Truckin' faux money

SIZE MATTERS

2005-05-19T21:05:00.000-07:00

"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

2005-04-14T11:13:00.000-07:00

"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!

2005-03-15T22:10:00.000-08:00

"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

2005-02-13T18:25:00.000-08:00

"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

2005-02-11T20:50:00.000-08:00

"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

2005-02-09T22:20:00.000-08:00

"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?

2005-02-03T19:46:00.000-08:00

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

LUMPERS FOREVER

2005-01-31T20:52:00.000-08:00

"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

2005-01-25T15:18:00.000-08:00

"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

2005-01-23T10:08:00.000-08:00

"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

2005-01-20T20:00:00.000-08:00

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

2005-01-16T20:55:00.000-08:00

"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

2005-01-13T14:52:00.000-08:00

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

2005-01-06T20:40:00.000-08:00

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

JEFF IS IN MY SHOW

2004-12-19T01:12:00.000-08:00

"As a little childe riding behind his father, sayde simply unto him, Father, when you are dead, I shal ride in the Saddle." [Stefano Guazzo: Civile Conversation III.xliii]

My kid is in my business. He's in my show. Not that I want him in it. I don't. I don't think the trucking business is the greatest business to be in right now. Not only do I have to deal with volatile fuel prices, a driver shortage, a bad public image, stifling rules and regulations, deregulation, cheap rates, bad roads, bad weather, breakdowns, escalating insurance costs, accidents, lawsuits, and the DOT; since September 11th the media has lumped trucks in with planes, boats, hazardous materials, biochemicals, and water as possible weapons of mass destruction. Hijack a truck, load it up with explosives or germs, put some whacko terrorist martyr behind the wheel, and point the vehicle in the direction of Yankee Stadium on a Sunday afternoon when the Yanks are at home against the Red Sox. You want your kid to own that truck?
But even if I don't know want my kid in my show, he wants to come on board because, as he readily admits, he doesn't have many alternatives. You see, Jeff didn't quite make it through Drexel University in Philadelphia. He didn't even know what he was when he decided college wasn't for him. True story:
"Jeff," I said. "Let me ask you something."
"Go ahead," Jeff answered.
"Be honest with me," I said.
"I will," he said.
"Mom and I want to start planning for our retirement. And what you do...what you are...makes a difference in our plans."
"Your point being," said Jeff.
"My point is this," I answered. "And be honest with me!"
"I will!" said Jeff.
"Tell me," I said. "Are you a sophmore or a junior?" I asked.
"I don't know."
Jeff was gone from Drexel shortly after this conversation. But that doesn't mean he is ignorant. Drexel is a good school and he is a bad student. They don't mix. Like he told us one Sunday afternoon at a family dinner, "I quit studying when I was in third grade." I believe him! And that means he'll fit in perfectly with dad and his crew because most of us quit studying when we hit grade three. I wasn't a good student; it's just that I was better at hiding it than Jeff. Or Jeff is more honest than me. If I were a good student I wouldn't be in the trucking business spending $150,000 on a tractor and trailer to make $50 a day. If I were a good student I would be doing three or four root canals a day at $1250 a pop.
But, although I don't think it's a good idea, I do know Jeff will fit in perfectly. He's a great kid, easy to like, gets along with people, and a kid who will go to bat for his employees when necessary. This he gets from his mother. He's also smart (He really is.), pugnacious, gritty, and a little wry with some con in him. Oh yeah, he's got some mettle too. It takes cojones to deadpan, "I don't know," when I have plunked down 75 grand for three years of Cs, Ds, and Fs.
In short, he's got a little bit of his old man in him too.

The Highway Reporter

HOURS-OF-SERVICE

2004-12-18T19:10:00.000-08:00

Here is a synopsis of the old and new Hours-Of-Service rules issued by the U. S. Department of Transportation, Federal Motor Carrier Safety Administration and printed on a credit card-sized card by J. J. Keller & Associates, Inc., Neenah, Wisconsin:

Old Hours-Of-Service rules:
1) CMV (Commercial Motor Vehicle) driver may drive 10 hours after 8 hours off-duty.
2) CMV driver may not drive after 15 hours on-duty, following 8 hours off-duty.
3) CMV driver may not drive after 60/70 hours on-duty in 7/8 consecutive days.

New Hours-Of-Service rules:
1) CMV driver may drive 11 hours after 10 hours off-duty.
2) CMV driver may not drive beyond the 14th hour after coming on-duty, following 10 hours off-duty.
3) CMV driver may not drive after 60/70 hours on duty in 7/8 consecutive days.
>A driver may restart a 7/8 consecutive day period after taking 34 or more consecutive hours off-duty.

