LUMPERS FOREVER

"When I grow up to be a man. What will I be?" The Beach Boys, "When I Grow Up."

A lumper. No doubt about it. That's what you'll be.
Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary (tenth edition) defines a lumper as, "a laborer employed to handle freight or cargo." Simple as that. That defination belies the lucrative role a lumper plays in the distribution of produce from farm to market.
To wit, a rather lengthy advertisement I read today:
LUMPERS WANTED
Don't need a college education, which means you'll save some serious money that you or your parents probably don't have. Don't even need a high school diploma to be making the same kind of serious money you saved by not choosing college. Just cojones...
"What's it gonna cost to get these clementines off my truck?" said the trucker to the lumper.
"Two fifty to break it down," said the lumper.
"Two hundred fifty dollars!" said the truck driver. "Man, you can have this done in three hours if you hustle. Give me a break. Do it for two!"
"Hey," said the lumper. "That's my rate. Take it or do it yourself."
No experience necessary. Muscles help.
Little training necessary. How much training do you need to maneuver an electric hand-jack? But you have to know the difference between a five-block and a six-block, air stacking, and two high, four high, or six high.
Pay is excellent. Hourly rates approach rates charged by lawyers and dentists. Two hundred fifty dollars to unload a load of clementines, that's sweet. Do two of those babies a day, that's five hundred bills...And you can play with the numbers when you're making that kind of jack because you will be paid in cash one hundred per cent of the time. That two fifty to unload clementines, the IRS would believe you if you declared only a hundred...one fifty max. Declare only one of the unloading fees. Still sounds legit...Hell, declare every third or fourth load and you will get away with it. The sky's the limit when you're raking in four, five hundred cash money a day if you hustle.
Benefits...you'll make enough money to start your own IRA and hospitalization plans.
And finally, your job will be secure for a long time because nobody has figured out a better way of getting produce loaded and unloaded on and off a trailer. The IRS and DOT won't make loading and unloading the province of shippers and receivers, having loaders and unloaders under their employ and keeping payment for loading and unloading trailers between said shippers and receivers. No, that would be too easy. Cash money at the rate of your choice to load/unload produce on/off a trailer is the way it is going to be.

The Highway Reporter

HOURS-OF-SERVICE--Round 2

"Hope is the power of being cheerful in circumstances which we know to be desperate." G. K. Chesterton, Heretics, ch. 12

It's almost February and I am just getting to the December, 2004 issue of Commercial Carrier Journal (CCJ since 1911). It's usually like that for me. I have a hard time getting through our trade magazines. Some years ago I gave them up because they did not seem relevant to my trucking business. But now that I have started this blog, I thought it would be a good idea to start reading again. Get the skinny on all the big companies and new products...emulate the bigs and tack all the new stuff onto my trucks so they run faster and more fuel efficient, with fewer breakdowns, more alert drivers, and less downtime.
I started with a nice article by Chip Magner. Chip is the executive publisher of Commercial Carrier Journal, and his article was about a World War II veteran who was on the beach at Normandy, June 6, 1944. Read the article by Avery Vise, the editorial director of CCJ, skipped over Paul Richards, the Journal, equipment, technology (Wi-Fi, right), safety, and law sections; finally stopping at the operations section and reading "Promises, Promises--Negotiating with drivers over loads carries pitfalls." by David Goodson. His theme: be fair with your drivers and owner-operators. Mix the good loads with the bad and do it equitably. I think I do that. I mean, I do throw a little b---s--- now and then to get a load covered. But my drivers and o-os that work for me know it all evens out in the end. And it does. I'm fair.
What caught my attention was a sentence I thought to be a non sequitur, and certainly subject to my cross-examination. To quote Mr. Goodson: "One of the blessings of the change in hours-of-service rules is that it helped reduce greatly the amount of work drivers were asked to perform for free, such as sitting at docks waiting to be loaded, or hand-loading trailers." Pg. 33.
"REDUCE GREATLY!" I thought.
I would like to know where Mr. Goodson got his inside info or hands-on experience about this greatly reduced "work drivers were asked to perform for free, such as sitting at docks waiting to be loaded, or hand-loading trailers." I would like to add, sitting at docks waiting to be unloaded or unload the trailer or pay an outrageous lumper fee. All the inside info and hand-on experience I have culled from my drivers and owner-operators suggests that the new hours-of-service rules do ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to "reduce greatly" anything. We haul produce; and if the produce is not ready for loading, or the shipper has only two docks and they are filled, or the shipper is busy because it's a holiday season, or if the help didn't show up, or if the forklift truck is down, or if we're early, or if we're late...WE WAIT! When we are finally loaded we haul ass to our destination. And when we get to our destination and the consignee does not need the produce on our truck right away, or if the consignee has only two docks and they are filled, or the consignee is busy because it's a holiday season, or if the help didn't show up, or if the forklift truck is down, or if we're early, or if we're late...WE WAIT! That's the produce business, Mr. Goodson. The new hours-of-service rules have "reduced greatly" NOTHING for my company.
What is the solution to this problem, Mr. Goodson? How DO we "reduce greatly" in the produce industry the free work you speak of? I have been in this business for thirty-three years and I still do not have a clue. But I am not "a management consultant specializing in transportation," pg. 33. You are...Help me, because I do not want to stop reading our trades again.

