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
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
posted by The Highway Reporter at 10:08 AM
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