How To Make It Work

Friday, October 16th and I'm busy with the usual problem: not enough equipment. But I'm taking loads anyway, not realizing I am short a driver because Jimmy just got in from Florida (I mean, he just parked the truck.) and did not want to work the rest of the day. I didn't blame him. He has been gone for six days and he is tired. But Jimmy needs money and I need a driver.
"Hey, Jimmy," I said. "Do you want to deliver a load of apples to Wal Mart, Johnstown and Hannaford Brothers, Schodack Landing?"
Johnstown, New York and Schodack Landing, New York are 88 and 148 miles east and southeast of Canastota, New York, our home base. This is a short haul from Canastota, but when you have three pickups and have to drive 176 miles west of Canastota, it becomes a time-consuming deal. It was a load I knew Jimmy would not want to pick up (I didn't blame him.), but the money was good and I did not want to pass it up. So before Jimmy could answer, I pressed on.
"I'll go get it and you deliver it," I said. It was a load Jimmy could deliver tomorrow morning and be back home tomorrow afternoon.
"Yeah," he said reluctantly. "If you go get it, I'll deliver it." I know my drivers.
"I'll go get it," I said. "It's got three pickups...Empire, Albion, and Bucolo...so I'll go. I'll leave right now."
I didn't want to go because I knew these three pickups were going to be a time-consuming pain in the ass. But I had to cover the order, and I knew Jimmy wouldn't go if he had to pick it up and deliver it. So after getting expense money from Jeff and directions to Bucolo Cold Storage in Burt, New York from Jimmy (I have been to Empire and Albion.) I left the yard at 11:15 am. My pre-trip inspection consisted of asking Jimmy how the truck was running.
"Good," he said. "It's running a little hot, but you'll be all right with it. We can look at it when I get back. It's got water so it's got to be something simple because it doesn't run hot all the time...Something electrical because the fan doesn't kick on at the same temperature all the time."
I was at my first pickup, Empire Fruit Growers in North Rose, New York at 12:28 pm.
"I'm here for Wal Mart, Johnstown and Hannaford Brothers, Schodack Landing," I told the receptionist as she got up from her desk and lumbered over to the sliding glass window separating the lobby where I stood and her office.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"Wal Mart, Johnstown and Hannaford Brothers, Schodack Landing," I said.
"Oh," she said. "Let me check."
The receptionist returned to her desk and computer. After tapping a few keys and staring at the screen for an answer to her input, she looked at me. "They haven't sent your order over yet," she said.
"Oh," I said. Damn, I thought. "I guess I'll just wait in my truck until you get the order from the shipper."
When I got back to my truck I called my wife, my sounding board for whenever I am aggravated, frustrated, angry, confused; and need solace, security, pacifying, opinions, and help. "Judy," I said. "I'm at my first pickup and they don't have my orders yet. I'll be lucky if I get home by midnight...and I forgot to bring a magazine!"
"Where are you?" Judy asked.
"North Rose," I said.
"Where's that?" she said. "Near Buffalo?"
"Judy, I just left an hour ago. I'm in a truck, not a plane."
"Then where are you?" she asked.
"Thirty to thirty-five miles northwest of Syracuse."
"When will you be home?"
"I don't know. They don't even have my orders yet. So if I leave here by three, I'll be in Albion by five. If I leave Albion by six, it's almost an hour to Burt, my last pickup. If I leave Burt by seven...seven-thirty, I'll be back in the yard by ten-thirty...eleven. I should be home before midnight."
"Sounds like a long day to me," Judy said. "Especially without your magazine."
My next call was to the produce broker who arranged this load.
"Hold on," Mike said. And after a short pause, "Hello."
"Mike," I said. "I'm at Empire and they don't know what I'm picking up?"
"What are you doing in the truck?" he asked. Mike recognized my voice, even on my cell phone calling from a relatively dead zone. That's a good sign, I thought.
"The guys have been working hard lately, so I've been doing a little driving...to give 'em a break."
"Hold on," he said. And after another short pause, "We'll get the order to them in a few minutes. We've been real busy today."
"I understand, Mike," I said.
"Thanks for calling," he said. "Bye." Mike's all business.
I left North Rose at 2:34 pm and arrived in Albion (about thirty-five miles west of Rochester) at 4:22 pm. Another truck (that I hired) was already here which made me happy because they were usually late to Albion. "They work on their own schedule, not the customer's," Gary, the loader here once told me, hinting that he would be extremely happy if I never used this carrier again. But today the truck was on time. And I had carried some of this truck's apples across from North Rose so it would not have to make all the pickups I was making. This driver's day was going to be easier than mine.
I saw Gary and asked him if he was ready for me. He said he was waiting for another truck that he had to load first, but since I was here he would start on me until the other truck arrived.
"That truck isn't coming from Bucolo's with my stuff, is it?" I asked.
"No, he's not," said Gary.
No such luck, I thought.
Gary finished the truck I hired and had started on me when the truck he was waiting for finally arrived.
"I've got to get him out first," said Gary. "He's going to Boston, then to Portland, and then back to Tewksbury, Mass."
"All tomorrow?" I asked.
"Supposed to," he said. "And he's got to stop at Empire to finish."
"Why didn't they throw his stuff on me?" I asked.
"I don't know," Gary said.
"Have at 'em," I said.
Gary had the Boston/Portland/Tewksbury all in one day truck done and on his way to Empire in a matter of minutes. He had me on my way to Bucolo's Cold Storage at 5:10 pm; and I pulled into their yard at 5:56 pm for the two pallets of apples nobody could bring to Albion for me. After loading the two pallets and a brief conversation (drivers, the cost of fuel, the scarcity of trucks) with Chris, the owner's son, I was on the road again at 6:13 pm. After stopping once for fuel and to eat an apple I stole from Bucolo's, I pulled into our yard at 10:15 pm. That is, I went off duty at 10:15 pm.
That is: eleven hours of service on duty and I'm back to go. There's still 88 more miles to Johnstown, sign in, unload, sign out (This alone can be time-consuming. Have you ever been to Safeway Stores distribution center in Upper Marlboro, Maryland?), another 60 to Schodack Landing, sign in, unload, sign out, and wait for the next dispatch or return to the yard for further instruction. The Wal Mart appointment is for 3:30 am, and then ASAP to Hannaford Bros. And since these are two of the produce broker's most favored customers, I did not want to be late or I'll be out a most favored customer. But, I have a problem. The way I see it, and I think I see it right, the problem is hours of service on duty. I have already been on duty for 11 hours, which means, once I get to Johnstown I have to go off duty for 10 hours before moving on to Schodack Landing. That's not ASAP. And I dreaded making a call to Mike (remember, he's all business) in the middle of the night to tell him I could not deliver his apples to a most important customer for another 10 hours because I was 60 miles away from Schodack Landing and had to go off duty. Oh Lord, find me another most important customer!
BUT..! This was a tandem deal. I was only picking up the load of apples. Jimmy is going to deliver it.
It took Jimmy approximately 11 hours and 45 minutes from the time he left our yard to the time he returned to our yard--to deliver Wal Mart, Johnstown and Hannaford Bros., Schodack Landing and come home. Gosh darn chain store distribution centers hold you up sometimes. And Jimmy's a big man. He likes a nice, big, time-consuming breakfast after he's empty. But we did the delivery legally, which begs the questions...
How many small, fiscally strapped, overly regulated, in need of every load they can get trucking companies have extra employees on the payroll who can spare tired drivers and make every delivery on time and do it legally? Or...
How many small, fiscally strapped, overly regulated, in need of every load they can get trucking companies have a compassionate owner with a CDL...like me?