The Highway Reporter

THIS OLE BOY IS TIRED

"Life is one long process of getting tired." Samuel Butler, Notebooks
or,
Truckin' just ain't what it used to be

I've been in the trucking business too long: thirty-three years and counting. First as a gopher for my father, chasing parts for his trucks and changing tires with hand tools. Then as a driver, a job I thoroughly hated because I was always away from home, always eating in diners, and always tired. Then a dispatcher, where I tried to make everybody happy all the time; keep Spits on short hauls because he was recovering from sugery, Marshall home on Sundays, and Tony home for fires...he was chief. Then I bought my father's business on April 1, 1981 after our secretary failed to pay payroll taxes for nine months and not tell anybody. She didn't take the money. There just wasn't enough money to pay all the bills; and she chose not to pay the payroll taxes. After twenty-nine thousand dollars in back taxes (my forty-five minute conversation with the IRS and a letter from our accountant convinced the tax people to waive a seven thousand dollar penalty), Dad had had enough. It was my turn.
Twenty-four years later I'm in a nice condo and drive a chic German import. My two wonderful children do not have college loans hanging over their heads. And I recently sold my condominium in Jupiter, Florida for a townhouse in Key West that I sold for a condominium in Las Vegas. Yeah, I've made good money, but I have earned it.
And I am tired.
Trucking is not my job or my career. It's my lifestyle. It's not what I do, but who I am. True story. I had just finished playing racquetball at The Track & Racquet Club in Syracuse, New York and was ordering a beer at the bar when Pete, an acquaintance, caught me staring at a young lady who was perspiring heavily from what must have been a difficult workout. The perspiration seemed to bond her leotard to her very taut body, making it appear as if she had blue spandex skin. I was flat-out staring when Pete told me he was glad to see I thought of something other than trucks.
That's how it is with what my wife calls my third child. I have always pushed. Pushed my customers to give me more business. Pushed my drivers to deliver my customer's business on time and in the same condition it was when it was loaded. Pushed my mechanics to keep my trucks running properly. Pushed my secretary to get her work done. Pushed my wife to do her bookkeeping. Pushed myself. Pushed myself. Pushed myself.
But I am tired.
Trucking isn't fun anymore(which is exactly what I told the DOT safety inspector at my last audit). Or maybe I'm too tired to try. Or maybe they've broke me. No more multiple licenses thanks to The Commercial Motor Vehicle Safety Act of 1986. Now it's one license issued by the driver's state of legal residence. Used to be we could have twelve speeding tickets on five different licenses and still pull a clean one out of our wallet if we needed it. A clean license was a good thing to have when you're at 85 miles per hour trying to overnight Florida to upstate New York.
"Officer, I really wasn't paying attention to what I was doing. I was in dream world. It's my fault and I apologize. I'm no cowboy. Look, here's my license. It's clean."
A good cop, sympathetic to the plight of the working stiff just trying to make a living on the road, would sometimes cut the driver some slack. But do the same thing today with marks on your Commercial Driver's License and you're an outlaw. Be ready to get written up for speeding, have your logbook checked, truck searched for drugs, and subjected to a full DOT inspection.
Ah, yes, the DOT...ubiquitous. At highway exits, rest areas, and service plazas; waiting to pick apart your tractor and trailer. They're stationary. They're mobile. They're underneath your trailer in the snow. They're underneath your hood when it's raining. And all levels of law enforcement are in on the act: local yokels, state boys, and the Feds. No more duct tape on a spring to hold the broken leaves together. They'll shut you down. Your brakes better be adjusted. They'll shut you down. Your logbook better be up to date or you're down for ten hours. Hoses chafed...down. Bad tires...down. Overweight...toast. And just try to get reasonable service on the road. I would trade my bachelor's degree from the University of Notre Dame for a tow truck in a heartbeat.
The Motor Carrier Act of 1980 is synonymous with deregulation of the trucking industry. What this act did was create an atmosphere of rate-cutting; a tunnel vision mindset amongst growers, shippers, brokers, and my customers that still exists today, often sacrificing service for a cheaper rate of haul. Specifically, it meant that a reputable regional supermarket chain booted me off its JFK International Airport/Newark International Airport to Rochester, New York corridor in favor of a cheaper carrier. (I am assuming cheaper because no carrier could possibly have charged more than I did for the 325 mile delivery.) So what if I was getting as much (and sometimes more) than trucks were getting out of Florida to Rochester. I did a helluva job for that chain, and my rate still figured out to only seven cents a tomato. But, I guess the new traffic manager thought differently.
Have you priced a new piece of equipment lately? A nice tractor: one hundred grand plus. Refrigerated trailer: fifty grand plus. Over one hundred fifty Gs to net about fifty dollars a day, if that. You justify it. I can't.
And the piece de resistance: employees. One word says it all: dependents. Just check, "Family Is Job One," Time, May 28, 2001, pg. 92 to see what I mean.
Yeah, I'm tried. I've missed every family and social event a man could miss because of my "lifestyle." And that condo in Jupiter; I was there a total of one and one-half hours the last three years I owned it. If you think I am whining, then you do not understand. This business has passed me by. It's become too tough for this ole boy. She's chewed me up and spit me out.
Maybe,just maybe, it's time for my son to grab the reins. Have him put me out to pasture...to my condominium in Las Vegas.

