Snow Storm in Atlanta

Picture courtesy: mtbearded1s.blogspot.com

Originally posted 12/21/2005
by Douglas Lewis
It wasn’t a bad day in Carolina; not really bad anyway. A good thing too: I didn’t want to go to work -after the great time I’d had with Anne Stuart the night before - making-up for too much time away from home
I’d never been in the habit of checking the weather before departing on a run, and my boss didn’t let anybody off for the weather anyway, ‘lessen he couldn’t get in to the office to tell you to go. We were scheduled for an early afternoon departure. It was a little gray and crispy on the way over to the terminal and I still hadn’t recovered from the R&R. That’s why the new co-driver took the first shift, so I could get some more sleep. We introduced each other and I crawled into the sleeper while he checked the equipment.
About three hours later my co-driver shook me awake and said “I don’t wanna drive anymore.” “Okay, where are we?” I asked sleepily, but he didn’t know. He had turned off on a frontage road alongside the interstate. He didn’t want to drive because of the snow falling around us. Since the interstate was in sight only about a quarter of a mile off to our right, I took the wheel without further questions and got back on the highway at the next interchange.
Sure, it was snowing a little, and it began blowing across the road a bit, so we cruised along at a leisurely thirty-five. Wasn’t any point in stopping – then we’d be there all night and miss our appointment in San Diego.
As we drove, the snow began accumulating alongside and on the highway. Pretty soon we were driving on snow, hard-packed from traffic ahead, none of which was in sight. As we crested a rise and began a short descent, I noticed a revolving blue light suddenly attempt to cross the snow-filled median at the bottom. It didn’t make it. I knew it wasn’t a K-Mart and flipped-up the high-beams despite the thickening snow.
There was a tractor-trailer stretched sideways from the median to the guardrail all the way across the two southbound lanes. Past the guardrail was nothing but empty space. The blue light was stuck in the snow ahead of the rig.
Of course I tried the brakes. I saw the reflection of the brake lights in the snow behind the trailer. Even gently applied, the trailer wheels broke loose and about 60,000 pounds of trailer and cast-iron began to cross the lane beside me and catch up with the front of the tractor.
That darkened semi ahead of us started closing in very quickly. The guy in the buddy seat screamed and lunged for the trailer brake on the doghouse which, luckily, I already had a grip on, anticipating that he would go for it and jackknife the rig for sure.
There were only two options here and I didn’t like either one of them: either go through the trailer stretched across the road; or go thru the guardrail, ‘cause stopping wasn’t going to happen.
There was only about an eighth of an inch of aluminum to protect me from the trailer that the cab-over would hit (and God knows what was in the trailer before us). Only three or four ‘one-eighths’ of an inch of aluminum lie between us and a load of heavy cast-iron pipe and fireplugs lying unsecured on the floor of the trailer behind us (at least mostly behind us).
That ruled out option one.
I committed my future to the fates as we were running out of space and time so I cranked the wheel of the big Pete over to the right just in time to find a hole between the back of the blocking trailer and the guardrail. Our trailer was still re-aligning with the tractor but it straightened-out enough to make it through without hitting, so I pulled her down into a lower gear, got back onto the highway and drove on out of the snowstorm. By the time we got to Atlanta, the snow was easing off and I turned it back over to the co-driver, who had decided that I was ‘OK’ in his book.
If it hadn’t been for the blue light, you wouldn’t be reading this story. This happened probably around the winter of 1980 or so.

Defining Safety In The Trucking World

trucksafetyexpert.com

Today’s feature is a guest post by Jeff Head. He makes some very good points and observations about the current “safety culture” training practiced by most trucking companies and what the “effectiveness” of this training is in the real world of a professional truck driver. Thanks for the piece, Jeff and a link to his Facebook page follows if you would like to friend him.
Today's Thoughts By Jeff Head 7/28/12 Defining Safety In The Trucking World

"You be safe now" I hear once again as I turn and walk out the door. A pleasant way to say good-bye to someone but I think that if I hear that just one more time, I'm going to scream. It's not that I do not believe in being safe out here in my big truck. No, that’s not it. It is the fact that no matter how many times I am told that particular phrase, some clown comes along and dang near kills me and them and everyone else around. Guessing no one told "them" to be safe as they turned and walked out the door today.

So, what is safe or maybe, the question should be how do you teach someone to be safe? Can you force safe thinking upon some one? Any trucker worth their salt can tell you that the FMCSA thinks they can sit up there behind a desk and regulate safety by makeing new regulation after new regulation. However, even after all their hard, well-intentioned work; people are still dying out here on the highways. We all know the crazy stuff we see from all kinds of drivers as they interact with each other out here in the real world.

Well, as you may have guessed by now, I have my opinion as to what makes a safe driver. It is something that I picked up from a business article I read somewhere years ago. You can teach and you can preach a job or in this case, safe driving to drivers until their eyes roll back in their heads and all you will accomplish is making them fall asleep in class. It will do absolutely no good at all unless they as an individual want to do the job or be a safe driver. You can force people into many things, but if their heart is not into it, they will simply go through the motions and the outcome will never be the same as a person that has dedicated him or herself to the job at hand.

This is why many believe that there should be a certain criteria as to who can become a truck driver. And why many believe that the FMCSA themselves are actually doing more harm than good with their relentless never-ending regulation after regulation trying to solve the problem. Even companies that give repeated safety class after repeated safety class if you watch as you sit through them, will have drivers that have seen this same out dated material for years, just sitting there rolling their eyes and wishing they were back out there on the road making some miles.

Nope, the way I see it you can educate and regulate until the sun goes down every day. But unless you can figure out how to make people want to be a safer driver, I mean really straight from their heart make it their passion in life to be safe, all we will end up with is a bunch of drivers going through the motions of being safe. They will simply say or do whatever it takes at the moment to get them through and then walk out the door and do what it takes to get the job done.

The answer to all this is realize that with so many different drivers out here, there has to be many different avenues to reach them. To make them actually want to be safe. Some will respond to the heavy handed repeated reminders from safety classes and over regulation. Other will just roll their eyes to these tactics and go about life in their own way. Continued lectures will only serve to make them reject the classes and come to the understanding that they are being treated in a disrespectful way. That their time and effort out on the highway for so many years means nothing to anyone.

I think recognition from the powers that be would work better. These drivers need to know, that after showing years of safe driving; that their efforts have been noticed and appreciated. This I think would work better than sitting them in a class with a person that just entered the industry learning their ABC's like a big dummy once again. I see this as disrespectful and humiliating. Let their time and efforts over the years be put up in a place of honor and you will find that in their hearts, they will want to be a safer driver. That drivers from all categories will have a goal to work for as they gain years in the industry, a standard that they can be proud to meet and a want within themselves to be a safer driver.

Only the want to do the job, to be safe will create a safer environment out on the highway. Keep beating these drivers down and that want will never come.

https://www.facebook.com/jeff.head.90

Panic- Don't Do It Behind the Wheel!

One of the happiest days of my life was the day I got my drivers license at 16 years of age. I had practically lived on a bicycle before in the preceding years and was so eager to have the freedom to drive. My buddy and I were young teenage car fanatics and couldn’t wait to get on the road.
The first time I took my road test, being was so eager to get it over with, I was flunked for speeding! My father had brought me over to take the test and let me use the family car, a 1957 Chrysler New Yorker. He was definitely not amused and told me on the way home that if I flunked the next road test, I would be waiting until 18 before trying it again! After the mandatory wait, I took the road test again in a week or two and passed.

So that’s how my lifetime of driving adventure began. Slowly, my parents allowed me more freedom and I got to use the car more frequently. I got my license in early November, as winter was beginning to set in. One day, I had my buddy, Tom and brother, Russ in the car and we were going somewhere. It had been snowing lightly and the streets were beginning to get a little slippery. Although I didn’t have much experience driving on snow, my mother had taken my brother and I a couple of times late at night when there was a fresh, snow covered store parking lot and (after the store closed) let us take turns sliding the car around in the snow to get the feel of how it handled. Since then, I’ve always thought that a driver training program for new drivers should always include some kind of skid pad experience. That would definitely be of help for young drivers but, as I found out, not a guarantee of staying accident free.

