Opinion: Here's to America's Truckers
B>By Mike Oatman
I>Columnist
ichita Eagle
I just returned a couple of weeks ago from a motor-home trip to the Pacific Northwest. After logging nearly 3,500 miles in our coach and traveling on four major interstates through seven different states, I came to the conclusion that truckers are cool.I've always known it. After all, I made my living from country music for some 40 years, and country music is rife with songs about truckers. "Truck Drivin' Sonofagun," "Six Days on the Road," "White Line Fever," "Phantom 309," "Looking at the World Through a Windshield" and "Eighteen Wheels and a Dozen Roses" are just a few of several hundred tribute songs to the breed of men and women who make their living on this country's roadways.
Truckers, the serious ones, spend most of their lives keeping a 60,000- to 80,000-pound rig between the white lines, getting from point A to point B by the promised delivery time. They kiss their families goodbye, crawl behind the wheel of one of those monster rigs and head for one of the coasts. They'll not come home again for two or three weeks. After one or two days home, they're off again.
Some have lost their families because of too many days away and too many missed Little League games. They typically don't belong to the Rotary Club or PTA or do any of the things that we consider "normal" because they have a run to make and a load that has to be there on time. They sleep in those cabs and Motel 6s across the country, when they do sleep. But sleep is secondary to getting to the next loading dock on time. Truckers love truck-stop food, Merle Haggard, CBs with echo and linear amps, clean and shiny rigs, attractive and spunky truck-stop waitresses, the latest Rand McNally map book, exit guides with big print, and holding court with their gear-pounding buddies at a Flying J truck stop.
They don't care much for rough right-hand lanes (after all, they pay enough taxes to keep them in good repair), weigh stations, smokies that lie in wait behind trees, company dispatchers, bad diesel, tough chicken-fried steak, Department of Transportation idiosyncrasies, liberal politicians or slow-running RVs.
But they are, in my opinion, the best drivers on the road. In general, they are the most courteous and most skilled vehicle operators on any interstate. Pass one and watch him blink his lights when it's safe to return to the right lane.
Observe a car broken down along the highway, and if there's not a trucker parked behind to help, there will be soon.
A lane change is always telegraphed by a signal. There are a few exceptions, I suppose, but you rarely see one exceeding the speed limit.
The CB is a trucker's pipeline to sanity. Engage one in conversation on channel 19, and you'll find out anything you want to know about the weather ahead, the best fuel stop, the road repair and where the next rest stop is. That little handheld microphone is his version of the Internet, a cocktail party or a visit with a therapist.
Over the airwaves at 65 miles an hour, he can gripe, comment, joke, get advice and kibitz with his own kind. Listen awhile and you'll hear the heart and soul of the last American cowboy. You'll hear truckers' complaints, their troubles with the company, the bank and their relatives.
You'll hear their musings about the traffic they encounter, their funny stories and their thoughts about the government. And you'll hear it in an accent that can only be described as "trucker-ese." It's a combination of a Southern and Western drawl unique to truckers, no matter where they come from.
An acquaintance of mine was griping about the number of trucks on the interstate the other day, and I thought to myself that without truckers there wouldn't be any interstate. Furthermore, a trucker hauled in most of the food my friend eats, most of the clothes he wears and most the goods that he depends upon — all because of a diesel-smelling, ballcap-wearing, CB-talking, rig-running, smokie-dodging, tax-paying, flag-waving trucker.
So here's to 'em. May their engines run smooth, their hauls be short and their weights be legal. And may we always remember that the wheels of the economy we depend on total 18.
The writer is a radio personality and businessman in Wichita, Kan., and a member of the Country Music Disc Jockey Hall of Fame. He is also a columnist for the Wichita Eagle, in which this article originally appeared.
For the full story, see the Dec. 9 print edition of Transport Topics. Subscribe today.