The Highway Reporter

FUN IN THE SUN

Today, January 18, 2005, is the first day in over a month that I wore sunglasses to work. And it is a beautiful morning indeed. The sun always adds an immeasurable amount of cheer to any day, no matter what the season, but especially so in the winter in upstate New York. Everything seems much cleaner, much clearer when the sun ushers in a new day...and much crisper. My car thermometer read nine degrees below zero.
This is going to be a fun day, I thought...FOR ALL THOSE WHO AREN'T PREPARED, BE READY. THE SUN IS GOING TO BITE YA!
I get to the garage and for some reason Brent is working on a truck that's going nowhere for at least two days. And some of the trucks in the yard are running...our trucks...and some aren't--owner-operators. Ahhh, my son is a quick learner, I thought. He froze his buns off last week when a truck broke down in Albany when it was ten below. He doesn't want a repeat performance. Smart man. He is prepared.
"Ours start hard?" I asked Brent.
"Not really," he said.
"What about Bob's?" I asked.
"Turns over, but it won't fire. I called Bob. Said he'd be here in a little while."
"Why are you working on Fred's?" I asked.
"I've got to fix that alternator bracket on his unit so I can start it. He's still got those two pallets of rejected eggplant on, and you can't leave his trailer outside in this cold with the unit off."
"Yeah," I said. "You're right. How much longer on it?"
"I'm putting it back together now," said Brent.
"Then what?" I asked.
"Bob and me will get his going," he said. "She's probably gelled."
"Yeah, you better," I said. "He's going to Henderson, North Carolina this afternoon...or tomorrow. But this afternoon will be better."
"I'll get on it now," said Brent.
Next came the proverbial call from my sunbelt associates.
"Cold," said Tom.
"Nine below on my way to work this morning," I said. "Today's high is going to be a balmy five above."
"Keep it," he said.
"January hasn't been bad so far," I said, trying to put a positive spin on our weather. "About ten degrees above normal. We've had a couple of cold days...below zero...but this will be our first extended period of cold this year."
"It's cold here, too," said Tom. "About sixty for a high today."
"That's cold," I said. "Any colder and you won't be able to wear Bermudas."
Shortly after giving Tom my lineup of trucks in Florida for him this week, Brent came into the office.
"Man, it's cold!" he said.
"Damn right, it's cold," I said.
"Fred's truck is done," said Brent. "And Bob's here so I'll help him get his started."
"Give him a hand until Jeff gets here," I said. "He's having a hard time building air pressure. Must have a line froze somewhere."
And so the day went...
Fred's truck (an owner-operator)...alternator bracket.
Bob's truck (an owner-operator)...won't start.
Jeff's truck (an owner-operator)...airline frozen.
Bob's truck...started.
Clifford's truck (an owner-operator)...unit won't start.
Freeman truck (an outside truck I hired)...unit won't start...no taillights...check engine light on.
Bob's truck...gelled up again and quit...started again...quit...started again and stayed running.
"What have we got left?" I asked Brent after he finally got Bob's truck to stay running.
"Your truck," he said. "Broken spring...When do you need it?"
"Tomorrow," I said.
"Then would you mind if I do it first thing in the morning?" he asked. "I'm beat and I'm froze."
"What time is it?" I asked.
"Almost nine o'clock," said Brent.
"Yeah, I guess you've had enough fun for one day," I said. "Do my truck first thing in the morning."