Being still immature and overconfident (also trying to impress my passengers), I was driving down the street going a little fast for the prevailing conditions. As we approached a stop sign to make a right turn, there was a vehicle in front of us stopped at the sign. After applying the brakes to stop, the wheels locked up and we were sliding straight for the vehicle ahead. I had neglected to see that there was a stretch of ice underneath us coming up to the stop sign. My foot was jammed on the brake pedal as were sliding closer and closer, about to have a collision. My first reaction was panic, as I jammed on that brake pedal for all it was worth. Thankfully I had a second or two to think and realize what I was doing was not working. I was trying to steer around the car in front, but because the brakes had the steer tires locked up, the car would not turn. I forced myself to let off the brakes and steered the car right around the vehicle, coming to a stop just past the sign, looking quite foolish and very embarrassed, but at least I hadn’t hit the guy!

Because of that extra second to think and react, it taught me a lifelong lesson. Since that day (now 43 years later), I have never panicked while behind the wheel, no matter what situation I have been in. I don’t know if there’s a way to teach someone this, but I think skid pad training and experience handling an out of control vehicle would certainly help.

See last week’s post “Slow Motion Terror Ride with Art” (7/21/2012) for a related experience with another driver.

http://dbridgerhot.blogspot.com/2012/07/slow-motion-terror-ride-with-art.html

corkcork.tumblr.com

Road Trips: Ode to the Road in an RV

Nice story about some Canadian friends renting an RV and going on a road trip in Canada. Link to their site follows.
Iris Benaroia  Jul 21, 2012 – 7:00 AM ET | Last Updated: Jul 20, 2012 1:50 PM ET
After the water from the dogs’ dishes splashes across the floor for the ninth time, we learn the first Newtonian rule of RV travel: An object in motion stays in motion with the same speed and in the same direction unless acted upon by an unbalanced force.
In our case, the force is created by a Coachmen Leprechaun Class C motorhome. She’s no lady. On crummier roads, the 30-foot-long apartment on wheels reels and rocks, its contents jangling so intensely it’s like Godzilla is shaking the vehicle.
“Immobilize the apples!” I yell above the clamour, as fruit poltergeists through the cabin.
Two weeks ago, I loaned the RV through Go RVing Canada at a dealership called Motor Home Travel in Bolton, Ont., with a plan to explore Ontario over one week; an idea that emerged, as these shenanigans often do, over several bottles of pinot grigio with my boyfriend, Massimo, and our friends, Alex and Jeff.
“It’ll be like Breaking Bad, minus the meth,” I say. “We’ll get a pimped-out RV.”
Massimo’s 80-pound Thai Ridgeback, Rocky, and Alex and Jeff’s Wheaten Terrier, Mishka, will also come along for the ride, despite their vastly different agendas: Rocky is drawn to air-conditioning and king-size mattresses while Mishka, in her pink Martha Stewart collar, likes parties and the outdoors. They would never hook up in a personals ad.
We map out a counterclockwise circle of Ontario starting in Bolton. Then to Huntsville, with a stay in Algonquin Park and Grundy Lake in French River country, through  Sudbury, Espanola and across Manitoulin Island to South Baymouth, where we (and the RV) hop the ferry Chi-Cheemaun — that’s “big canoe” in Ojibwa — for three nights in Tobermory. The undisputed highlight of the trip. The route back will take us through Wiarton, Sauble Beach and Southampton.
Among many, there’s a notion RV travel is for hard-up hillbillies and gypsies — to the contrary. The Leprechaun’s quarters are kitted out with a kitchen, shower, toilet, table and sleeping accommodations for eight. Jeff and Alex recommend bringing your own padding for the bunk over the driver’s zone: “My back would have been a mess without my memory foam,” Jeff says, after the first night.
As the days pass, we perfect a rapid ritual: unplug RV, throw chairs in back boot, go. The best thing about this style of travel is it allows you to rough it in the bush on your own terms. You can enjoy the woods and the lake, but there’s no waking up in a hot sticky tent or animal-style squat releases on dirt. And in the 30C heat, who isn’t grateful for ice for frosty margaritas and air-conditioned nights on real beds?
But like any “house,” the RV needs regular attention. For juice, it must be plugged in at the camp or operates on a generator. And one (the boys, in our case) must dispose of the human waste through a hose that runs into the ground. Ditto filling the water tank.
“I’ve just discovered the poo stop is the water cooler of the RV universe,” Massimo says, standing next to a sign to mind the baby fox at Rock Lamp camp in Algonquin. “I talked with this couple ahead of us from Hamilton about our rig,” he says. “They like it, but they say many parks can’t accommodate rigs over 27 feet.” (Who knew?)
Liquids flushed and filled, we leave Algonquin’s birches, pines and bedrock and memories of steaks over an open fire, divine cherry danishes we bought in Huntsville at Henrietta’s Pine Bakery, and canoe rides for our next step: Grundy Lake.
On Highway 69, we pass cryptic country graffiti —“the Soo Crew,” “Burt and Sheila 4ever,” “Yevan 2007” and a moose. But the scenery changes at the White Birch campground.
Divided into forest pods, the lots at this national park are more private than at Algonquin, with tall thickets to cradle campsites and the wildlife, bald eagles, bears and chipmunks.
Barefoot children ride bikes and people roam in whispered tones. Some families, such as the Treachers from St. Catharines, spend months in the bush, sequestered in an elaborate set-up with carpets and dining zones.
The next day, rapid ritual complete, we go north in Bruce County. Just when I think I’ve become an expert camper, who has seen my share of nature, our vacation veers into foreign territory. How is it I knew nothing of Toberymory’s breathtaking Flowerpot Island with its towering shale formations and sea caves? Or the postcard-perfect marina, Little Tub harbour, dotted with local whitefish-and-chip stands, colourful clapboard cottages and boats named Mamie? The former’s turquoise waters look like Aruba’s. The latter feels like Maine.

After pulling into camp, a privately owned affair called the Village of Tobermory where the firewood is delivered by golf carts to your RV by a family member, and a petting zoo and pool is ideal for those with children, we drop off the rig.

On the first day, we take the Bruce Anchor boat to Flowerpot Island. It’s glass so you can see the sunken shipwrecks beneath the sparkling water. There are more than 22 and several historic lighthouses, our guide Mark, a friendly sailor dude with a sunburned nose, tells us. Also the 490-acre island, part of the Fathom Five National Marine Park, has the largest concentration of orchids in North America, and a springy bright green moss terrain so perfect, it looks like a film set.
Out of the forest, Massimo and I unpack sandwiches and pour wine into cups on a rock. Our spread is next to one of the flowerpots (there are two) — those would be the shale formations on its eastern shores. “How does a kid from Toronto not have these amazing structures seared into his brain so that they appear every time somebody mentions the word Tobermory?” Massimo asks.
It’s true, and I wonder why images of this bit of the Bruce Peninsula aren’t as iconic as, say, shots of Niagara Falls.
Nevertheless, tourists know of it. The next day, we go on a 20-minute forest hike in Cyprus Lake Provincial Park hearing German, Spanish and Japanese. There’s a clearing, then paradise. The view is straight out of the Caribbean: turquoise water and cliffs. (The grotto itself is a magical cave with pristine water.)
I park myself on the limestone rock, with the rest of the people in bathing suits on this 35C day. “Can you believe this? Get in here!” Alex yells, dripping wet in a bikini by the shore.
Uncharacteristically, the dogs have finally sobered. Rocky is as still as a concrete lion, staring at the scuba divers jumping off a boat into the water. Even he seems to understand, it is a strange sight to behold in Ontario.
IF YOU GO
RV rentals
Rates vary by season — a July week in the Leprechaun costs $2,300 at Motor Home Travel, which offers a variety of vehicles with slide-outs for extra space and handy back-up cameras. On pick-up day, they give you a half-hour tutorial and a detailed binder with phone numbers, photos and troubleshooting tips. We were quickly helped on the road after our A/C wouldn’t turn on following a tripped breaker. Visitmotorhometravel.comor call 416-743-4155 for more information.
Where to stay
There are 450 independently owned and operated campgrounds and RV parks in Ontario. Most offer laundry facilities. We were amazed by how clean the showers were and that they were private. It’s important to reserve a spot early to snag a prime location by the waterfront. For sites, see Go RVing Canada.Campsites cost $25 to $55 per night and are a nature-lover’s dream, where you can rent an hourly canoe, kayak or paddleboat and see loads of wildlife. We stayed at these two public parks: Algonquin Provincial Park, Rock Lake campground (visit algonquinpark.on.ca for more information) and Grundy Lake (visit Ontarioparks.com and follow the links or call 705-383-2286 for more information).
We also spent three nights at Tobermory Village Campground, a quaint, family-owned affair with a splashpad, pool and petting zoo. Taxi service to town costs $10. Visittobermoryvillagecampground.com or call 519-596-2689.
Where to eat
Lucky you, an RV is equipped with a fridge. We stocked up at Costco, barbecuing most of the time, except for these stops:
• Spencer’s Tall Trees in Huntsville has an old-world feel, with simple classics such as terrific pan-seared pickerel with a yummy maple butter sauce. Grandview, a 40-year-old family resto in Tobermory, has upmarket fare (our favourite was the calamari puttanesca), a great wine list and a killer view of the water from their flower-filled patio.
• On our way back, we stopped at the Elk & Finch in Southampton, sampling pastry chef Marjorie Sawyer’s incredible desserts. Best: ooey-gooey caramel tart.
Go RVing Canada
Need a rig? This friendly association whose cute tagline is “the best things in life RV” offers advice for RVers, new or seasoned. Visit GoRVing.ca or call 1-866-470-3828 for more information.
Travel support provided by Go RVing Canada
Posted in: Life, Travel  Tags: Road Trips
http://life.nationalpost.com/2012/07/21/road-trips-ode-to-the-road-in-an-rv/

