I food you, I got pig iron

"I dined on cuisse du poulet roti -- roast chicken -- while my companion ventured the steak tartare --a caper-dotted paddy procured from an artisan butcher just a mile down the road. As we finished our last bites, the waitress brought assorted cheese to our table ("Fromage!" she sang), and then the meal was topped off with a sweet crumble aux pomme"  (source: The good food of France's truck stops)

My job takes me through the 11 western States and not once have I found a "caper-dotted paddy" (sic) along my travels.

Finding good food is a lot easier said than done.

Bob's Cafe - Moses Lake, WA

Due to the nature of the business, I am mainly routed on Interstate highways, not on picturesque country roads through quaint towns with bistros. Even if I were able to drive wherever I wanted to, I still wouldn't be able to park nearby a bistro. There's simply no room.

I am constantly followed by a 53-foot-long trailer and finding a parking space for it is always a challenge. In practical terms, I can eat only whatever is within a reasonable walking distance from the truck. Truck stop parking lots are often so far from actual civilization that I usually settle upon whatever crappy vittles are on offer.

What's usually on offer at truck stops along the Interstate is fast food; Subway, Arby's, Taco Bell, Wendy's, Burger King, sometimes a Denny's. And I have learned just what to eat at each of these places. Taco Bell has the Cantina Bowl, a passable dish that contains Romaine lettuce and is somewhat edible. Denny's has an "all you can eat" deal of soup & Caesar salad for $6.00, and Subway can make an item that, at first glance, appears to be a sandwich.

Arby's has nothing but crap. Avoid Arby's.

Arctic Circle, Payette, ID

As I gain experience, I am learning where and where not to stop. I always choose independently-owned cafes whenever possible, but these usually are not much better since most still worship at the Sysco food service alter. When I see a taco truck, I always stop. (There are three along I-84 in Boardman, OR).

Why don't I prepare my own food? 

That's a lot easier said than done. I am cooking for one. Cooking for one is always a pain. And if I wanted to prepare fresh food, where would I even get it? I see all sorts of places that sell groceries, but I usually cannot stop there; I can't very well park my 53' trailer in a Safeway parking lot. And if I bought some perishable food, where would I store it? I don't own a fridge, and ice chests are too much bother. Even if I cooked a caper-studded steak and pom frites, then where would I wash my dishes? You can see just how quickly involved this gets. Other drivers prattle on endlessly about their crockpots, microwave ovens and George Foreman grills. That's not for me. I have many miles to drive, and a getting that committed doesn't enter into my plans right now.

To save some money, I bought an electric kettle that I power off of an inverter. What I have been doing is making coffee (drip, #2 filter, Italian roast) with half & half (Mini Moos) in the morning. I also picked up a cheap toaster and have been making toasted peanut butter & honey sandwiches on whole grain bread. I usually keep some bananas around and always keep a stock of apples to munch on. And I am one with instant oatmeal.

Anything kept in my larder must be non-perishable. Lunch and dinner snacks regularly include the fantastic Bumble Bee Thai Tuna & Crackers, Nissin instant chow mein plus whatever else I can scrounge up that won't go bad and won't go straight to my hips. (That means no Ho-Ho's, Ding Dongs, Bugles or Funyuns)

I am certain that, if I really tried, I could pare all this down to sun-baked kale chips and celery broth, but I won't. Those that pester me with solar soy taco pointers get immediately unfriended. I will write the truck driver's healthy cookbook some other day. Right now, it's all I can do to keep the truck driving in a straight line.

The scales of justice

I had been dispatched up to Portland so that I could swap my empty trailer for a fully loaded trailer.

Somewhere along the way, I had gotten lost. It was rush hour, and I had taken a wrong turn and ended up circling on residential streets where large trucks do not belong. I was flustered. I had not followed the simple directions and now my GPS was only making matters worse. My nerves were shot, but I finally got to where I was supposed to go, which was just off of exit 307.

I found my new, loaded trailer easily enough (it was parked in amidst a bunch of other trailers), but there were no empty slots where I could stick my old trailer. This was not going to be fun. To make it work, I had to drop my empty trailer somewhere out of the way, hook up to the loaded one, pull it out and place it alongside my empty trailer, drop it in the dirt and then stuff my old, empty trailer in the hole that I had just created. I dropped that trailer and went and got my new, loaded trailer and hooked it up. After all that, I was a sweaty mess.

I had done everything right, save for one crucial thing: In my haste, I had forgotten to scale my load. I had no idea how heavy it was. And as it turned out, I was 2,200 pounds overweight on my tandem axle. I found out this fact when I had to sign a citation presented by the nice man with a gold badge from the great State of Oregon. And it was my own damn fault, because I had been careless. I had been taught (repeatedly) to always scale a load.

That was an expensive lesson.


Several times a day, I have to stop at highway scales. These are operated by the Department of Transportation in whatever State I happen to be in. In general, they are looking for overweight trucks, but they are also on the lookout for all sorts of things.

