yeats, "The Lake Of Innisfree."

I just returned from two wonderful days in the Catskill mountains with my wife, Judy. The temperature was in the low fifties with not a cloud in the sky, brilliant weather for the first weekend in February. We spent two afternoons snow shoeing in the wooded mountains where I am slowly learning the tricks of an outdoorsman. Hopefully I will soon learn enough to stay warm and not get lost. Sandwiched in between our outdoor exercise was a rowdy evening at Slopes in Tannersville, New York where we watched the Patriots eke out another Super Bowl victory over the Philadelphia Eagles.
On the way home on Tuesday (We stretched the weekend.) I started thinking about how much I enjoy our weekends in the mountains; and how hard it is to return to work. I know I am still young at 54, but I am not as resilient as I was twenty years ago. I can no longer tolerate the mistakes our employees and owner-operators make. I do not rebound well from the accidents, breakdowns, late arrivals, and rejections that are an everyday part of the trials and tribulations of hauling produce. It's not that I can't or don't take care of the problems. I do. I take care of everything. It's just that I can't shake the problems off like before and move on to the next order of business...I have to run to the mountains.
And then my cell phone rang. It was Jeff.
"Guess who just called me?" he said.
"Who?" I answered, somewhat annoyed. I do not like to play this guessing game. Just tell me who called.
"Lee," said Jeff. "He said he talked to his wife about getting back on the road, and wants to come back to work. He's going to stop by the shop after work tomorrow."
Wonderful, I thought sarcastically. I remembered his past performance. Don't get me wrong. Lee is a damn good worker...when he wants to work. Couple that with his dislike of being away from home and you have the recipe for a problem employee. An employee who would leave a load sitting in the yard because he wanted to go ice fishing, or deadhead our truck home from Florida because it is his his wife's father's birthday.
"I'll be there by two," I said. "Let's see what he has to say."
"Yeah, ok," said Jeff. "And Dewane just called. He needs more money. Said he blew another tire."
"Late again?" I asked.
"Yep," said Jeff.
"I'm sure he'll have another excuse to justify it all," I said.
"He wants me to wire him a hundred and give fifty to his wife," said Jeff.
"What about Tom?" I asked. "Did he get loaded yesterday?"
"Nope," said Jeff. "That broker won't load him any more."
"Why not?" I asked. "What happened this time?"
"He was supposed to unload in Plant City early yesterday morning," said Jeff. "But he got there late and didn't get unloaded until 5 PM. Broker wouldn't hold his backhaul. Gave it away and won't load him any more."
"So now he's just sitting in Florida," I said.
"Yep," said Jeff. "He said he was late because a friend of his blew a turbo and asked him to pick one up in South Carolina and bring it to Plant City where his friend would meet him."
"And because of this he is late," I said. "And we're out another load because of his latest excuse!"
I hung up the phone with Jeff. It's always the same with these two guys, I thought. One man can't get there on time without a problem and the other man has everything on his mind except getting to where he has to go on time. It's all so simple, I thought. Just do your job. That's all I ask of our employees and owner-operators. JUST DO YOUR JOB!
I'll be home in a couple hours, I thought. I'll solve these problems.
And this weekend I'll be back in the mountains.

The Highway Reporter

DAD, CAN YOU HELP?

Subj: question
Date: 2/3/05 10:54 AM Eastern Standard Time
From: Lori (my daughter)
To: The Highway Reporter

Dad, can you help?

From: Madeleine
Sent: Thursday, February 03, 2005 10:31 AM
To: Lori
Subject: RE: 50% off cashmere sweaters and free shipping (Honest. That's what is says.)

Hey, Lori-

How are things going in Jersey? This is very random, but it came up in my homeroom discussion and I was hoping you could help. I know your dad and your brother have a trucking company. We were wondering how they kept the freezer and refrigerator going when the truck was turned off? Please don't take any time to find this answer, but if you know, my kids would appreciate it. Things are going well here. I am getting in lots of skiing which has been great so far. I hope to see you soon. Thanks, Maddie.

And this is all I know about "keeping the freezer and refrigerator going when the truck was turned off." Anything for our kids. Anything to improve our image.

Subj: Refrigeration
Date: 2/3/05 6:36 PM Eastern Standard Time
From: The Highway Reporter
To: Maddie

Maddie,
To answer your question about keeping a loaded trailer temperature controlled you have to understand that the tractor and trailer are two separate pieces of equipment. (You have to have a motor vehicle registration for a tractor and also for a trailer. Two taxes, one huge and one small. I once got two parking tickets in Long Island City, New York for parking in a no parking zone--one for the tractor and one for the trailer.) If you look at a refrigerated trailer, you will notice a piece of equipment hanging from the front wall of the trailer. It's actually a refrigerator, or "reefer" as we call it in the trade. It is a self-propelled, thermostatically-controlled refrigeration unit. It has its own engine, usually diesel powered although some are powered by electricity, and compressor, just like a household refrigerator. Most reefers are designed to cool to twenty below and heat to eighty above because certain food products require certain temperatures during transit to ensure quality and shelf life. For example: we crank up (start) our reefers and set the thermostat at 34 degrees for apples, lettuce, and strawberries. For a load of ice cream we set the thermostat at 20 below. Tomatoes, 55 degrees. Bananas, 57 degrees. And so it goes. Each food product requires a certain temperature. And some food products are more temperature critical than others--strawberries are much more temperature critical than onions, bananas more so than potatoes, etc. Hauling food products (and all temperature-controlled products) requires a little knowledge of the product you are hauling.
But, it you are referring to the tiny refrigerators (for snacks, water, soda, etc.)inside some tractors, they draw power from the tractor's batteries. When the tractor is off they still draw power, just like a radio does or headlights do when your car is shut off.
I hope I have answered your question. If not, let me know and I will give it another shot tomorrow. Say hi to Liz. And tell her pitchers and catchers report to spring training next week. I CAN'T WAIT! It's not like I want revenge. I don't. It's just that we were three outs away from stomping you again. What went wrong, oh Lord? What went wrong?

The Highway Reporter