The old man walked slowly across his driveway. He pulled his coat high upon his neck and dug his chin downward into his chest. It was a bone chillingly cold Friday morning. He opened the door to the old Peterbilt and climbed inside. He turned the key to the right and then he pressed the start button. After a brief protest, the truck roared to life. He turned on the heat, hopped down, and headed back inside for a few more minutes. “I bet the neighbors loved that,” he muttered to himself as he walked.
He went into the kitchen, poured himself a cup of coffee, and pulled a Marlboro out of the pack his breast pocket always contained. He lit the cigarette, took a long purposeful drag then took a sip of coffee.
Nicotine always comes before caffeine at 2 a.m.
The old man sat in the chair as his truck aired up, thinking about what lay ahead. His family was sleeping contently; after all these years, they didn’t even notice the sound of the diesel engine anymore.
He had a load of lumber on his trailer headed for Orlando. It was a short trip so he didn’t have to leave the day before. He would run down to Orlando, roll in about 6:30 a.m., be ready to unload at 7 a.m., and with a little luck, be back home with another load on his back by 3 p.m. at the latest.
He wasn’t supposed to leave this early. He had gotten home at 6:30 p.m. the previous day. The law required a 10-hour break so he couldn’t leave until 4:30 a.m. But if he left that late, there was a pretty good chance he wouldn’t be able to reload that afternoon. When he finished his day on Thursday, he wrote in his logbook that he had wrapped up at 4:30 p.m. That gave him the extra time needed to start a little earlier.
He always considered himself an honest, law-abiding citizen. But sometimes, you’ve got to bend the rules. “These logbooks and hours of service rules will turn an honest man into a liar quicker than anything else,” he often said. If he was driving a newer truck, he would have to record his day on an electronic logbook. And that’s precisely why he didn’t have a new truck. He had made good money in his three decades as an owner-operator, good enough money to easily buy a new truck.
He had thought about it. He even came close a time or two. The new trucks were marvels of modern technology. Their fuel efficiency alone almost justified the purchase. But with the new trucks come new problems — exorbitant maintenance costs and catastrophic downtime, shortened engine life, increased operating costs due to emissions equipment, and outrageous purchase prices.
No, there was no reason to buy new. He would simply keep that old 1998 Peterbilt. Plus he could still run his trusty paper logbook. As bad as it was to fudge on his time, and as much as government officials and advocacy groups spoke out against such things, the trucking industry needed those who were willing to operate on the fringes of the regulations.
The big fleets and industry talking heads that had formed an unholy alliance with insurance companies and the American Trucking Association often railed against the drivers who refused to get on board with electronic logs and the environmentalists. However, without the drivers who pushed the limits of the regulations, America’s supply chain would teeter on collapse.
Being an owner-operator gave him some flexibility in what lanes he ran but he didn’t have to worry about billing, permits, and the various other red tape fleets have to deal with. It also gave him the opportunity to operate in the shadows. He dodged scales, ran at night when he could, worked his logbook to his advantage, and avoided state Department of Transportation officers at all costs. He hauled more loads and drove more miles than any company driver could. Whenever his dispatcher needed a load delivered quickly and with no questions asked, he is the one who got the call. He helped keep the lumberyards full and the housing contractors supplied with the materials they needed to keep their customers happy. It was a beneficial arrangement for everyone involved — as long as the DOT stayed out of the way.
As his cigarette neared the filter, he thought about his family, sleeping peacefully just a few yards away. Everything he did — all the aggravation he put up with, the long delays getting loaded and unloaded, the disrespect from shippers and receivers, the people he ran into at truck stops and restaurants who looked down their noses at him, all the middle fingers he had seen from motorists, and the time he had missed with his loved ones — all that he did for them. He wanted to quit a million times but this was all he knew how to do.
The old man took a final sip from his coffee cup and filled his lungs with nicotine one last time. He crushed the cigarette in an old glass ashtray, slid away from the table, and picked up his hat. He stepped back into the cold darkness.
It was time to go.