Inside my cab, stuck to the inside of the windshield, are a couple of "prepass" units. They are little, plastic boxes and closely resemble the ones that are commonly used to pay bridge tolls. These prepass units identify me about a mile in advance to the DOT guys, and depending upon their mood, I will get an "in cab" signal of a green LED light or a red LED light (along with an audible beep signal to help alert me). Presumably, before I even approach the weigh station, the DOT guys know precisely what trucking company I am with and instantly can see our laudable safety record.

About a third of the time, the prepass unit displays the green LED light and I can drive right on by the scales without stopping. About a third of the time, I get a red light and have to pull in, gear way down and slow to three mph in order to get my truck weighed. The rest of the time, the scales are simply closed. There is no telling which scales will be open when, which makes it sort of interesting. However, the scales at each State's port of entry are invariably open and happy to weigh everyone, sort of like a Jenny Craig's for Truckers.

Scaling a load correctly is routine, but it is not intuitive. It is not simply the overall weight of the truck and its contents; what also matters is how that load is distributed. With the sort of tractor-trailer combination vehicle that I pilot, one cannot have more than 34,000 pounds on either the drive axles or on the tandem axles. With this particular offending load (which were bales of scrap paper, as it turned out), my weight was fine but my load distribution was funky. Before I was allowed to drive onwards, I had to slide my tandem wheels backwards by six notches. When I did that, the load was deemed legal again and I was free to go on my merry way. My truck still weighed the same, but my wallet was now $200 lighter.

As I said, it was all my fault. My company is more than happy to pay for scaling. I frequently visit truck stops just so that I can cross a scale and get weighed properly before I head out onto the highway. It only costs my company $10.00. At a certified "public scale", I get a nifty printout showing the weight of my steer, drive and tandem wheels. Once I have that in hand, I become downright smug.

The next day, I had an entirely different load (a load of unscented, 2-ply toilet tissue, as it turned out). Even though the trailer was filled, it was not all that heavy, as compared to a dense load of spring water, for example. (when loads are comparatively heavy, say around 40,000 pounds, you immediately feel the difference in the way the truck drives). I knew the weight of this load, and I was feeling pretty good about it.

Going southbound into California on I-5, the first scales that you come to are around Dunsmuir. They're always open. I had to pull in to the scales, but I was certain that my load was perfectly legal. As one drives across the scales, the driver sees a set of standard traffic lights to guide you, and they usually stay green. But when I pulled across the scales in Dunsmuir, the traffic lights changed from green to red. A stern voice came over the PA system. "Driver, pull into bay number four". What had I done? I nearly wet my pants.

"Bay #4" was a garage, a huge garage, big enough to contain the entire tractor and trailer. The doors closed behind me. A Highway Patrol officer was inside, waiting for me. "How are you doing today, Driver?" he asked. I replied, in all honesty, that I was scared shitless. He smiled, and then he put on disposable gloves.
In my experience, that is never good a good sign.

I had been "selected" for a Level One inspection. It was not at all random, but it didn't have anything to do with the overweight citation, my current load of unscented, 2-ply toilet paper or even my liberal voting history. A yellow sticker on the lower right side of my windshield was expired and that had tipped off the inspectors.

The inside of the garage was mostly dark, save for the bright white, four-foot-long florescent lamps that were flush-mounted into the concrete floor, sort of like a disco dance floor for big rigs. I was first asked to provide identification for myself. I produced my spiffy Commercial Drivers License and my current DOT medical "green" card, both of which are, thankfully, genuine. Next, I needed to come up with registration for the truck and trailer, then provide the Bill of Lading for my load of toilet paper. I had all of that.

He asked to see my logs. I grabbed the Qualcomm unit off of the floor, switched to my log's summary page and held it out the window for him to see, pulling it as far as its black, coiled power cord would allow me to. I had plenty of hours left and was fully in compliance.

Next up, he wanted to see that all the truck's lights and turn signals were functional. They were. He asked me to pop the hood; under there he inspected belts, clamps and hoses, presumably looking for drips and leaks.
As the tractor had just been serviced and is in pretty good overall shape, I wasn't worried.

The wild card was the trailer. Remember, we drive the same tractor every day but pull different ratty-ass trailers most days. I know my tractor intimately, but each trailer is a complete stranger to me.

Obviously, I do a pre-trip inspection on the trailer each time I get a new one, but I am only checking out the lights, air supply glad hands and the tire pressure. I don't actually climb underneath to inspect brake chambers or look for tiny droplets of oil on brake shoes. Yet that was what the CHP inspector was up to. And he had a lit-up floor and a mechanic's creeper with which to do it. Any mechanical defects would soon become apparent.

I was asked to engage the brakes and to keep them engaged. He slid under the trailer. I kept my right foot on the brake pedal. I have no idea how long this lasted, but it seemed to go on forever. My right leg was not happy. I prayed that there was sufficient brake lining on the brake shoes and that the brake chambers would hold pressure. Eventually, the man and the creeper slid out from underneath the trailer.

He told me that he "had some good news and some bad news". I winced.

The good news is that my truck and trailer had passed a thorough inspection.We would be awarded a new windshield sticker, this time orange in color.

The bad news? He looked me straight in the eye and told me, "is that you have to go back to work".