"Thanks," said Brent.
"Stay warm," I answered. "I have a feeling we're going to have to do this all over again tomorrow."

DAYDREAMING

"It was a dream of perfect bliss,
Too beautiful to last." Thomas Haynes Bayly, It Was A dream.

Serious daydreaming has always been my way of putting a positive spin on a bad day, of putting a little panache in my prosaic life. In my dreams I am appealing, charismatic, empowered, chic, cool. My neighbors envy me, wish they were me, doing whatever I am doing to help them through their prosaic little lives. I am the pitcher. I am the quarterback. I am the entrepreneur. I am the author. I am the artist. I am...IT!
"Judy, if I had to do it all over again I would race cars. Nextel Cup. Nothing less."
"You have a bad day, dear," she said. "Truck running late...breakdown...rejection."
"I'm serious," I said. "You'd love it, too. The television camera's on us as we're walking hand in hand to my car before the start of the race...I'm the favorite...The camera's on you in the pit, praying, screaming, crying as I cross the finish line to win the Daytona 500."
"You did, didn't you," she said. "Somebody have an accident?"
"No," I said. "But it was bad."
When I was a kid I thought I was going to be the next Mickey Mantle (along with Billy Crystal and the majority of Little Leaguers in 1962). Thinking...knowing...I was going to be the next Mickey Mantle made it easier to tolerate Mrs. Lawson's incessant screaming at me in seventh grade history class for not studying and constantly daydreaming about becoming the next Mickey Mantle. I was listening to the Yankees game against the Kansas City Athletics on May 23, 1963 when Mantle hit a prodigious home run off KC's Bill Fischer. The ball was still rising when it hit the upper deck facade in right field, missing by six feet being the only fair ball hit out of Yankee Stadium. "I can do that, Mrs. Lawson!" I screamed. Better yet, I was going to one-up Mantle. I was going to be the first ballplayer to hit a fair ball OUT of Yankee Stadium! At that time I was an athletic, five-foot five-inch, one hundred twenty pound twelve- year-old. I was whacking HRs every day in Little League. I didn't need to study.
When I graduated high school I was five-seven and weighed one hundred forty pounds.
Forty years after the Mantle epiphany, after realizing I am not endowed with enough genes to hit a golf ball out of Yankee Stadium, and after admitting Mrs Lawson was right, I should have studied, I have mellowed. My daydreams are now tempered with a healthy dose of reality. (Although I do believe I have racing genes in me. Nextel Cup. Nothing less.) Late trucks, breakdowns, rejections, and accidents now generate dreams of simple pleasures and unfufilled goals. A simpler lifestyle in a different climate. A retooling of my limited skills. Being IT is not important. Being me is.
"Judy, I've got it!"
"Another bad day, dear."
"I'm serious! You'll love it, too. Let's move to Key West and open a restaurant. Something small with a limited menu. Eight or ten tables. Gourmet macaroni dishes a specialty. Macaroni and broccoli, macaroni and cauliflower, macaroni and red kidney beans, macaroni and peas. All with or without hot peppers. We could fly in celebrity chefs or randomly select a male or female who loves to cook to be our chef for a day. And I will sit on top of the bar in a Hawaiian shirt, drink Coronas all day, and greet customers from all over the world."
"It was a bad day, wasn't it?"
"Real bad...real bad."

