10-4 and I’M Gone

10-4 AND I’M GONE

Frederic Harrop

Copyright © 2014 by Frederic Harrop.

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Rev. date: 01/15/2014

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INTRODUCTION

I was in Los Angeles in 1989, Sunday, with not much to do and was a little bored. I decided to go and have a look at the places where there had been race riots and problems with gangs. I pulled the cord on the Metro Bus at a likely looking spot—a ghetto with derelict cars, abandoned buildings with broken windows, and garbage strewn everywhere.

The driver said, ‘Good luck.’

And there I was in the war zone, as it were, and I said to myself, ‘This is not a good idea.’

I was walking slowly along and studying a burned-out old Lincoln car, and in the next minute, this huge hand grabbed my shoulder from behind and spun me around. My heart did a flip, skipped a few beats, and I was looking at this belt buckle, which belonged to this huge Negro guy who must have been six feet nine inches or so.

‘Jeezuz!’ I said.

He said to me in a not-too-friendly voice, ‘What yo doin’ heya, honky?’

I said, ‘Lookin’ around and mindin’ my own business.’

He said, ‘Warl, yo ain’t frum round heya, an’ dis ain’t no place fo’ a whart boy.’

So my first time in Los Angeles wasn’t getting off to a very good start. More later…

I’m lucky to be writing this book, and I do hope you enjoy reading it as much as I have enjoyed seeing some of life out there.

I’m living in Hervey Bay now in Queensland, and I’m content with life and have met more wonderful people. And I am enjoying my music and giving back joy to others less fortunate than myself. But I do miss the trucking life and the freedom it brings—being in charge of all your decisions when on the road. I feel for truck drivers today because of all the bureaucratic bullshit and regulations and the ridiculous fines for minor infringements that have no bearing on road safety, but in saying that, I don’t condone bad behaviour or cowboy attitudes that give the industry a bad name. I can understand why young people are not taking up trucking. There are so many people and departments that control you and tell you when to sleep, drive, eat, wait, go, fart, or whatever that I don’t blame anybody for giving trucking a miss. But it is a profession and requires a professional approach, concentration, and a stay-safe attitude for all concerned at all times.

May all you fellow truckers stay safe and get home when you need to, wherever it is, to those whom you love and care for.

It’s minus twenty degrees Fahrenheit. It’s snowing a blizzard, and I’m on Interstate 80 in Nebraska; and it’s very, very slippery with ice six inches thick. I’m heading east, and I’m trying to reach Grand Island. We’ve just heard on the CB that they have closed the interstate at Omaha.

Just then, we passed a J. B. Hunt tractor trailer that has jackknifed into the medium, and a voice came over the CB again and said, ‘Ya all see that J. B. Hunt truck in the middle? Wall, I just passed two tow trucks back a ways a comin’ to haul him outa thar.’

Another voice said, ‘Why do want two tow trucks to pull him out?’

The first voice said, ‘Stands to reason, don’t it? One tow truck to pull him on ta the highway, and the second to pull the seat cushion back outa the driver’s ass.’

Well, I cracked up, and it broke the tension. Sucked in again. I loved that truck driver humour, and believe me, there’s plenty of it out there.

And the second guy said, ‘Shee-it, that would bring tears to your eyes.’

I reckon it would too. It’s damn cold out there, but I’m warm and comfortable in my Peterbilt. And I’m also damn glad I’m running a reefer and a full load on board, which puts a lot of weight on the drive axles and stops me sliding around too much.

I was looking forward to a weekend in Des Moines, Iowa, but the snow and ice has knocked that idea on the head. We made Grand Island—the we being myself and Allanach (Alana), who was riding shotgun at the time. By the time we reached Bosselman’s Truck Stop, the place was chockablock with trucks parked wherever they could find room. Fortunately, it’s a very large truck stop, and we were able to park on the edge of the exit ramp that was pretty level as well, so no rolling out of bed at night. And they had enough food and supplies to cater to all of us.

Between Grand Island and Omaha, a distance of about 150 miles, there were more than 7,000 trucks stranded and Lord knows how many cars. We were there two days, and when they opened the highway, it took us thirteen hours to get to the Nebraska-Iowa state line. And we had to stop for the night because we had run out of hours and didn’t get into Des Moines until Monday morning. Ahhh, trucking—the joys of motoring. But it’s better to get there than not. That’s not as severe as it gets, but that’s another story.