IRIS BENAROIA

ibenaroia@nationalpost.com

Slow Motion Terror Ride with Art!

Me on the left with Ken on the forklift!

Back in the 90’s, before Lowes bought them out, one of our customers was Eagle Hardware and Garden, a chain of home improvement stores based in Seattle. We had a contract to do the curbside home delivery of building materials and appliances to their customers.

The delivery trucks that we used were day cab tandem axle tractors pulling 32 foot curtain-sided flatbed trailers. Attached to the back of the trailers were forklift trucks that were needed to offload lumber and building materials to the curb.
As you can imagine, with the 8,000 pound weight of a forklift hanging off the back, these trucks handled very poorly in wet or slippery conditions! Especially if you didn't have a load on the trailer. Because we also delivered and set up appliances for Eagle's customers in their homes, we had a helper along with a driver on each truck.

One winter day, one of the helpers was sick so I had to ride along with Art, who was a regular driver for us servicing customers of the four Eagle stores in the Salt Lake City area. We went to a store in the morning, loaded up and proceeded to make the local deliveries scheduled for that day. There was a snow storm forecast to be moving in that afternoon, so we wasted no time in trying to get our deliveries completed. Our last stop of the day was a few miles north of Salt Lake in a fancy neighborhood located on the “benches” of the Wasatch mountain range. There were some pretty steep hills in the area and it took awhile to find the address. As we were inside the house doing an appliance setup for the customer, it began snowing. After finishing up, we went outside to find the streets and sidewalks covered with an inch or so of the white stuff.
We got in the truck and with Art driving, we started to make our way out of the neighborhood and back to the freeway. We turned a corner and were suddenly headed down a very steep hill on a residential street that was not very wide, lined with trees and mailboxes and a couple of parked cars.

Although we were only doing a couple of miles an hour, we both seemed to sense it at the same time. The weight of the forklift on the back was actually starting to push the trailer sideways! We both looked out the mirrors at the same time and Art proceeded to take action while I started looking for something to hang on to! Of course the first thing he tried was the brakes and counter-steering, but immediately, he knew that was just going to jack knife us. So he came off the brake and floored the throttle. I was looking out the mirror and the truck was starting to straighten out but now our speed was picking up and it was a long way to the bottom of the hill. As soon as he could get straight, Art jammed on the brakes trying to scrub off speed until the trailer started coming sideways again, only this time to my side. Floor throttle again, straighten out and hit the brakes! I was hanging on wondering which tree or mailbox and how many we were going to take out when I look a little further up and Holy Crap! There’s a minivan full of kids with a woman driving it, coming towards us! I look out the mirror again and see the trailer coming to Art’s side again. I'm thinking "Oh God, we’re going to take out the minivan"! 

Everything seemed to be going in slow motion. I remember having the thought “How are we going to explain this?”

Art mashed the throttle again and the trailer straightened out just enough to get by that poor woman. She was stopped and I'll never forget the look of terror on her face with her mouth wide open as we went by. Finally, the hill started to level out and Art was able to make a left turn as we were sliding through an intersection! During the whole ordeal, we never said a word to each other (I certainly wasn't going to distract him!).

After he got the rig under control, I practically punched him on the arm and asked him where the “heck” he learned to drive like that? His response was that he was an old log hauler and had to handle trucks coming out of the woods on slippery and hilly trails. I've always considered myself to be a skillful driver but that was one fancy piece of driving he did that afternoon. 

I think that there is very few that could have come out of that without an accident! I don't know if I could have. Tip of the hat to Art Malcolm!

Briefs Due Next Month in Federal Hours of Service Lawsuit

Update on the Hours of Service Lawsuit, thanks to J.J. Keller and Associates
Posted June 21, 2012
The United States Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia Circuit announced the schedule to submit briefs for the lawsuits challenging the federal hours-of-service (HOS) rules. Briefs are due starting July 24, 2012, followed by replies by October 24, and final briefs by November 21.
Earlier this year, the Court consolidated industry and safety advocate suits despite the fact each were challenging the Federal Motor Carrier Safety Administration (FMCSA) HOS rules on different grounds. Industry asserts the new rules are too restrictive, while safety advocates feel the rules did not go far enough.
Industry’s suit
In a filing with the U.S. Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia Circuit, American Trucking Associations (ATA) identified four areas where the recent HOS rule falls short of legal standards for regulatory changes. ATA contends that several aspects of the rule issued by FMCSA are “arbitrary and capricious” and should be overturned.
ATA questioned:

• Changes to the restart provision requiring that it include two consecutive periods between 1 a.m. and 5 a.m.;
• Limits on the frequency with which a driver may use the restart;
• The requirement that a mandatory 30-minute break from driving also exclude all other on-duty activity; and
• Narrowing — without prior notice — certain exceptions to drive-time regulations for local delivery drivers.

Safety advocates' points
Advocates for Highway and Auto Safety, Public Citizen, the Truck Safety Coalition, and two truck drivers filed a lawsuit challenging the new HOS rule. The suit claims that the agency final rule failed to reduce the 11-hour limit on consecutive driving hours to 10 hours, despite the agency’s statement in the proposed rule that “the 10-hour rule is currently FMCSA’s currently preferred option” because it would be most effective in reducing driver fatigue. According to the plaintiffs, although the agency had no data to support its adoption of the longer 11-hour limit in 2004, the agency decided to stand by that mistake even though it comes at the cost of numerous additional fatigue-related crashes.
They also contend that the new final rule fails to eliminate the 34-hour restart provision that encourages cumulative fatigue and allows drivers to exceed weekly driving and work limits. The restart provision, first instituted in 2004, reduces the off-duty time drivers are allowed from 48 or more hours to just 34 hours off-duty after driving up to 70 hours and working more than 80 hours over eight days. The parties claim the changes included in the December 2011 final rule do not prevent the most fatigued drivers, those who work on a schedule of 70 hours of driving in eight-days, from continually using the short and unacceptable 34-hour restart every week, or being required to do so by their trucking company.
The plaintiffs also stated that FMCSA added to the problem of driver fatigue with the new provision that allows truck drivers to sit in the cab of their truck during their 10-hour off-duty rest period instead of sleeping. The plaintiffs believe this will only lead to increased rates of driver fatigue among long-haul drivers who do not have sleeper berths in their trucks.

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J. J. Keller's Log Auditing Services can take the time consuming work off your hands, so you keep up with auditing and stay in compliance.