The Highway Reporter

New Year's Day

Seven-o-six on New Year's morning...not even enough time to get over a hangover...I get a call. We're starting already, I thought.
"Gary," said Brent, our mechanic, "it works like a charm. I've been here all night working on that goddamn truck , and as soon as I put the other new one on and bled it for a minute, it started working."
"You've been all night on the power steering pump?" I asked.
"No," said Brent. "It was almost midnight when Jeff and I got through with Nick's truck. So I decided to stay here and put the other pump on that Jeff picked up yesterday. I got it done at about two-thirty, but I wasn't going to call you then."
"I'm glad you let me sleep," I said.
"And I stayed and finished everything I had to do to it so I can take today and tomorrow off."
"That new pump you put on was defective," I said.
"Damn right," said Brent.
"Happy New Year," I said.
"Gary," said Brent. "When are you coming to the shop?"
"I'll be there in a little while," I said. "I want to check the reefers."
"You think I could borrow a hundred bucks?" asked Brent.
"Yeah," I said. "I can get that for you." It's the least I could do for the poor bastard. He's put in a lot of hours this holiday season, capped by his second all-nighter this week.
So I lay in bed a little longer, got up, showered, dressed, had my coffee, and headed for the garage. On my way there I called Brent to see if he wanted a coffee from McDonald's. He didn't answer my call. Must have left already, I thought...didn't need the money that badly.
Good...I'll just grab a quick coffee, check the units, and go home to some football before going to my mother's for New Year's dinner...macaroni, my favorite. Mom's sauce is the best, just like every Italian's mother's sauce is the best to their sons.
When I drove into the yard I didn't see the truck Brent had spent the night repairing. What the hell, I thought. What the hell. I didn't like what I was thinking.
"It won't build up any air pressure," said Brent when I walked into the garage. "I've been trying to get it to build air pressure ever since I called you."
"Now it's the air!" I said.
"It won't do anything," said Brent. "The needles don't move."
"We just put that compressor on!" I said. "Two...three months ago."
"I've got a few more things I want to try," said Brent.
"I'll be in the office," I said.
"Ten minutes later, as I was taking my last sip of coffee, Brent walked into the office. "It's got to be the compressor," he said. "I've tried everything."
"I called here to see if you wanted a coffee, but you must have had the truck running and didn't hear the phone," I said, noticing that Brent had caught me with the McDonald's cup in my hand before I could throw it into the wastepaper basket.
"I just made a pot," he said.
"What do we do now?" I asked. "The truck has to go."
"Nothing we can do," said Brent. "It's New Year's Day!"
"Yeah, there is," I said.
Last night I had tried to call Penn Detroit Diesel Allison in Syracuse for some additional troubleshooting advice on Nick's truck (see previous blog), but the shop had closed early for New Year's Eve. When the call went to PDDA's voice mail, it gave the number for twenty-four hour emergency parts. I called and Ray, our savior, answered. I gave him the engine serial number and he said he had a compressor for the truck.
"Start working on that pot of coffee," I told Brent. "We've got to change that compressor. That truck has to go tonight."