The Highway Reporter

GUITAR MAN

2004-12-06T21:40:00.000-08:00

"Dreaming permits each and every one of us to be quietly and safely insane every night of our lives." Charles Fisher, in Newsweek...
...or...
Sometimes a man just needs a diversion from his work.

When my wife, Judy, told me that one of her cheerleader's mothers was a music instructor, I saw it as a sign from God. And the Sign said to me: my man, the time is now. This is the moment you have been waiting for ever since you heard Neal Sedaka's, Calendar Girl. Ever since you heard Bob Dylan's harmonica. Ever since Bruce revived a long dormant dream...My man, you are going to learn how to play an instrument.
Coincidently (another sign from God?), Judy's cheerleading banquet is this weekend. And since she just finished her fifteenth successful and final year as varsity cheerleading coach at Christian Brothers Academy in Syracuse, New York, this banquet would be her last. I had to go. I had to meet my guru.
"I know why you want to go?" said Judy.
"This is your swan song," I said. "I want to be there." I lied.
"Right!" said Judy. "You want to meet Pat."
"That too!" I said.
Then I called my son, Jeff, who can play the guitar and the piano, to see which instrument he thought was easiest to play.
"I don't know," he answered. "Why?"
"Because I want to play an instrument," I said.
"You can't," he said.
"I'm serious," I said.
"You can't sing and you can't play," Jeff said. "You're tone deaf."
I totally ignored his assessment of what I knew to be my latent talent and pressed on. "How about a harmonica?"
"Dad, why don't you just pretend you're in high school and buy a Mustang?"
"I'm going to learn," I said.
"You can't learn," Jeff responded.
"Do you still have the first guitar you bought?" I asked.
"No," he said. "I gave it away."
"YOU GAVE IT AWAY!?" I said.
"I left it in Philadelphia," he said.
"I WANT IT!" I said.
"Dad, you can't play!"
"Where can I buy a guitar?" I asked.
"You can't," Jeff said.
"Why not?" I asked.
"Your fingers are too fat," he said.
"I'm going to learn," I said.
"You can't learn," he responded.
"I CAN!"
"YOU CAN'T!"
"I CAN!"
And so the conversation went. But whenever somebody, especially my wife, son or daughter, tells me I cannot do something I want to do, it only strenghtens my resolve to do exactly as I plan...
At the banquet I met Pat, who was extremely happy to learn I wanted to play an instrument. "It certainly is never too late to learn," she said. I smiled weakly, thinking she said that as if I was going to die soon and had come to the right person to learn quickly. All I needed to do was choose the right instrument. The harmonica was my first choice, but Pat thought a harmonica would be difficult.
"You have to have a good ear to play the harmonica," she said. "Play it by sound." Since I didn't know re from fa, had never put two notes together in harmonious conjunction in my entire life, how was I going to play a harmonica by sound. My first choice was out of the question.
Pat then suggested a guitar (my second choice), piano (third choice), or..."With your lips, you should try the trumpet." I told her I took trumpet in seventh grade, but quit when lessons interfered with basketball practice. I'm 5'7" in shoes with heels. I should have stayed with the trumpet. Hey, I have the lips!
I admitted to Pat that I did not understand the mechanics of musical instruments. I thought playing a harmonia would be a simple thing. Blow into it while moving your tongue left and right on the air slots; and if you do it long enough, you'll get it. Music would come out. I thought a guitar was tough with all the different finger configurations on six strings, moving your fingers the length of the neck, and changing finger configurations at the same time. But when Pat assured me it wasn't as hard as it looks, I forgot about the piano and trumpet. I mean, every boomer worth his rock 'n roll salt has played a chimerical Gibson; one arm a windmill spanking six strings on the downstroke, the other stroking an imaginery neck; then smashing the thing defiantly in triumph on the stage a la Peter Townsend of the Who...I pictured myself out on our deck on a warm summer evening in jeans, no shirt, wayfarer shades, and baseball cap on backward. It's my fify-fifth birthday. Everybody is prodding me to play something...maybe something I wrote. At first I say no, then reluctantly (yeah, right) pick up my guitar and play some Dylan...The Times They Are A Changin'...flawlessly.

