Truck Stop Delight

Deep down I think I always wanted to be a trucker. Or at least try it out for a week or two. More of a romantic notion than anything. The open road, your trusty CB radio, talking shit behind smokies backs, 10 lb bags of teriyaki jerky and most importantly bottomless cups of joe and delicious slices of truck stop pie. Traveling coast to coast you could truly taste the rainbow: from lemon merengue to triple chocolate cheesecake.

But really who wanted to pay five g's for truckdriving school and come to find out most truck runs are local, carrying you four hours one way and four hours back.

Not to mention that now, thanks to the wise Dr. Maingou, my interest in cross border transport seems to be centered arround the hard drugs, gambling and prostitution that have become synonymous with the trucker lifestyle. Maybe it's my calling, a tell all on the dark lives of America's trusted highwaymen, tracking down stick shift Charley and lot lizzard Linda for touching and tragic personal sagas.

I always (well sorta) wanted to be a trucker until this past year when I started hauling vineyard equipment. Somehow in the past year I had rubberbanded from living carfree for six years to driving durring the better part of my workday. Me, the guy who despised cars and cursed at them on a daily basis to and from work atop my cycle, barring my fangs via mini u-lock.

Now the tables have turned...oh how they have turned. When I see a cyclist riding down the middle of a shoulderless road amidst rushhour traffic I cringe and curse the day my road obstacle clipped in. Country roads used for agriculture might look like a cycling paradise but mid-day they are congested and dangerous. Not to mention during harvest! And don't get me started on bicycle rental companies that bring out wine tourists for amateur hour. Give me a break!

***

So, today, if there was any gave me the best dose of what it might be like to be a trucker. Exhausting. Ten plus hours, on and off, in front of the wheel. Load tractor, move to new vineyard, unload, wait, repeat.

For the better part of the morning I moved a couple tractors up and down Old Sonoma Mountan Road, filled with potholes, bumps, uneven pavement and tight ascending and descending turns. The brushburn whined and I pounded the gas pedal to the floor as we slowly crawled up the side of the mountain and descended six times. Repetition makes perfect right.

It sure took the piss out of me. I'm beat and my eyes are heavy. Tomorrow I seek diversity and something more substantial than a loaf of sourdough for breakfast and lunch.



Hasta luego...