Former Packers LB John Corker bounces back from drugs, homelessness

Thanks to and written by  ALEX BRANCH  Fort Worth Star-Telegram, Link follows:

Picture: www.star-telegram.com

FORT WORTH, Texas — John Corker, all 6 feet, 7 inches and 280 chiseled pounds of him, attracts plenty of attention at the Salvation Army.
"Is that you?" a homeless man asks, eyeing a photograph of Corker as a linebacker for the Green Bay Packers in 1988, about to lay a hit on quarterback Vinny Testaverde.
Seconds later, a woman stops Corker, but for a different reason.
"Hey, I recognize you," she said. "You used to drive the No. 2 bus!"
Yes, John Corker has done both of those things.
But his real story, the one that defines him, is his battle back from the edge of oblivion.
Corker was once a brash all-America linebacker who set tackling records at Oklahoma State University and played years of professional football.
Today, he is a city bus driver — and a recovered drug user who once lived homeless and hungry.
Corker's large frame is a common sight at the Salvation Army, where he has for years been involved in the church ministry. The facility on East Lancaster Avenue gave Corker shelter after he became stranded in Fort Worth following a drug binge in the mid-2000s.
It's where he found the programs that turned his life around, helped him get a home and a steady job, and stay clean and sober for seven years now.
"People ask me how it felt to be an NFL player who competed at the highest level, and then come live in a homeless shelter," said Corker, 53.
"I tell them it was probably the greatest day of my life."
"John Corker is imposing a personal reign of terror on quarterbacks," a Sports Illustrated journalist wrote about Corker in 1983.
Described as tall, fast and fearless, the Miami native was an all-American at Oklahoma State, where he played from 1976 to 1979. He finished his four years as the school's all-time leading tackler and was named Big Eight defensive player of the year in 1978, the first OSU player to receive the award.
Drafted by the Houston Oilers, he played three seasons in the NFL before moving to the USFL. In 1983, while playing for the Michigan Panthers, he was named the USFL's defensive player of the year. He eventually returned to the NFL, playing in two games for the Packers in 1988.
Corker earned hundreds of thousands of dollars playing pro ball. But the fast-lane lifestyle slowly destroyed him.
Cocaine was the monster on his back.
"I was probably smoking $1,200 (worth of cocaine) a day and playing pro football at the same time," he said. "How my heart didn't burst, I can't tell you that."
In 1994, he played in the Arena Football League, but he eventually found himself out of football, broke and cashing in his $30,000 pension.
He got a hotel room and in one month blew every penny on drugs. He ended up on the streets of Baltimore, eating out of trash bins.
His brother eventually brought him to Texas, where Corker cleaned up long enough to get a job driving tractor-trailers.
Then came the day when, on a trip from Odessa to Dallas to pick up a cargo of electronics, he stopped in Fort Worth to find drugs.
He left the truck near Vickery Boulevard and Tucker Street. That was the last he saw of it.
"Because of my capacity to get high, I couldn't remember where I left the truck," he said. "I was walking around the city of Fort Worth asking people if they'd seen a parked tractor-trailer truck on the side of the road."
With nowhere else to go, Corker wandered into the Salvation Army.
Corker's weight had dropped to a gaunt 185 pounds, and his long legs dangled over the end of his bunk in the men's dormitory.
"I figured I'd blow off a couple days here," he said. "But to be inside from the elements consistently for the first time in years, it gave me the belief that I could do this. I could get my life back."
Corker committed himself to the self-improvement programs and drug counseling.
Salvation Army Lt. Chris Bryant worked at the facility in 2008 and remembers Corker reaching out to other homeless men.
The former linebacker had regained his weight and muscle. He towered over others and commanded attention, Bryant said.
"When you first meet John, he's an intimidating figure," Bryant said. "He could walk up to the guys off the streets and tell them it was time to get their lives in order. They listened to him."
Corker eventually got a job driving buses in Fort Worth, and he has kept it. He rented an apartment in east Fort Worth, where he raises his 4-year-old daughter, Alexis.
"It's all about her now," he said. "She's been the apple of my eye."
Corker serves on the Salvation Army's advisory council and shares his story at Salvation Army events, as well as with other organizations and in public schools.
His life is not always simple, he said. He would like to one day buy a house, but the cost of child care commands a startling chunk of his monthly paycheck.
But he said he looks forward to the future and refuses to dwell on the past.
"I look back over my life now and say I've really been blessed," he said.
"I'm not perfect, but I thank God I'm not where I used to be."
http://www.packersnews.com/viewart/20120718/PKR01/120718063/Former-Green-Bay-Packers-LB-John-Corker-bounces-back-from-drugs-homelessness

Safety and Driver Engagement

This article, thanks to:
Rim Yurkus is president and CEO for employment consulting firm Strategic Programs Inc.
7/17/2012
Safety and Driver Engagement
By Rim Yurkus, Contributor

The recession made surviving companies smarter about several things. BR (Before Recession) companies would measure job satisfaction - the premise being: If you make drivers happy, they won't quit. During the recession, job satisfaction went way down; so did quitting. 

What does this have to do with safety? Read on.

We learned that job satisfaction was a poor indicator of turnover. Sometimes happy drivers quit jobs. Sometimes unhappy drivers do not quit. I recently interviewed a driver who has hated his job and his employer for 14 years.

Instead, the accurate predictor of retention is the driver's level of engagement. This is the degree to which the driver identifies who he is as a person by what he does and for whom he works for a living. It is how well she enjoys her job, is proud to be associated with the company and trusts that the company has her interests in mind.

Who are your best and most profitable drivers? Who is willing to go an extra mile? Who has a great on-time performance record? Who keeps their equipment in the best condition? Again, odds are they are the most engaged.

Now, who do you think are your safest drivers?

Actively engaged drivers give more than 100%. They think about their job on the way to work. They wake up with fresh ideas. They speak well of their company to friends and other drivers. They boost morale of their co-workers. 

And none of this is in their job description.

We all know it is getting tougher to recruit and retain the high performers. Companies are raising pay and enhancing benefits. These are great short-term Band-Aids, but what will separate the highest performing companies from the rest as we move forward with new regulations, a skilled worker shortage, and potential predatory practices by competitors? 

If you had a highly engaged workforce, what would your safety record look like? What would your performance record look like? How frequently would your equipment be in the shop because someone did not care about your truck? How many accidents would occur because of apathy and carelessness?

Drivers who are "present" and actively engaged are alert and a good safety risk.
http://www.strategicprogramsinc.com/
Cartoon Link  http://www.cartoonstock.com/directory/s/safe_driving.asp

Digital rudeness in public - The10 Commandments

Digital rudeness in public. Thanks to Kim Komando at komando.com Link to her site follows.
1. Thou shalt give top priority to those who are with you.

Listen intently when you are with friends, family members and coworkers. When you constantly check messages, you send the message that other people and things are more important to you.

2. Thou shalt not be distracted.

For safety's sake, don't text or engage in voice calls while driving. For the same reason, don't let texting or voice calls distract you while walking in busy public spaces. Texting-while-walking mishaps have become such a serious problem that cities are starting to issue tickets.

3. Do not shout on the sidewalk.

It's OK to take a call when you're on the street. But try to keep your voice down. If you have to shout to be heard above the background noise, you should call back later.

4. Thou shalt not make private matters public.

Don't discuss private matters in public. Remember never to text anything that is private, confidential or potentially embarrassing. Messages can be forwarded and shared with hundreds of others in seconds - and often are.

5. Do unto others as briefly as possible.

Remember that you have a captive, unsympathetic audience when you're in a carpool or using public transportation. Only make or take a call if it's essential. And when you absolutely must talk, keep the call short.

6. Learn how to turn that thing completely off as soon as you get it out of the box.

Then please do turn it off whenever you are in a church, a restaurant, a library, at a movie, concert, at a play - and even in a meeting.

7. Use headphones correctly.

Use headphones whenever playing games or watching videos. Get a pair of snug-fitting headphones - and wear them. There's nothing worse than hearing sound spilling from loose-fitting earbuds. And it's basic good manners to remove your headphones when someone is trying to speak to you.

8. Do not cause light pollution.

Lighting up a darkened environment, such as a train at night, with your jumbo tablet screen is inconsiderate. Others usually don't really care if you ask nicely first. When in public, turn screen brightness down as a courtesy.

9. Share only with permission.

Sharing pictures of current locations is a great way to update friends and family members. Don't take photos of strangers, however, without permission - and never post pictures of strangers on social media sites.

10. Exercise good taste.

Keep the content on your screen at a General Audiences level. Don't call up risqué videos, photos and websites in public areas.

http://www.komando.com/mobilemanners/

Prosecutor: Owner knew truck in deadly Recology crash was faulty

Thanks to appealdemocrat.com for the article. Link to the piece follows.