Lord help you if you break down out there without any survival gear because you will quickly freeze to death. We had Arctic doonas, food, water, candles and a tin to put one in (you know, the heat from one candle can make a difference between life and death), snow chains for the states that require them, heavy mittens, headgear, and heavy padded clothing. If you have to exit your rig for longer than a few minutes, you better be prepared.

And it’s mandatory in some states to have all the survival gear. If you enter onto a highway that’s been closed by the authorities and you are caught, it’s a very heavy fine (1,000 bucks) because if you get into trouble out there then somebody’s gotta come and rescue you—that’s if they know you’re out there and if they can find you. Quite a few people die in the snow and ice when they leave their vehicles to get help, most within half to a mile from where they broke down or became stuck.

When we are born, we don’t know what life has in store for us, which is a good thing, and it stops us wanting to get back into the safety of the womb—although I know a few guys who are constantly trying to get back to where they came from, but that’s another story. If someone said to you when you were about ten or twelve that life would take you on a journey around the world, visit different countries, meet wonderful and different people, and do things you thought you couldn’t, what would you say? ‘I don’t think so’ or ‘You’re dreaming, mate.’ Believe me, things do happen like that, and I say you can do it and make it happen if you are prepared to step out of your comfort zone, have the right attitude, and are prepared to have a bit of a change of lifestyle.

So here goes my first time writing a book. Although I have written a few magazine articles about hot rods and mechanical things, this is about the life of Frederic—me—and the things I’ve done, seen, and been. It’s not a book about self-learning or how to become rich or famous—although I consider myself to be very rich in life experiences because of all the wonderful people I have met on the way.

This is a book that so many need to write in order to share your life before it’s all forgotten, to pass onto your children so they know who you are, and to acknowledge all those people out there who have made your life richer and those whom you love but never told when you should have. It’s not about sex or crime or killing or bad behaviour.

To all those who contributed to my life, I say, ‘Thank you all so very much. It’s been a terrific journey. I love you all.’

It all started when I was at school, and no, I don’t mean behind the bike shed. A classmate and myself would spend our weekends at his dad’s yard—not just any yard, but a truck yard. You see, Kenny (my mate), his dad had a cartage business. And they carted mainly coal, but not with the huge dump trucks you see nowadays. No, this was much more primitive; they used to bag the coal in big coal sacks weighing about 100 pounds and lug them around to customers who had coal cellars, like the pubs, factories, and the occasional house—a dirty, back-breaking job. And they had trucks—a few old Dodges, Fargos, and a beaut ‘48 Chevy five-tonner.

It was this Chevy that I had my first taste of trucking in. You see, Kenny and I used to drive the trucks around the yard, and each time we did this, we got a little bit more game to venture further; and of course, we got a little better at driving. Oh, I forgot to mention that we were about twelve years old.

Up in the hills behind town, there lived a hillbilly bloke that had a son who was in our class as well—David. And also they had an old 1928 Whippet car that we used to take out around the hills, with a three-speed box and one of those worst inventions ever—a vacuum fuel tank that always needed topping up every five miles. The highlight of our little excursions was the fact that David’s dad had a Colt .44 pistol that happened to be on board our many trips. Woe betide any stray rabbits that got into range of us intrepid, car-driving, gun-toting bandits. Ah, those were the days.

We also had guns at home—shotguns, .22 long rifles. And at school, we had army drills on Fridays, and we had our own gun range. And we happily fired Bren guns, Sten guns, and .303s and used up a fair amount of the govt-issued bullets. We also had knives, and counsellors were unheard of, not like today. But there I go again, getting off the subject.

I started a mechanics apprenticeship at fifteen, and this is where I learned a whole lot more about trucks and what made them tick. Of course, I was a pretty good driver by this stage; I was also riding motorcycles (Dad owned a motorcycle shop). We worked on Ford trucks, Bedfords, Commers, and Internationals, even a Brockway and ex-army GMCs. It was in a GMC that I got my heavy-truck license. The Transport Department cop said, ‘No, I won’t go for a test run with you. You got it down here, and you gotta take it back. So here’s your license.’ And because it was a logging truck with a jinker trailer on the back, I got my semi-trailer license at the same time. Eighteen years of age and a budding trucker. All this happened in a small New Zealand town called Taihape, where you die happy.

But hands-on learning is a great teacher, and you cannot learn to drive from a book. All that I learned back then has stood me in great stead, and not many people today have the same opportunity, so I’m grateful. After my apprenticeship was done, I left the industry to take a truck-driving job at a local quarry. More later.