The Highway Reporter

TRAVESTY AT RICH FOODS/PERRYMAN, MD

2004-12-02T15:55:00.000-08:00

"Let me say that the credit belongs to the boys in the back rooms. It isn't the man who sits in the limelight like me who should have the praise. It is not the men who sit in prominent places. It is the men in the back rooms."
Lord Beaverbrook (Maxwell Aiken: 1879-1964) From the song "The Boys in the Back Room," sung by Marlene Dietrich in Destry Rides Again.

The following is a letter I wrote last winter to Mr. Marshall Carpenter, Director of Warehousing and Transportation at Richfood, Inc., Perryman, MD thanking him for the gift he presented to an owner-operator I hired to deliver a load of potatoes to his warehouse during a blinding snow storm.

Dear Mr. Carpenter,
On Wednesday, January 28, 2004 I hired an owner-operator to haul a load of loose ten-pound bags of potatoes from I. Rapasadi & Sons, Inc., Canastota, New York to your distribution center in Perryman, Maryland. The vendor was Cambridge Farms, Inc., Avon, Massachusetts. The appointment time for delivery: 7:00 am, January 29, 2004.
From Canastota, New York to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania this owner-operator fought snow, blowing snow, whiteouts, and slippery roads to deliver your product. He did not break down, oversleep, or waste time at a truck stop. He did not have a cell phone, and chose not to stop to call because of the terrible road conditions and the urgency of getting to his destination. He arrived at your distribution center at 8:36 am, one hour and thirty-six minutes late for his appointment. His "reward" for fighting these acts of God was a $273.00 fine, calculated at $7.00 per pallet. (How this figure was determined is, in my opinion, also an act of God. Why not $6.00 per pallet? Why not $10.00 per pallet? Why not just take the whole damn freight check?) And because the potatoes were double-stacked (one pallet of potatoes on top of another), there was, in effect, a double charge because two pallets occupied the space of what is usually one spot. That's 39 pallets of potatoes at $7.00 per pallet--$273.00 on a load that paid $612.00 to the truck. That's a $273.00 reward for driving through atrocious weather conditions to make his delivery.
Mr. Carpenter, I am sure your company has determined the legitimacy of this policy before implementing it. So I am requesting a copy of this policy for three reasons. First, if I am ever stupid enough to send another truck to your distribution center, I would like to let the truck know what the real deal is. I knew nothing of this policy before the fine. Second, I would like to examine this policy myself, especially the part about compensating a truck for detention. It does happen, Mr. Carpenter. But I am sure this policy has made provisions for equitable compensation. (I'll bet it's $7.00 a pallet.) I would like to know, especially in light of the new hours of service rules. And third, a copy of this letter, a copy of the $273.00 assessment for late delivery, and a copy of the unloading policy (I just know you're going to send me one.) will be sent to Cambridge Farms, Inc., the Department of Transportation, Heavy Duty Trucking, Commercial Carrier Journal (CCJ), Refrigerated Transporter, and the Owner Operator Independent Driver Association requesting an objective opinion of the legitimacy of this unloading policy. I will also request the above magazines print a copy of this policy so owner-operators and trucking companies will know what Richfood, Inc., Perryman, MD is all about before visiting you. A copy of this letter is also being sent to Mike Kamphaus, Regional Vice President, Supervalu, East Coast.
I will hold this letter for two weeks from the day I mail it to you, waiting for a copy of the policy. If I do not receive a copy I will assume you are not going to send me one, and I will inform the above parties of your decision. Better yet, Mr. Carpenter, fax a copy to the above number. Let's expedite this thing.

Mr. Carpenter never did send me a copy of the Richfood/Perryman, MD unloading policy. And I never did send this letter to the Department of Transportation, Owner Operator Independent Driver Association, or any of the trade magazines mentioned above. Hey, I need the work.

The Highway Reporter

TRUCKING 101

2004-11-24T16:17:00.000-08:00

It's not the logbook, stupid. It's the money.

"Our slogan should be, 'It's the logbook, stupid.' We should log everything legal and see where that takes the trucking industry. We have everything to gain and nothing to lose." (David P. Gaibis, Sr., Land Line Magazine, June 2004, pg. 16)
"Hey, Jerry, my truck is unloaded at Publix Super Markets, Deerfield Beach. Where should I send him?" I said.
Jerry (not his real name) works for a reputable produce broker out of Pompano Beach, Florida, and he is always my first call for a backhaul whenever one of my trucks empty in his state. I call him a couple days before delivery and he sets up my truck for a backhaul. His loads of mixed produce usually require multiple pickups over a day and a half, but have only one destination, which is less than one hundred miles from our home base in upstate New York. Jerry's a tough, no nonsense guy. He expects performance when he hires a truck, but he is fair and his money is good.
"We haven't got your order yet, but send him to the market (Pompano Beach) and we'll go get him when we get it," said Jerry.
"Ok, Jer, but remember, my driver's only got six hours left on his log today," I said.
"That's not my problem!" countered Jerry.
"I know it's not your problem," I said. "But if we could get the order he could start picking up."
"The buyer hasn't given me the order yet!" said Jerry, trying to contain his mounting aggravation. "And I'm damn sure not going to push him for it! We're going to get it today. I just don't know when."
"Ok, but I'm just saying......"
"Listen!" said Jerry. "Do you want the load or not? There's plenty of trucks around and not much to load this time of the year. The truck stops are full. I'll find somebody!"
"No! No!" I said. "I want the load. I can't afford to sit."
"Damn right you don't want to sit!" said Jerry. "Not down here. Not this time of the year."
"I know," I said.
"Ok," said Jerry. "Just send him to the market and we'll get him when were ready to start loading."
"Will do," I said.
"And the buyer said they're on sale with cukes, so once he gets loaded, he's going to have to ride," said Jerry. "He's on ad. You gotta be there."
"We'll do it," I said.
"Straight to the gate," said Jerry. "No rest for the weary."
"We'll get it done," I said.
The truck has to get it done. Because if that truck didn't do it, another one would. And the next time that truck is in Florida that truck would join the other trucks at a truck stop looking for a load. There will always be some owner operator or small fleet owner willing to bend or break the rules to get the load; that is, to make a living. So even though the truck owner does not like it, even though he wants to do it right, let it be him because it's not the logbook, stupid. It's the money. What our industry needs to do is kick up the money so we can legally comply with a shipper's, broker's, and consignee's needs. Let's face it, if a driver shows up on time for his pickup and his load of cukes is still in the field, that driver is going to wait. That's just the way it is. Shippers, brokers, and consignees are not going to change what they can't change, or what they have been doing for decades. And sometimes circumstances dictate that they simply cannot change, even if they want to get it right. If a driver reaches his destination on time and the consignee's warehouse is full and the warehouse is short of help, that driver is going to wait to get unloaded. Simple as that. What our industry has to do is establish accountability; to let shippers, brokers, and consignees not only know, but also truly understand, that there are laws governing the transportation of their products. And we do not want to bend or break those laws because it's dangerous. So if Jerry does not or cannot change how he loads a truck, then Jerry has to give the truck enough money so the owner can legally do it Jerry's way, regardless of how many trucks are in the truck stops.