"Then we have to change it," Brent said, although I could tell he was tired and didn't want to change it today.
"I'll stay here with you and help you get the bitch out," I said. "Start on it while I go meet Ray at Detroit."
I called Judy and told her what happened....and that I couldn't make my mother's New Year's dinner. "Just bring home some macaroni," I told her. "You know I love my mother's macaroni reheated."
On my way to Syracuse I called for a favor. "God," I said. "I'm in a little trouble here. I've got a load of apples for our bread and butter customer on a truck that does not build air pressure. We think it's the air compressor, and this is not good. It means...and I know You know what it means...but in case it slipped Your mind, it means the truck can't move. And Brent drove the truck into the garage instead of backing it in...and we do not have a drive-thru garage...which means I can't unhook and put another tractor...which I don't have anyway because we are busy...under this trailer...and make delivery on time. So, You see my predicament here? I need this compressor badly. I know this is not one of Your bigger problems, but I need Your help to make this the right part...Let's You and I start the New Year on solid ground. What do You say? We got are deal here?"
"It's not the right compressor," said Brent. "Not even close."
"Bitch!" I said.
I called Ray again. "It's not the right compressor, Ray," I said. "Not even close."
"That's the right compressor for the engine serial number you gave me," he answered.
"But it's not the right one," I said. "There's got to be another one for this engine."
"I'll check again," said Ray.
"Better yet," I said. "I'll bring this one to you when we get it off."
While Brent finished unbolting the air compressor from the engine I started looking for the receipt for the compressor we changed a few months ago. The receipt should have a part number for the right compressor...Do you think I could find the damn thing? No, but I called Ray every time I thought I had found the right number.
"Ray," I said. "How about R23522707-C?" I asked.
"That's a water pump," he answered.
Five minutes later..."Ray, how about 14-13062-000?" I asked.
"That's a power steering gearbox," he answered.
"Yeah, we changed that bitch on this truck last summer," I said.
Five more minutes..."Ray, how's GEH4656?" I asked.
"That's a headlight," he answered.
"Sorry about that one, Ray, but I'm struggling here," I said. "I'm grasping at straws...And I'm ruining your New Year's Day."
"We'll get it right," he said.
And when Brent finally had the compressor off the engine.
"Ray," I said. "I'm bringing the thing to you now."
"I'll meet you there," he said.
Ray beat me to his shop and was studying his computer when I got there.
"Sorry to do this to you, Ray," I said. "But I'm in trouble if I don't get this truck on the road tonight."
"It's not your fault," he answered. "But I think I've got the right one this time. Let's see what you brought me."
It was a match. God and Ray came to bat for me and hit back to back home runs. Two hours later, when I heard Brent fire up the truck, I ran from my office to the garage and jumped into the cab. I glanced at the guages and saw both needles had started to move. I turned to Brent who was smiling and gave him a thumbs up and a hundred bucks.
"I'll call John and tell him he's ready to go," I said.
It was 9:15 pm...time for some warmed-up macaroni.