June25, 2012 by Rob Parsons

A Yuba City commercial truck owner has been accused of operating a dangerous vehicle that caused the death of a Recology Inc. driver in a crash last year, the Yuba County District Attorney's Office said Monday.

Gary Mathis, 43, was killed June 28, 2011, on Highway 20 south of East 22nd Street in Marysville when his truck collided with a semi-truck hauling two empty trailers traveling in the opposite direction.

Prosecutors say the semi-truck was owned, at least in part, by Jasbir Singh Sangha of JS Trucking in Yuba City.

District Attorney Pat McGrath said investigators determined that problems with the truck's brakes and tires caused the trailers to fishtail, which contributed to "a further loss of control" of the vehicle.

McGrath said Sangha knew the tractor-trailer was deficient and encouraged "its continued operation despite the danger it could pose to other motorists."

"The deficiencies would be readily apparent during any regular maintenance or pretrip inspection and easily correctable," McGrath said.

Sangha, 31, and the truck driver, Ernest Allan Coublucq, were charged Monday with single counts of vehicular manslaughter, a misdemeanor and providing false documents to investigators, a felony, prosecutors said.

If convicted, both men face up to four years behind bars.

Sangha has denied owning the truck, officials said, but investigators do not believe him.

McGrath said Sangha "attemp ed to shield himself from responsibility" by doctoring phony lease and liability waivers after the collision. The suspected bogus document was dated before the collision and supposedly signed by the 74-year-old truck driver, Coublucq, McGrath said.

"Further investigation determined the document was fraudulent," McGrath said.

Though he was not the driver of the truck, Sangha is also charged with vehicular manslaughter "based on the theory of derivative criminal liability," McGrath said.

Repeated efforts to contact Sangha on Monday were not successful.

JS Trucking has a business address listed at a residential apartment in the 1500 block of Bridge Street in Yuba City. However, the man who came to door at the address Monday denied knowing both Sangha and Coublucq. The man, who did not give his name, said he was a co-owner of JS Trucking, but denied his company had ever been involved in any crash.

CONTACT Rob Parsons at rparsons@appealdemocrat.com or 749-4785. Find him on Facebook at /ADcrimebeat or on Twitter at @ADcrimebeat

http://www.appeal-democrat.com/news/truck-117357-sangha-mcgrath.html

Travels with an Old Bedbug: On the Road with Ross Mackie

canadiantruckers.com

Nice story of a road trip across Canada in the early 2000’s. Thanks to Harry Rudolfs!

2/16/2004
By Harry Rudolfs
I jumped at the chance to ride across most of Canada with Ross Mackie. Pioneer trucker is too narrow a term for him. The straw-haired patriarch of Mackie Moving Systems of Oshawa, Ont. has a long list of industry firsts: first Canadian carrier to run into Mexico (seven years ahead of NAFTA); first Canadian moving company to offer air ride trailers; first in the country with an enclosed car carrier. As well, in 1987, his firm was chosen by General Motors to set up a logistics network that eventually spanned thirteen plants in six countries on two continents.
But most of all, Ross is a good driving companion and an expert yarn-spinner. His crackling, dry wit cuts like a chain saw. His blue eyes sparkle when he talks about the wild old days of trucking. This is worth more than a free ride to Vancouver for me; the man is a driving history book.
At 68 years of age, the diminutive CEO can still hop around the upper deck of a car carrier. He keeps his AZ licence active and takes the occasional road trip to remind himself why he’s in business. A few month’s ago he hauled Frederick Eaton’s Bentley back from Florida teamed with his 23 year old grandson Shawn--the fifth generation of trucking Mackie.
Ross hasn’t driven to Vancouver in a dozen years. But his reasons for making this trip run deeper: he wants to recreate a journey he took with his grandpa and father, just over fifty years ago.
In the early summer of 1951, two trucks left Charlie Mackie’s Oshawa barn/warehouse loaded with furniture for Calgary and Vancouver. Grandpa Charlie and a hired man, Lloyd Simcock, drove a three-ton Chev straight truck with a 20 foot box. Ross and his father Merle followed in a Chevrolet tractor pulling the pride of the Mackie fleet--a 28- foot Trailmobile trailer.
This was a liminal time in trucking history. Extra-provincial trucking was still in its infancy. Some general freight was moving over the road, and a few bedbugs (furniture haulers) were making some long distance forays across the country. But for the most part, almost everything being shipped across western Canada, including household furniture, was moving by rail.
After unloading the first truck in Calgary, Grandpa Charlie and Lloyd turned for home, while Ross and his father continued to Vancouver. Ross remembers a harrowing ride through the Rockies. Most of the passes were single lane with treacherous switchbacks. If you met a truck coming the other way, one of you had to back up to a "cutout"--a wider section of road where the two vehicles could squeeze by each other. The two chugged through the towns of Creston, Trail and Rossland. Their little truck with its 248 cu. inch gasoline engine was badly underpowered and struggled on every grade.
Merle lost the brakes descending Anarchist Peak into Osoyoos. The drums over-heated and the truck rolled halfway through town before he could get it stopped. A sweat-soaked father turned to his son. "When we get to Vancouver, let’s sell the truck and take the train back."
Fortunately, as it turns out, no one in Vancouver wanted to buy the little tractor. After making their delivery, they found another load of furniture going back to Ontario. The rest, as they say, is trucking history. "We were the Flintstones," says Ross with a wink. "But we done all right."

Tuesday May 6

We’d planned to leave Mackie’s Oshawa terminal by noon, but at 2:00 pm Ross is still juggling a multitude of tasks. He stops to talk to the plant electrician--then answers the wall phone in the dispatch office. On his way to check on a trailer in the paint bay, he confers with a long-time driver fueling at the pumps.
It’s taken weeks to put this trip together. Bob Fraser, a 36 year company veteran on medical leave, has lent us his 2000 Peterbilt. It’s a 379 model with only 460,000 kms. Ross has had the unit hurriedly certified and quarter-plated. With almost perfect timing, a load of classic and antique cars for British Columbia materialized in the warehouse just last week.
And what delicious cargo it is. I watch a crew from the warehouse strap a 1963 Corvette to the enclosed car carrier’s upper deck. Next, they roll in a 1937 Plymouth, and a 55 Chevy bound for Thunder Bay. A hacked-up dirt bike rounds out the load.
The last thing Ross and I have to do in Oshawa is handbomb a dozen cases of Boot Brushes into the trailer. The aluminum-backed brushes are a personal crusade for Ross Mackie--he’s a partner with the inventor, Steve Shermeto, also a company driver. The brushes are bolted upside down to a truck’s steps and are a popular item with owner operators.
What started as simple idea on a dusty trip to Mexico has turned into a 12 year business venture for the two men, and spawned a couple of copy cat imitators. "We’ve sold over 500,000," says Ross, shutting the side door of the trailer. "Our biggest customer is Paccar." And I get the feeling he wants to sell a few more on the way to Vancouver.
Clutching two logbooks, Ross climbs into the cab and settles behind the wheel of the Peterbilt. At 4:30 pm, unbelievably it seems, we’re rolling towards Vancouver.
It matters little that Thickson Road is choked with homebound commuter traffic. The start of any road trip is fueled by adrenaline and nervous expectation. The Cat engine pulls us gently over the over the hillocks of Durham County. The afternoon sun is shining divinely over the pastoral landscape.
But the gravitational pull of the GTA is strong. Ross slides to the shoulder just south of Highway 12 so he can make two last phone calls. The first one is to his girlfriend Colleen in Ajax--to explain, again, why he is going to Vancouver and when he’ll be back. "I love you, too," he sings. The second call is to a "movie guy" who’s awaiting delivery of a couple of Hummer trucks at a film shoot in Toronto. "I’ve worked with this guy for years," says Ross. "I want to keep him happy."
Some truckers will tell you that they drive for the sunsets. And rounding the rim of Lake Simcoe we’re in for a great one. The cumulous clouds on the horizon burst into spectacular violet and crimson blossoms. Very little traffic now--only the occasional gambler on the way to an evening at Casino Rama, or a gravel hauler making a last run back to the pit.
At the narrows between Lakes Simcoe and Couchiching we pass a Tim Horton’s and the skeleton of a fish weir that was used by Natives for thousands of years. The sticks from the ancient crib are still visible through the water. About 400 years ago, French explorer Samuel de Champlain spent a weekend in Orillia. We slow down only enough to take the ramp for Highway 11.
This is Yonge Street, the longest street in the world, and the extension of an old Indian trail that was blazed by Governor Simcoe’s Queen’s Own Rangers over two centuries ago. The pink granite rock faces of are welcoming but too-familiar: Muskoka is southern Ontario’s cottage playground. We roll past the exits for Gravenhurst and Bracebridge. Near Huntsville, Ross spots a Swiss Chalet and doubles back.
There is still some light, so he pulls on coveralls and grabs a flashlight. "I’m worried about that Corvette sitting close to the roof," he says climbing inside the trailer. "If things come loose, they do it within the first 100 miles."
We share the dining room with two local families dressed in matching pastel tracksuits. They sing, "Happy Birthday" to one of the kids, and hardly notice us as we devour our quarter chickens. We’re gone in minutes, anyway, leaving a pile of bones and Loonies for a tip.
Now it’s my turn to drive. The 13 speed Eaton Yale meshes smoothly and the 425 horsepower Cat is hardly challenged by the hills of the Amalguin Highlands. Our payload is only 10,000 lbs.
But I’m immediately having problems with the headlights. These are aftermarket pods mounted on the fender for that "classic" look, but they’re not set up right. One eye shines into the bush and the other is dim as a 40 watt bulb.
The inspection station at North Bay is closed. North of the city, wisps of fog rub along the road and I’m glad we’re taking the northern route rather than Hwy 17. The southern highway hugs the north channel of Lake Huron and is probably fog-bound tonight.
At 90 kph, I can just make out the scarred centre line and shoulder, but the fog worsens and I have to back off the throttle again. I’m straining to keep between the lines, and relieved when the lights of New Liskeard come into sight and Ross suggests we get a motel for the night.
It’s midnight when I pull in beside a long line of trucks. They resemble sleeping dragons, dozens of them snoring on both sides of the road. There are no humans in sight--the drivers are hunkered down in the cabs or in the motel rooms--except Ross, who’s darting across the highway from motel to motel, trying to find the best rate.
Ross beckons from across the road. He’s found a place that will give him a senior rate. Stepping into the lobby, I’m struck by a powerful sense of dislocation and other-wordliness. The pop machine hums in a pool of glaring fluorescence. The young woman behind the desk acts detached and surreal. The scene is empty and metallic--this is truck driving existentialism. Country singer Dwight Yoakam explains it better: "I’m a thousand miles from nowhere / Time don’t matter to me / ‘Cause I’m a thousand miles from nowhere / And there’s no place I want to be..."
Otherwise, it’s not a bad room. We’re asleep in seconds. The next thing I hear is the 6 am wake up buzzer.