The Highway Reporter

CELESTIAL EXPRESS IS HIRING

2004-11-22T21:59:00.000-08:00

No need to fill out an application--you're already on file

On February 8, 2004 Albert "Poncho" DePasquale III was driving north from Florida with a load of tomatoes for Garden State Farms in Philadelphia, PA when the Call came in to him:
"Ponch," said the Voice. "How ya been?"
"I'm cool," said Poncho. "A little tired, but I'm ok. I'm running a little late right now...damn Florida traffic...but I'll be there on time. I'll be in Philly when they open. Captain Jack's ahead of me. He'll keep me going."
"The Captain's got a nice truck," said the Voice.
"Damn sure of that," said Poncho. "1987 Pete 359. Old, but she's mint. Not quite ready for show, but it could be quite easily. It turns some heads going down the road...Just like I want my boss to buy. Not old, like Jack's, but nice."
"Yeah, your boss is a tough sell," said the Voice. "You've worked him hard all these years."
"You know," said Poncho. "I've been with him for most of twenty-seven years. He taught me how to drive when I was twenty...Well, he taught me enough to pass the test. You don't really learn how to drive until you're out on the road by yourself...Anyway, I've tried and tried to get him to buy big trucks...show trucks...triple-digit trucks. When he would order a new one I told him to put chicken lights and chrome on it...and a big motor in it...Don't get me wrong. I'm driving a nice truck. But black tanks don't cut it when you're out here for a living. And I tell him so! I'm not afraid. He listens...Hey, I just want a nice ride."
"This isn't a bad ride," said the Voice.
"No, it's not," said Ponch. "But it needs more chrome...Boss says chrome don't make him another nickel. And I tell him, 'Like hell it don't! It makes me proud to drive a show truck.' And that'll translate into more dollars and cents, if you know what I'm saying."
Poncho pulled his CB microphone off its hanger and yelled to Jack. "Ain't that right, Captain. Tweak that beast of yours a little and she's ready for show!"
"I just put a new sound system in this girl," said Jack. "We'll stop at the truck stop up ahead...I got to clean these windows...and you can listen to it. Sounds like you're front row, center stage."
"Yeah, I'll bet it does," replied Poncho. "And I need to stop for a few minutes. Get some coffee. I'm a little tired."
"I can't stand dirty windows!" said Jack.
"See what I mean," said Poncho. "Jack's proud of that truck. He's GOT to stop just to clean his windows. Me, I've been having trouble making my deliveries much less keeping this girl clean."
"I know," said the Voice.
"I'm not happy with my on-time record lately. Boss isn't happy either. But he knows me pretty good. He knows I'm not late on purpose."
"I know that too," said the Voice.
"Tell you the truth," said Poncho, "I don't know how much longer I can do this. I mean, I love driving truck...but I don't know how much longer I can do this. I don't know. I guess I'm just...tired."
"Maybe I can help," said the Voice. "Why don't you come to work for me?"
"What's it pay?" asked Poncho.
"Pays pretty good," said the Voice.
"Truck?" said Poncho.
"Any make and model you want to drive," said the Voice.
"Where do I get an application?" asked Poncho. "Just in case I decide to make a change."
"No need to fill out an application," said the Voice. "You're already on file."
"Probably got my info out of some data base, right?" asked Ponch.
"Something like that," said the Voice.
"Amazing...If I say yes, when can I start?"
"You're starting right now," said the Voice.
"I can't do that!" said Poncho. "I can't do that to my boss. Just leave the truck right here and go to work for you. No! I'm not one of those yahoos who get ticked off and quit just because they have to work on their wife's birthday. What would the guys say about me? I mean, how would it look? 'Where's Ponch? I heard he quit...Yeah, he left the truck in Raleigh, North Carolina and went to work for somebody else.' No, I can't do that."
"You have no choice," said the Voice.
Just then Captain Jack's voice came over the CB. "Ponch," said Jack, "let's pull into this truck stop. I've got to clean these damn windows!"
"Yeah," said Poncho. "I need some coffee. And I want to hear that system!"
"What do you say?" said the Voice.
Ponch flipped on his right signal light and eased his foot off the accelerator. "I'm going to pull into this truck stop," he said. "I've gone twenty-seven years without an accident. Almost five million miles...and you're not going to ruin my record now!"
"No," said the Voice. "I won't sully your record. Celestial Express needs drivers like you."
Albert "Poncho" DePasquale III paused for a moment as he followed Captain Jack into the truck stop. "Just let me hear a tune on Jack's system," he said. "And then I'm yours."