The Highway Reporter

Holiday Chaos

New Year's Eve

The last day of the year.
The last holiday of the holiday triumvirate.
And we have had another busy, chaotic, aggravating, long, and eventful season of holiday business. We haul fruit and produce, and if you aren't busy moving fruit and produce during the Thanksgiving to New Year's holiday season, then you better look for something else to do. We have been so busy it ruins my holiday spirit; and some days I make Scrooge look more like Barney or Big Bird. Just ask my son, Jeff, who often bares the brunt of my aggravation simply because he is the only person in our office besides me. I can't help it. When the going gets tough I get into a zone.
Because it's tough out there! "It's hard work," says our president.
Damn right it's hard work.
Amidst the holiday chaos is the usual employee desire for extra days off: for the death of a family member (this year it was legitimate) to a court date (for the removal of an order of protection) to a daughter's birthday (Owner-operator, on the verge of insolvancy and who owes me about 2 grand, will lose another load because he wants to be home "a couple of hours" to make her happy.) to Christmas shopping to a Christmas party to a wife's Christmas party to a family Christmas party to a driver telling our mechanic, "Don't fix the truck. I don't want to work."
And our shippers/receivers have been trying to knock down our rates because they have been giving us so much holiday business. Can't you cut us some slack, they say. Things are tough, they say. We're not making any money, they say. Look at all the business we're giving you, they say. And trucks are tight, we say...We don't budge on our rate.
Because money is tight this time of the year. Holiday cheer is expensive. And we pay our owner-operators while their engines are still hot, but have to wait, call, wait, call, get pissed off, wait, and call some of our customers (usually the ones who want to chop our rates) for our money.
Throw in our New Year's Eve morning attempt to go to the Department of Motor Vehicles to renew our trailer registrations and it is closed. But this is my fault because I just don't think every holiday should be a mini vacation. I never anticipated the DMV being closed...never entered my mind. I thought Saturday and Sunday was good enough to ring in the New Year. There was no need to throw in Friday too. (I'll bet the DMV employees got paid for it.)
And at 3:30 pm on New Year's Eve, just when I thought the chaos was over...the proverbial breakdown.
Jimmy was in my office talking to Nick who was on his way back to the yard with a load of onions for Plant City, Florida. Jimmy was also loaded for Plant City and was coordinating their departure time when...
"I gotta go!" said Nick. "My truck just shut off!"
"Nick's truck just shut off," Jimmy said to me.
"What?" I said. "Where is he?"
"I assume he's at the Pilot in Syracuse because he said he just got his axle weights straight," said Jimmy.
I picked up the phone and dialed the truck. "Nick!" I said. "What's going on?"
"I don't know," said Nick. "The truck just shut off."
"Where are you?" I said.
"I just left the Pilot and was getting on 81 to come to the yard."
"And the truck shut off," I said.
"It just quit," said Nick. "It'll turn over now, but it won't fire."
"Don't kill the batteries trying to get it started," I said. "I'll call you back."
I called Penn Detroit Diesel Allison in Syracuse for some troubleshooting advice. They told me it could be the SRS sensor near the air compressor. It was then that I remembered we had another truck that did the same thing in Charlotte, North Carolina. This truck was shut off and when the driver tried to start it, the beast would turn over, but it wouldn't fire. I had to call Covington Detroit Diesel Allison of Charlotte...and was out $769.30 for a service call to replace an $81.00 part.
This time we'll fix it ourselves, I thought.
I sent Jeff with our mechanic, Brent, to Penn Detroit Diesel Allison for a SRS sensor and then to the truck to make the repair. Simple problem, simple solution, I thought.
"That's not it," Jeff said when he called in. "We put the sensor in and it's doing the same thing."
"Bitch!" I said. "I'll call you back!"
I called Penn Detroit Diesel Allison again.
"It's not the SRS sensor," I said. "What else can we do. We need this truck!"
The shop foreman told me they could go to the truck, but their New Year's Eve service call rate was $185.00 per hour with a 4 hour minimum. "But," he said, "it could be the TRS sensor or it could be the computer. If it's the computer, the truck has to come to the shop and you've spent some money for nothing. What do you want to do?"
I didn't hesitate. "I need the truck," I said. "Go!"
About an hour and a half later, Jeff called. "It's not the TRS sensor," he said.
"Then it's got to be the computer," I said.
"Tow truck's on its way," he said.
"Bitch!"
And those words once again echoed in my tormented soul. "Don't fix the truck. I don't want to work."
We can't fix the truck!
You get the weekend off.
Happy New Year.


The Highway Reporter