Wednesday May 7

A breakfast of links sausages and poached eggs under our belts, we’re rolling with the first streaks of dawn.
The fog lifts in an hour to reveal Northern Ontario. Here, along the roadside, the disparity between north and south in this province is obvious and profound. We pass shanties and cobbled dwellings where souls scratch out a meager living on the harsh shell of the Canadian Shield, where the lakes stay frozen well into May. Most of us southerners couldn’t deal with this type of isolation and the great distances involved. We’re uncomfortable without a Loblaws or Sobeys close by.
"I’m hoping to get the Chev delivered in Thunder Bay tonight. I’ll phone the customer later," Ross announces.
He gears down in Cochrane and pulls into the Husky parking lot. This will be Ross’ first attempt to sell Boot Brushes.
The owner of the truck stop is Mariel Vachon, a stocky man with a short beard who is holding a baby. He tells Ross that he already has an accessories supplier but he knows about Boot Brushes. Mariel owns a small trucking company as well, Vachon Trucking, and has the brushes mounted on the steps of his six Kenworths. "I’ll take 10 Boot Brushes," he says, "Six black, four red."
Mariel points out his trucks parked across the road. He runs them heavy--with 500 Cats under their hoods--hauling B-trains from saw mills fully loaded with wood chips, maxing them out at 63,500 kgs--the legal limit.
He’s not enthusiastic about the state of trucking these days, though. "I’m from the old school," he says. "I used to have 15 trucks but things are changing too fast for me. Insurance has tripled in the last year. I’ve got six trucks now and eight drivers. And I’m thinking of getting out of the business."
But he’s proud of his truck stop, a place he bought six years ago. "I’ve always been a truck driver but this crossed my path so I bought it." Mariel shows me the remodeling he’s done: new showers and the stairs are plate stainless steel--the kind of embossed star-pattern you find on fuel tank steps. Ross, meanwhile, is happily writing a receipt for the Boot Brushes on a sheet of paper.
My turn at the wheel. Northern trucking is making me a friendlier driver. Up here, every trucker waves and expects one in return. The process makes you aware of the name on each truck and gives you a brief glimpse at the driver, but my arm tires soon enough. The oncoming trucks are predominantly Manitoulins, TransX and Bisons from Winnipeg, Erbs and H&R Transport, and a few Yankes. Even the odd Quebec carrier hauling plywood or lumber. Obviously some freight, frozen meat for the most part, is still moving east-west in Canada.
So far, we’ve counted two dead moose and a small squished bear. Almost all the local haulers, chip wagons and logging trucks, sport impressive moose catchers mounted on the noses of their rigs. $3,500 seems expensive for an aluminum grille, but it’s the cost of doing business in the north country. One large animal strike can be career-ending, or write off a $160,000 truck.
Ross shows me a place where a grader pulled him out in 1951. That was when he was driving a White 3000 series with a rounded nose. "The windshield tended to cave in," he says. "So I made up two lengths of 2X4s that fit between the windshield and the back of the cab." He also tells me that he also installed a propane lighter on the floor that would backfire and leave his skin blackened with soot.
"This where I nearly froze to death," Ross says matter-of-factly. Here, the road here is rough in spots, bounded by scrub brush and a pencil-thin shoulder. Kilometres float by without any sign of a homestead or a fenced lot.
"This part of the highway is called, 'The Stretch,'" he says, shifting into storytelling mode. "It's 137 miles with nothing in between. One winter night, I stopped for a coffee in Hearst, just back there a piece. Some older drivers told me, ‘Now look, you better think twice about heading out tonight’. But I wanted to get to Vancouver and when you’re young you figure you can do anything.
"It was probably about 30 below F. The gearshift in that White was real sloppy, but it got so cold that it wouldn’t shift properly. Then my steering box froze up on me so I couldn’t steer. I was stopped on the shoulder and the wind was just howling. By then my truck had shut off, too. I wrapped myself in furniture pads trying to keep warm and thought for sure I was going to freeze to death.
"Eventually, a snowplow come along with two guys in it. They took me inside their truck and warmed me up a bit. Then they gave me a lecture and told me I should have known better. Today when I hear some young guy complaining about his air ride seat and his lower lumbar, I think you poor bugger. Don’t you have it tough!"
A flat tire in Kapuskasing comes as a bit of a surprise. Kicking the tires, I find a bolt that has gone through the casing. Luckily there’s a tire shop in town a few kilometres behind us. Pulling under the canopy we’re greeted by a balding service manager with a strong French-Ontario accent--and superb service. The young man who patches the tire is eager to go to lunch and has us fixed up in ten minutes.
The repair job only $50 and we’re conscious of how much a service call would have cost on the highway ($300). It also gives Ross a chance to call the customer in Thunder Bay and tell him we’ll be arriving around suppertime.
Ross also has a friend in Thunder Bay who he knows from the old trucking days. Rudy Croissandt is 89 now and long-since retired. His claim to posterity might be that he drove Field Marshall Erwin Rommel’s headquarter bus in North Africa during World War II. Ross can’t get Rudy on the phone but he does contact his son Deiter. He tells us his father usually can’t hear the phone, but Rudy is waiting for our visit.
Past Nipigon, where Hwy 11 and 17 join, there’s too much truck traffic to wave at every driver. Almost at random, Ross takes an exit off the TransCanada that lands us into a residential area of Thunder Bay. We pull up beside a soccer field. The owner of a diner lets us use the phone in her restaurant.
We buy fried chicken to go, but it’s almost too greasy to eat. There’s no time, anyway. The young couple who bought the 55 Chev arrives to escort us to their house. Good thing, it’s a dead end street and difficult to back down. But the vista is exceptional, overlooking Lake Superior and the harbour.
The Chev starts easily and backs off the hoist. We’re secure again in half an hour. The couple insists on giving us an escort to Rudy’s house. Good thing, again, because Rudy lives on a crescent behind an old shopping mall. Ross tries not to knock down too many tree branches as we pull around the street.
The two men hug and walk off arm in arm as soon as Ross steps out of the cab. It’s been 20 years since they’ve seen each other.
Rudy is gaunt but well-preserved. Inside his bungalow, he keeps the shades drawn and the television turned on loud. His wife died a few years ago and his main companion, these days, is a furry tabby cat who is stretched on the couch.
"I have a bottle of whiskey," he says to Ross.
"Rudy, I quit drinking 26 years ago."
Instead, the two pour over an old photo album that Ross has brought along. He has pictures of another legendary bedbug, Highway Hank Stroud, who drove a Leyland Beaver for a gypsy trucker in Hamilton. Another photo shows a 32 foot trailer that Ross laid on its side 40 years ago near West Hawk Lake, Manitoba.
Rudy has stacks of photo albums, as well. Old black and whites show him as a young man beside his old Leyland Comet in 1953. A page from a German newspaper shows Rudy with Rommel, himself, and the headquarters bus in the foreground.
Rudy also has a newspaper clipping of the time he escaped along with 5 other German prisoners in 1943. After being captured in North Africa, he was sent to Canada and jailed as a POW in Kapuskasing. The six were quickly rounded up and recaptured.
Evidently, Rudy liked northern Ontario enough to return here with a German bride after the war. Ross met Rudy in the 50s when they both drove for North American Van Lines. They’d see each other at points along the highway. At other times, Rudy would drop into Mackie’s Oshawa warehouse to pick up a return load for Thunder Bay.
"So Rudy, are you going to come to Oshawa and visit me? I’ve got a Harley dealership, now. You can go for a ride on a motorcycle."
"I’m not going to Toronto. I'm too old," says Rudy.
"Do you think we can make Vancouver by Friday night?"
Rudy counts off the days on his fingers. "Yeah, sure. I used to do it."
The two embrace again and I snap a couple of pictures. These are the classic photos that the men want me to take: the two friends beside the cab of the Peterbilt, Rudy with a Player’s cigarette sticking out of his fist. "Hey guys," shouts Rudy as we pull away. "Keep it on the rubbers!"
I crawl in the bunk almost immediately for a nap (I had a beer at Rudy’s). Ross announces his intention to drive through the night.
Thursday May 8
The pitching of the truck wakes me somewhere past Upsala, Ont. Looking in the mirrors, I can see we’re in the middle of a caravan of seven big trucks making good time on the twisting roads of Highway 17.
Ross prefers radio silence. He never flips on the FM stations or the CB. But I’m sure this group of drivers is communicating. They’re traveling fast and fairly close together.
It is a midway ride across the north, a caterpillar with 14 eyes that weaves its way through the black night. Suddenly, Ignace, Ont., appears in a ribbon of neon truck stop lights and Ross pulls up to the pumps. The Peterbilt is thirsty.
One of the truckers in our convoy, a Quebec driver with a cabover Freightliner, stops to tell us we have no taillights. This comes as a surprise.