Albert "Poncho" DePasquale III: August 27, 1956--February 8, 2004

The Highway Reporter

From CHS to UND to GMC

2004-09-17T22:15:00.000-07:00

"It is pleasing to be pointed at with the finger and to have it said, 'There goes the man.'" Persius: Satires
Before I got into my father's trucking business, all I knew about his business was that he was in the trucking business. I mean, I was in high school and had other stuff on my burners. What chance did my old man's business have of entering my mind when I was a five foot seven inch Ernie DeGregorio, leading the Tri Valley League (basketball) in scoring my senior year, and thinking about nothing more than how many females being the leading scorer could get me? True stories: when our team walked into the girl's locker room of a rival school, where visiting teams changed, on the chalkboard was an ego boosting, "Let's go, Gary," written, I later found out, by a girl from that school that I occasionally dated. And after another away game in which I scored forty points, another girl I occasionally dated met me at the team bus and gave me a huge congratulatory kiss in front of our coach who, thirty-six years later, still reminds me of the incident. Who wanted to think about tire pressure and oil change intervals when you were a major sports celebrity on the TVL high school circut?
THAT WAS WHEN I WAS TRULY COOL. BUT...
...everything changed the first week at the University of Notre Dame when I crossed paths with Mike McCoy, six foot six inch, three hundred pound All American defensive tackle for the Fighting Irish. It was the first of many epiphanies during my pedestrian four-year stay at ND. As we approached each other I couldn't take my eyes off him. Hell, it was Mike McCoy! Hadn't I seen him on television two years earlier in the memorable ten-ten tie against Michigan State. When he was in next to me I said hi to him, just like students used to say hi to me at CHS. Mike nodded his head and smiled at me, just like I used to respond to each student--smiling because I did not know that student's name, but knowing that that student damn sure knew mine. It was at that moment, immediately after we passed each other, I realized I WAS NO LONGER A CELEBRITY. The TVL was just another league among the thousands of leagues across this country. And I was just another five foot seven inch high scorer among the thousands of high scorers in the thousands of leagues across this country. At Notre Dame every student was an all star in high school. Every student had been a celebrity, if not athletically, then scholastically...and then there were the Mike McCoys.
AND THEN I FELL IN LOVE WITH A HOMETOWN GIRL.
AND GRADUATED...WITHOUT A JOB.
AND MY FATHER SAID TO ME, "WHY DON'T YOU WORK FOR ME UNTIL YOU FIND SOMETHING BETTER?"
FROM CELEBRITY TO MEDIOCRITY.
FROM CHS TO UND TO GMC.

Two Points Of Light

2004-09-13T22:40:00.000-07:00

"Owner-operators are back and they're better than ever. Too bad there aren't more of them." Fleet Owner, August 2003, pg. 23.

"A mile is a mile is a mile." Me.

Wednesday morning, Sept. 8, 2004: My first ten calls, staccato-like...bam, bam, bam, bam...were from produce shippers and brokers looking for trucks--each shipper giving me a little jab, as if it is my fault there aren't any trucks around........

Mike: "I need two. One for Baltimore/Philly and one for Brooklyn. What have you got?"
Me: "I'll see what I can do, Mike," knowing I couldn't do much.
Bam.

Chuck: "How about an Atlanta?" spoken as if I should have one in my back pocket. "And don't go hauling apples with my trucks!"
Me: "Apples haven't started yet, Chuck." I lied. Mike is an apple guy.
Chuck: "We going to be all right this winter? I'm going to need some trucks?"
Me: "Yeah, we'll be fine." I am hoping.
Bam.

Walt: "Charlotte and Jacksonville. Two trucks. Today is it. If they don't go out today, then forget it. They won't want shit from me."
Bam!

Tom: "I need everything you can give me and one more!"
Bam!

Tim: "I'm looking for a Philly/Jersey split today. They want it in Philly by 8 tonight because it was supposed to have been there yesterday."
Me: "I'll see what I can do, but I know I can't get one in there that early."
Tim: "See what you can do, but don't let the truck go if you get one."
Bam!

Rob: "Hey, Gary. This is Rob. I'm looking for a truck out of Elba for Baltimore."
Me: "What's the rate?"
Rob: "I want to pay nine hundred, but if I have to go a grand I'll do it...And the unloading is fifty. I'll pay that too. Figure ten fifty to you."
Bam!

Dave: "Got a load of bin pumpkins for the Bronx. Can you help me out?"
Me: "No."
Bam!

Chuck (again): "How about a Boston?" spoken as if I should have one in my back pocket.
Me: "That's a tough one." And not just because I'm a Yankees fan. It's a hard area to backhaul from.
Chuck: "Where are all the trucks?"
BAM!