It was the year 1997; it was winter and cold and foggy. I was heading towards Boston, Massachusetts, on turnpike 90, and I jumped off an exit ramp in the fog which I thought was the right one but wasn’t.

I went up the ramp and found it’s a non-exiting one; couldn’t turn left, couldn’t go ahead, could only turn right into a shopping mall. Lovely… It was 1 a.m., pea soup fog, and I had to turn around. I couldn’t go left because it was cars only and there was no room for a sixty-five-foot semi-trailer anywhere. At this stage, I had my girlfriend with me, and she was going, ‘Oh, shoot!’ Me too, I might add. Well, this is where all that training comes in—none of it learned from a driving manual.

Did you know that you can turn a sixty-five-foot semi around in a Maca’s drive thru, not touch or break anything in the fog and dark, skedaddle down an exit ramp the wrong way, do a six-point turn back onto the turnpike, carry on a half hour later, and nobody, nobody is any the wiser? Well, I hope not. Allanach was amazed and said, ‘I’ll never worry about where we end up anymore.’ And believe me, when you get wrong directions, you will end up in some funny places. Easy in a car; a lot of fun in a big ole Peterbilt with a fifty-three-foot trailer hanging on the back. God, I look back and laugh, but wait till you hear about the time in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, in dense fog at three in the morning. It’s a cracker…

You know, one of the most important things that you carry in a truck is—and I bet all of you were going to say water or money or a torch or something. No, the most important thing is a pee bottle. Yep, a thing to put your ding in when you can’t stop or you’re stuck in the middle of Chicago and busting. Now I’ve found the best is a large Gatorade bottle with a wide neck. It’s not because I’m skiting; it’s just that a Coke or beer bottle just doesn’t cut the mustard, as it were. And you better make sure you’re hangin’ in there when you hit a pothole ‘cause you don’t want overspray on your seats or instrument panel. Besides, it’s sticky and smelly.

Now when it comes to the fairer sex, a story comes to mind, and I bet I cop a serve for even giving it a mention. It seems Allanach was engaged in the bunk behind the curtain with a large bottle and a funnel (true), and I was running through the traffic when, all of a sudden, a stupid four-wheel driver decided that today was stop-in-front-of-a-truck day. Well, I hit the picks (brakes), and the next second, there was a scream; and the curtains parted with a rush as Allanach, with her panties around her ankles and a bottle and funnel in her hands, did a swan dive onto the area above the instrument panel. She was not amused and proceeded to let me know in a language that would have made a trucker blush. Fair dinkum. Although I must admit, I did nearly piss myself laughing. I suggested she use a cork, which didn’t go down too well.

You can always tell when a trucker needs to heed the call of nature in a big hurry. And I’ve done this myself. Roar into a truck stop or rest area at 100 miles an hour and straight into the nearest parking space first. Go—and it doesn’t matter the size or angle—just straight in, leap out, and run like mad for the entrance or else walk slowly with legs locked together, holding on like one does for the last 300 miles. I betcha he doesn’t have a Gatorade bottle. He’s going to take a leak. You don’t take a leak, you leave it. Don’t take one of mine. I got only three left, and there’s a long weekend coming up. One thing I don’t agree with, and that’s tossing them out the window. Wait till you get somewhere and flush it. Reminds me of the Irish bloke who worked in a brewery and fell into a vat of beer and drowned. Got out three times to pee.

Commercial Company. Now, that’s a real industrious-sounding name. On the CBs, a female voice will say, ‘Any drivers out there looking for some commercial company?’ Well, I must admit the first time I heard that I thought it must be some company looking to hire drivers or perhaps sign them into a trucking company somewhere.

Aha, I thought. I wonder what their terms are and what sort of trucks they have. So I said with confidence in reply on the CB, ‘How much do we get paid?’

She said, ‘I get 100 bucks an hour, sweetie, but I reckon you males wouldn’t even make lunch money.’

The CB went into an uproar of hilarious laughter, and some guy said, ‘That sounds like one of them foreign drivers we hear about.’

It’s an education out there.

One time, this female voice came on the CB and said, ‘Anybody looking for some commercial company?’

And a guy said, ‘Yo, where yo at?’

‘In the Flyin’ J,’ she said.

He said, ‘What yo all look like?’

She said, ‘I’m fat, ugly, I weigh 300 pounds and haven’t had a bath in a