But you can find an apprentice mechanic at 1:00 am in Ignace. "Yepper, I know just the fella," says the diesel jockey. A baseball-capped young man appears as if by magic, and has us rolling again in ten minutes--the problem is a mis-fitted light cord. The baseball hat goes back to watching television with a few extra bucks in his pocket.
It’s my drive to Kenora and Ross takes the bunk. I’m not used to long distance driving, my legs are cramping from spending long hours in the same position. It would be great if truckers could ride a treadmill or stationary bicycle as they drive. A small survey conducted by two nurses in Cambridge, Ont. showed that 81% of truck drivers are overweight, 60% don’t get enough exercise, 34% have high blood pressure, and 31% smoke. Maybe the stationary bicycle could charge some sort of auxiliary life support equipment.
We’ve twisted the light pods so they’re working a little better how, though the headlights are still far from effective. I stop to piss outside of Dryden. It’s a dark night and very still, only the occasional roar of a semi flying by and Dopplering into the engulfing blackness.
Most teams switch roles every four or five hours. But Ross and I are changing quicker--about every three. Ross takes the wheel at Kenora and I nod off.
I startle myself away just as the lights of Winnipeg come into sight. A light rain is misting as Ross is passing a B-train.
"I’m tired," Ross says, wrist propped on top of the gearshift. "I was thinking of curling up on the floor." He steers us to the outskirts of Winnipeg and a welcoming Husky parking lot.
Ross takes the bunk while I go for take out coffee, brownies, a Winnipeg Free Press. The rain is smattering heavier as I pull out of the service centre. I promptly miss the bypass, snacking on brownies. It’s all right, I tell myself. How often do you get to see downtown Winnipeg at 5:00am?
The bakery trucks and cars are beginning to swell the streets, a pre-dawn restlessness washes across the city. I take Broadway and then Portage, passing only a block from the provincial legislature. After about 30 traffic lights, I can spot an inspection station in the distance. But the officers are busy with a customer. No flashing lights for us.
Ross awakes before dawn and we stop for breakfast at the Husky in Brandon, Man. Then, we back pedal to the local Kenworth dealer to get the lights repaired. One of the mechanics works on the headlights, while Ross pops open the side door so the rest of them can admire the antique cars.
Evidently, one of the headlights was installed upside down, and the other has a short that’s drawing three volts. The bill is $52, but Ross is happy: the dealership buys three cases of Boot Brushes and he writes up a receipt on a blank sheet of paper. Every Boot Brush sale is a small victory for him.
It’s Ross’ turn to take the wheel now. At Broadview, Saskatchewan, he shows me where he and his dad had to unhook the trailer so they could get under a low bridge. They dragged the trailer with a chain by the dolly wheels (in those days dolly wheels really were wheels).
"There was a little bit of pavement around Winnipeg, and a little bit around Regina," says Ross. "Depending on what time of the year it was, you could run into sections that were gumbo--mud up to the axles and it would be impossible to steer."
We make the customary stop at the Regina Husky. I talk to three big men, farm machinery haulers, in the parking lot. They’re enthusiastic about trucking in Saskatchewan (this was before the BSE scare). "We're busy as hell," says Harvey Barsi, tightening down a strap on his float trailer. "I’ve got all the work I can handle."
Inside, however, Ross is unable to sell any Boot Brushes to the truculent manager. "I'd be willing to buy some fuel if you’d take a case or two." he says. "No," says the manager, shaking his head.
What a comedian once said, "The Prairies give a whole new meaning to cruise control." But the land grows hillier and increasingly saline as we vector westward. A solitary red tailed hawk drifting over the valleys might be a descendent of the same one that watched the Mackie trucks roll through here 50 years ago.
Ross’ decision not to get fuel in Regina leaves the gauge dangling on E by the time we reach Medicine Hat, Alberta.
We both eat quickly. I have the last portion of farmer’s sausage and immediately regret it. Ross, meanwhile, fumbles with his cell phone--this is an ongoing ritual and takes him at least an hour per day, sometimes two or three hours. Each time he listens to his long list of messages and meticulously resaves them.
Driving the TransCanada through Alberta is a thrill for me, especially with the 110 km speed limit. We pass giant feeder calf and stockyard operations. As we climb higher, there is evidence of a serious May storm that just tore across here, a few days ago. The air is warm, but long ribs of snowdrifts are still clinging to the land.
The self-weigh inspection station before Calgary leaves us scratching our heads. "What do you do if you’re overweight," asks Ross. "Arrest yourself?"
Calgary is another one of those cities that entwines itself with the Trans Canada--there is no bypass. We park beside a Travelodge at the west end of town while Ross checks prices.
But cheaper is not better tonight. Our room is in the back alley besides a row of dumpsters. The shower leaks and water rolls across the floor into the carpet. It doesn’t matter. Ross is asleep before the lights are off.
Friday May 9
Ross illegally parks in front of a Calgary pancake house to start the day. We chow down on a small stack each, fueling for our climb into the mountains.
We share the highway with sad-eyed commuters and contractors, and the occasionally SUV with skis strapped on top. Light snow is powdering down, leaving a white coat on the fields and horses. The landscape looks like an Ian Tyson song.
Ross turns off the TransCanada at Banff and takes Highway 93 southwest where it winds through Marble Canyon and joins up with the Kootenay River. The panoramas are spectacular, with some very steep, but short declines, and equally abrupt runaway lanes that crawl up the sides of adjacent cliffs.
For eons, Plains Indians would hike weeks to "take the baths" at Radium Hot Springs, but truckers have little time for spas. Our mission is to deliver a dirt bike to a young man at the Greyhound station in Invermere. Mountain goats chewing on the ditch grass beside the road don’t even look up as we wind in and out of the village.
From Invermere, there is no quick way across the mountains to Vernon. We’re forced to back track to Golden, BC. and take Rogers Pass.
Back on the Trans Canada, Ross points to a few places, formerly mom and pop truck stops, where drivers would meet during their cross-continent peregrinations. By his accounts, some of them were wild men who engaged in dubious activities from time to time.
But they were truck drivers, pure and simple. They didn’t consider themselves outlaws, or cowboys or sailors. Their uniforms were peaked hats, bomber jackets and pressed pants. They drove hard and partied hard, romancing their way from one corner of the country to the other.
It’s late afternoon by the time we connect with the customers in Vernon. The hired hand, Bud, meets us by the side of the road and leads us into the mountains--way up into the mountains. With a little dexterity, Ross swings the trailer around in a laneway and has us facing the right way for our descent.
Neither the Plymouth nor the Corvette will start, so we push both of them off with some help from admiring teenagers. The new owner of the Corvette also owns a cheese factory and is apparently quite successful. The car is a birthday gift from his sister. He bought the Plymouth as an after thought when he was in Napoleon, Ohio looking at the Corvette.
Before we depart, Bud gives us directions to a bar in town that should serve good grub. It’s Friday afternoon at the Longhorn in Vernon and some of the locals are whooping it up (their dogs are waiting for them in pickup trucks outside). Ross drinks a near-beer (0.5%) and we have salad and fries. Some kind of provincial kino game takes place on an overhead screed every 15 minutes. People buy tickets but no one seems to win.
I'm happy to drive the next stretch into Kelowna. I picked apples there in 1980, and Stockwell Day used the Okanagan as a back drop when he rode up in a jet ski and delivered one of his first policy speeches in a wet suit, after he became Alliance leader.
But the view from the highway is dismal: heavy traffic, fast food outlets, and box stores. John Steinbeck observed that truckers travel across the land but are not part of it. Rather, ours is a world of lachrymose sunsets. The people we come in contact with are only peripheral and fleeting. I turn the Peterbilt west towards Aspen Grove and Merritt as the last rays of sunlight filter through the Rockies.
My chance to run the mountains comes at night. With so little weight, I hardly feel rushed down the grades. Only once does Ross warn me to lay off on a steep decline, otherwise the down slopes are an easy sweep. The Cat engine works harder on the up grades but never breaks a sweat.
We pull off the highway at Merritt and park in a lumber yard. It’s a little after 10:00 pm.
This is the best motel on the trip: fridge, micro, extra coffee. Ross catches up on a week of newspapers: Globe and Mails, Free Presses, Suns and Provinces. But not for long. These are well-slept nights.
Saturday May 10
When I awake Ross is in the shower. I mark up the log books and sip coffee, while Ross fires up the Pete and does the circle check.
At the wheel, Ross is torn between taking the old canyon road through the Fraser Valley or the Coquihalla toll route. Anxious to get to Vancouver, he opts for the high road. The Coke (as truckers call it) cuts two to three hours driving time and a lot of headaches. But the real driving is on the old road Ross tells me. "I could show you places," he says.