Steve: "You got that truck in Elba for me?"
Me: "He's still unloading. He's got stops and it's slow going today." I lied. I switched the truck to a better load from a faster paying customer.
Steve: "Is he going to make it?"
Me: "I hope so."
Steve: "I need those red onions."
ME: "I'll check on him."
Steve: "Man, this is getting too tough for me. Where are all these trucks?"
Me: "Steve, right now there is a convergence of seasons. Greens are ending. Cukes, squash, and peppers have another month. And apples, potatoes, and onions are just starting. It's the same deal every year. Seasons are overlapping. There's a lot of produce to move right now in upstate New York. And the owner-operators are going after the big-money loads--the summer stuff that pays two-three hundred more than what you're selling."
BAM!

Another Tom: "I'm still looking for yesterday's Philly. Any prospects?"
ME: "No."
BAM!

No trucks. No prospects. Nothing. Nada. Which bring me to my first Point Of Light. ALL OF THE ABOVE HAVE HELPED DRIVE THE OWNER-OPERATOR AND SMALL FLEET OWNER OUT OF BUSINESS! (There are obviously other reasons, but they are food for another blog.) Farmers (I haul produce, so I am limiting this blog to what I know.), shippers, produce brokers, market vendors, and chains--you have done it to us. NOW YOU MUST PAY! (Pun unintentional. I'm not that smart.) Ever since the deregualtion act of 1980, which eased entry level restrictions, giving rise to a short term spike in the number of trucks on the road, rate cutting has been de rigueur--a perception that has trickled down from regulated commodities such as broomsticks and mufflers to unregulated commodities such as cukes and onions, ie. produce...my stuff.
But I do not blame any of the above for trying to save their company money by knocking a few bills off the freight rate. If a produce broker gets two calls from truckers looking to go from Elba, New York to Baltimore, Maryland, and one will go for two hundred less than the other, which truck will the broker chose. Save his company two hundred, or put the two bills in his pocket...he's going to choose the cheaper truck. True story: the above Steve's uncle Carmen once hired a truck to go from Canastota, New York to Miami, Florida...1,450 miles...for four hundred dollars. That was the same rate he was giving me to go from Canastota to Albany, New York...125 miles.
This brings me to my second Point Of Light. WE ARE OUR OWN WORST ENEMY! We take four hundred dollar loads 1,450 miles because we want to get to the hot spot, the place where the big money loads are. Or we take cheap loads because we have been on the road for three weeks and want to get home. Or we take cheap loads because we need money and the cheapie is the only load available... only hauling cheap keeps us in need of money so we haul more cheap loads keeping us permanently in and out of the red. We have this inverse relationship between money and rates: the more strapped we get, the cheaper we haul. And the tires get slicker, the oil changes are extended, and the brakes wear thinner because we do not get it. The cost to run a truck is the same whether we want to get to the hot spot or home, whether we need money or not. We must learn what it cost to run our truck or our fleet because...a mile is a mile is a mile.

The Highway Hero

Prelude

2004-09-05T09:07:00.000-07:00

"Is your journey really necessary?" Anonymous--British wartime slogan

I have been in the trucking business for thirty-three years and, fortunately, I do not know a helluva lot about a truck. I have what might be called an a priori knowledge of the mechanics of a truck, culled from overhearing conversations between drivers: "We need a lower rear-end ratio to give us more top end if we're going to run Florida," drivers and mechanics: "Don't you know how to adjust a fucking clutch? I want at least three inches of free play before it catches!" mechanics: "I don't think the boss knows the difference between a clutch and a fucking pressure plate," and salesmen trying to beef up the price of a new truck: "A bigger engine will give you better fuel mileage because it doesn't have to work as hard as a smaller engine. What you want is a cruising speed at a low RPM, not a cruising speed up against the governor. And you'll get the extra cost of a bigger engine back in the resale." My disingenuously astute retort to said salesmen's logic: "This is what I do. This is where I go. Spec the truck accordingly!" But I said it like I did not want to be bothered with details; like I was too busy. Actually, the attitude was a ruse, purposely designed to mask the fact that I knew nothing about specing a new truck for what I did and where I went. And my mechanic is right. I do not know the difference between a clutch and a fucking pressure plate. First time I saw the two come out of a box I thought the clutch was the pressure plate and the pressure plate the clutch.
When I changed the emphasis of my business from trucking to truck brokering I down-played the significance of new truck orders like this: "I am a truck broker first and a truck owner second. The only reason I own trucks is because owning trucks gives me the power to take more loads. I am not afraid to take orders because I can put them on my equipment if I cannot hire an outside truck. Owning trucks insures the orders I take will be covered, and that is key. Covering the orders. All I have to sell is service. And bad service means no customers...You know what I do. You know where I go. Spec the goddamn truck accordingly!" It was spoken with an insouciance that suggested I knew what I was talking about and did not care as long as my salesman got it right, althoough I did not know what right was. Then I would beat on my salesman to lower the price of the truck. I worked the price angle real hard, as if beating my salesman up somehow conveyed to him, and everyone else involved in the deal, that I knew what I was talking about. I once held up a new truck order for ninety days over a one hundred fifty dollar difference in purchase price. That was after I threw my salesman out of my office because he would not give me what I wanted for the truck I was trading in...you know, the truck with the bigger engine.
I have often wondered how mechanics and truck drivers (people in general) learn about a truck: it's components, how each component functions, and how each component compliments the next; like a series of steps that suddenly becomes a dance when you finally understand the rhythm. At what moment did they "get it?" When the radiator is cooling the fluid that cools the engine, the engine hitting on all six or eight cylinders, the transmission in conjunction with the engine, the rear-ends in harmony with the rest of the drivetrain, tires singing, air conditioning blowing refreshing cool air onto a fatigued body, radio tuned in to the best country music station in the area. When does it all become a "truck" to them? I am fifty-four years old and I still don't get it? Can't make a dance out of all the steps. How an engine works. Or how the horsepower an engine generates is transferred to the ground. It's all a priori knowledge to me. The horses go from the engine through the transmission into the rear-ends by means of a driveshaft and then, via axles, to the rubber. I know this because I listen to my drivers, mechanics, and salesman. But the engineering of it all is a mystery to me.
And here are my answers to other fundamental questions about a truck that, after thirty-three years in the business, still baffle me:
Q. How does a truck start?
A. Turn the key.

Q. How does a truck move foward?
A. Put the truck in gear. More specifically, put the truck in first gear and proceed, smoothly if possible, through the gears to the last one. And you need a clutch (The old-timers don't.) to shift. Why you need a clutch, I don't know.

Q. How does a truck accelerate?
A. Step on the accelerator.

Q. What is the function of a turbocharger?
A. I have no idea. All I know is they are goddamn expensive to replace.

Q. How does an engine retarder work?
A. With oil.

Q. What is a cam shaft?
A. No clue.

Q. Why does a loaded truck generate momentum when going down a hill?
A. I have absolutely no fucking idea. But I do know you better control that momentum or you are in trouble!

Q. And finally, how does a truck stop?
A. Step on the brakes, stupid!
Trucking 101 and I can't pass the course! I AM EMBARASSED! I am embarassed to admit my ignorance, and never did UNTIL NOW. (Noticed I said earlier my mechanic didn't "think" I know the difference between a clutch and pressure plate. He isn't sure if I know the difference because I always feign that I know the difference.) BUT...I have a good reason for my lack of knowledge, interest, and desire to learn anything about a truck. I HATE TRUCKING! Always have. Always will. Right from the first day when, fresh out of college and without a job, my old man made me change ten tires sans power equipment. I had to use hand tools: a twenty-ton hydraulic jack, a tire wrench, ball peen hammer, and a pipe.
So trust me on this one. Hating the business has bred my ignorance. But, that's a good thing for you, the reader. Because when I get to a technical part in my story (if I even go there) like my mechanic having to change a water pump, I will simply write, "My mechanic had to change a water pump," and then explain its relevance to the rest of the chapter. That will suffice because: 1) it is not enough to be boring and 2) that is all I care to know about changing a water pump. If I did write more I might bore you into thinking you are reading the September issue of Heavy Duty Trucking or Fleet magazine. For the same reasons I will not write about load optimization, routing density, smoke opacity, tire inflation, trailer suspensions, or Caterpillar vs. Detroit vs. Cummins.
I do not want to go there as much as I think you do not want to read about it.
Which probably makes you wonder why I got into the trucking business in the first place?
The answer is simple...I WAS IN LOVE, GETTING MARRIED, AND NEEDED A JOB!
So with the reason for being in the trucking business out in the open, let me further confuse you with a synopsis of why, after thirty-three years, I am still in the business I hate: I bought my father's trucking company. And that's all the history for now. When I need to tell you more, I will. I promise the forthcoming episodes will be honest, metaphorically so, if necessary; will protest the names of the guilty; will be chronologically accurate, unless changing the chronology leads to a better understanding of this story...memoir...etc. without distorting the same; succinct; as interesting as possible; and I hope you get through it with some of the information necessary to make this saga of my hatred/ignorance comprehensible. But remember, if I drift into the stupid, it is not only because of my hatred/ignorance of the trucking business. It is also because a lot of stupid stuff goes on in this business.

The Highway Hero

Maybe I Shouldn't Have Said I Was A Mom And Pop Operation

2004-08-31T20:28:00.000-07:00

I sent this letter to Dick Larsen, Senior Editor of Land Line Magazine on June 27, 2004

Dear Mr. Larsen,
I have received free subscriptions to our trade magazines for two decades and, quite frankly, I do not read them all that much. And for a very good reason: they're filled with all the same boring information, including the latest new products to make our business less costly, more efficient, and how did we ever get along without said new product; the latest rules and regulations to pop out of our government that will make our business safer, more regulated or less regulated; truck shows; a feature article or two about a trucking company (usually large), truck, trailer, or engine; and a theme for the month's magazine with editors commenting on that theme (tires, fuel, drivers, hours of service, buying vs. leasing, insurance, etc.).
What is conspiciously missing from our magazines is a column about the very small mom and pop trucking companies. The two-ten truck companies that do not operate on corporate budgets or schedules, but often by a seat-of-the-pants agenda determined only by where their next load is coming from...or going to. Where money is usually tight and rules and regulations don't always make sense to a small fleet owner who drives one truck and helps his wife find work for their other two trucks.
I have been in the trucking business as a gopher, driver, and a small fleet owner for thirty-three years and have accumulated a wealth of memories, stories, aggravations, and experiences. I have owned as many as nine tractor-trailers at one time, sold all of them, worked as a truck broker, and bought trucks again when my son decided he wanted in. I have struggled, made money, and struggled again. I have taught drivers how to pass a driver's test and had them die in the truck. I try to adhere to the rules and regulations governing our industry, but sometimes I bend them. Sometimes I ignore them completely. And sometimes I want to just throw in the towel and find another line of work. In short, I know the mom and pop end of the trucking business.
Here are nine columns for you to read about my company and myself. If you are interested in a column about a mom and pop trucking company, please contact me at the above address. If not, please return my columns in the enclosed SASE.
Thank you for your time.

To date I have not received a response. Maybe that's a good thing............And maybe I should have used the term "small fleet owner" instead of mom and pop operation.

The Highway Hero (or the Pop)