The Coquihalla Highway is one of the world’s most modern highways and very pleasant to drive. It glides from one mountain shoulder to another, and kisses a few clouds along the way. Its altitude alone makes it susceptible to sudden weather changes. But our trip is clear sailing and worth the $20 toll.
We’ve run almost 5,000 kms without seeing an open inspection station, but the one outside of Hope invites us in to get weighed. Just a formality, we’re empty now. The inspector nods to me from behind a sheet of plate glass. It’s Saturday and he probably wishes he weren’t working.
Ross wants to get the truck washed, and his wish is answered at Lickman’s Esso in Chilliwack. Within the same block, there are two truck washes and a good restaurant. Ross forks out $100 for the wash and I go for coffee.
Gloria’s Truck Stop, arguably, might be one of the best truck restaurants in Canada. The décor is simple: drivers sit around formica tables and vinyl upholstered chairs. Newspaper posters of the Vancouver Canucks are taped to the walls.
But the food is wholesome and plentiful. It has that home-cooked touch that’s missing from the chain of truck restaurants that proliferate throughout the west.
Gloria Byerlay is a small woman of Costa Rican descent. She has a faint, downy mustache on her upper lip. Fourteen years as a truck stop owner have taught her a thing or two about truck drivers.
"Truckers are easy to please," she says. "Give them good portions at a good price." That and 14 hour work days, seven days a week, she adds.
Meanwhile, Ross has found one of his drivers parked in the back row of the truck plaza. With over a hundred brokers scattered across the continent, it’s not really surprising to find one of his teams bunking in Chilliwack, but Patrick and Phyllis Skinner, out of St. John’s, Nfld., are a good catch.
They look crisp as they enter the restaurant. Patrick has shaved and put on a clean shirt. At 51 years of age he has a well-defined belly and a shock of blond hair that he sweeps back over his thinning pate. Phyllis 49, is shorter and lighter. She doesn’t drive but handles all the bookkeeping and inventory records, as well as the navigating. The two have been trucking together for more than five years.
"We left home on January 12. That was five months ago," says Phyllis pouring coffee.
"In my mind I’m always heading home," says Patrick. "Vancouver is a about as far west as you can go, so we have to be going home from here."
The couple have three children and seven grandkids. Phyllis admits that she misses being away for long periods. "But after about a week with the grandkids I’m ready to go back out again," she adds.
Washed and rinsed, our Peterbilt is ready for the last leg of our journey. Phyllis hands me a poem she’s written and I shove it in my pocket.
The car we are picking up in Abbotsford is a bronze 1967 Mustang GT heading back to Ontario. My car carrier training (I was a once a trainee at Maris Transport in Oakville) is finally getting some use. Sensitive to the age of the frame, we opt for nylon tie-down straps instead of the steel hooks.
Back on the highway, we’re very close to Vancouver, now. My son Matthew, who now lives in Vancouver, is waiting for me at New Westminster. I’m excited about spending some time in this new city and reconnecting with my 23 year old son whom I haven’t seen in half a year.
The phone rings and Ross answers it. "Grandpa, where are you?" It’s his grandson Shawn. In trucking, timing is everything. Shawn, teamed with a Greg Heasman, a Durham Region cop who also drives for Mackie, are only a kilometre behind us. They’re hauling displays for a Sony electronics show at the Vancouver Airport Ramada Inn.
Awkwardly, the two trucks have a short reunion on the shoulder just before the next off ramp. I quickly explain where we’re meeting my son.
Ten minutes later we meet Matthew at the Burnett exit. I take a picture of the bunch of them. Then we shake hands and separate. Ross and the other truck continue to the airport tooting their air horns, while my son and I walk along the bridge.
Ross will head back to Ontario in a couple of days via Emerson, Manitoba where he will cross the border and pick up a couple of cars in Green Bay, Wisconsin. I’ve got a few days of research to do in Vancouver and then I’ll fly back to Toronto on Thursday, beating Ross home by a full day.
It’s not until later that evening that I find Phyllis’ poem in my pocket. It’s a pleasant surprise. Although funny and true to the lifestyle of truckers, a thread of sadness runs through it. It seems like a good way to end the journey.

Driver’s Prayer

By Phyllis Skinner

My truck is my livelihood, I shall always want.

It maketh me to lie down in dirty truck stops.

It leadeth me beside busy highways.

It destroyeth my soul.

It leadeth me down paths of unrighteousness for survival sake.

"Yeah," though I drive through the valley of deer and moose,

I will fear no evil for thou art with me.

For my fender defends me.

My grill and my bunk, they comfort me.

They preparest a table for me at many restaurants.

They anointed my food with grease.

My blood boileth over.

Surely, payments and headaches will follow me

All the days of my life.

And I shall dwell behind a steering wheel forever and ever.