The new dispatch instructed me to swap my (just emptied) dry trailer for an empty refrigerated trailer and to make absolutely certain that it was turned on and the temperature set to -10 f
My company has a terminal nearby, up in Layton. I drove the 40-or-so miles up to Layton and dropped my now-empty trailer in our company's lot, then I parked my tractor out of the way where it wouldn't be blocking anyone. I climbed down out of my tractor and walked around the perimeter of the parking lot, searching for an empty reefer trailer. That's how it is done: just choose any suitable empty one, hook up to it and you're on your way. But most of the trailers that were up for grabs were "dry" trailers, exactly like the one I had just dropped.
And I needed a reefer trailer.
Most of the parked reefers I found were already full and were running; I could see (what I call) their "everything is OK" green light, so I walked right by those. They already had loads inside. Of the reefer trailers that were actually empty, none were available. They were either "red tagged" (waiting for repair) or they were brand new; so new that they didn't even have any registration yet.
To keep drivers like me from hooking up and towing away any of the clean, spotless, brand-new, lovely trailers, the shop mechanics had installed gladhand locks on them. I could easily back up to (and latch onto) the fifth wheel, raise the landing gear and drive away, but I wouldn't be driving very far: the gladhand locks would keep me from attaching air lines, which would keep me from delivering compressed air to the brakes, and without compressed air the spring brakes stay engaged. With the spring brakes engaged, you aren't moving. Well, very far, anyway.
(Sometimes you'll see long skid marks, in sets of four, made by dual tires, out on highways. That is what happens when a trucker loses air pressure to the trailer: the brakes lock up and then he is left dragging the locked-up trailer tires down the road.)
Anyway, I had an appointment for 11:00 am, an appointment that demanded a "pre-cooled" reefer trailer, and I couldn't find an empty one to use. "How could this be?", I thought, so I walked the perimeter lot again, hoping to find an empty reefer. I had only about an hour to spare before I needed to show up at my appointment.
When I would spot a reefer, I would walk up to the gray, plastic "mailbox" on the front of the trailer and pry it open looking for the bill of lading paperwork.
Drivers don't always take a load all the way to the consignee; many times it is parked temporarily in an agreed-upon rendezvous spot, and then another driver takes it to its final destination.The gray, plastic mailbox is where one driver leaves the paperwork for the next driver. I look in there first, because if there is paperwork inside then that trailer is not empty. I look for paperwork first primarily because I am lazy; it saves me the trouble of walking through 53 feet of mud and deep puddles all the way to the back of the trailer.
At the back of the trailer, I am looking to see if there is a seal or a padlock on the door. If there is a seal, I know that there is a load inside and so I must keep looking. If there is just a padlock but no seal or paperwork, I know that some selfish individual has reserved an empty trailer for his next dispatch so that he doesn't have to go through what I am going through right now. (Yes, he is a very selfish prick for doing that, and yes, of course I would have done the same thing if only I had thought of it first)
In a huge parking lot filled with trailers, none will meet my needs. It is now 11:00 am, and I am not going to make my appointment. Using the Qualcomm unit, I type a frantic message to my awesome Driver Manager letting her know that there are no empty reefers, and that yes, I checked three times. (I tell her this because I just know that she is rolling her eyes when she reads that I cannot find one)
She responds to let me know that the "Planners" will be informed. No actual names, just "the Planners". After a couple of hours of waiting for an empty trailer that should have friggin' already been there, my undies are in a bunch, I am watching my daily "available hours to work" clock steadily run out of time. I receive another message: "The Planners are still looking for a trailer for you". I begin to growl.
Late in the afternoon, I get a message that they have actually found a suitable empty trailer, but it is 30 miles away through rush hour traffic (and, of course, 30 miles back). My outlook is not at all cheery. Perhaps I am just a tad grumpy by now. Perhaps.
In order to go and get a trailer, you need to give up a trailer, so I hook up to a random empty dry trailer, raise the landing gear, attach the glad hands and am just pulling away when when another driver arrives, backs into a spot and drops a reefer. An empty reefer! MY empty reefer! First though, I need to get rid of this trailer that I just snagged. I hurriedly back up my trailer, pull the fifth wheel release bar, lower the landing gear, undo the air lines, lower my air bags and drive out from under the trailer.
My new reefer trailer has seen better days, but I don't care. Actually, it has seen quite a few better days. I am not kidding when I say that many of the truck drivers working for my company were not even born yet when this trailer was already proudly serving in our fleet.This trailer is well over 20 years old, or over 140 in dog years. How it passed its annual inspection is a mystery.
Getting any reefer down to -10 takes some time, so I turn it on immediately. It needs to be at that temperature for a couple of reasons; the stated cargo is frozen food, but more importantly, because the customer requires it (and actually checks the temperature: they check both when you depart the shipper and when you arrive at the destination). It is only a few miles to the destination: a frozen food warehouse in Clearfield, Utah. When I arrive, several hours after my appointment, I am not exactly welcomed. The shipping clerk behind the glass was not at all pleased to see me. I was now going to have to wait. The punctual drivers would be catered to now. Whenever the crew was good and ready they just might be able to load me. I went back to my truck and sulked. My clock was just about to run out, and I would not be making any miles that night. Since I only make money when I am actually driving, things were not looking good.
When they got done loading all the other trucks (the ones who had shown up when they were actually supposed to), it was my turn to back up to a loading door. First though, I had to slide my tandems to the back before they would load me. I reached under to grab the handle but there wasn't one. There was no handle to pull. There was no button, either (newer reefers have a nifty air-powered system). Maybe it was on the other side? Nope, not there either. I asked another driver, one who was parked nearby, where the release handle was. This was comparable to asking if he would show me how to tie my shoelaces (and just about as humiliating).
This old reefer had the release handle tucked in between the rear wheels, a place where I didn't even think of looking. It is the only trailer I have even seen like that. It released easily enough though, and I backed up to dock #35 and waited. Several hours later, my trailer was filled with over 43,000 pounds of Bird's Eye green beans. I went back to the shipping office, retrieved my paperwork, and was on my way.
Except that I wasn't. I was out of time and could not legally move the truck anywhere. I could only move it away from the dock, just far enough to be out of their way. I crawled into my sleeper unit and slept for the night.
The next morning, I got up, checked to make sure that the temperature on the reefer was still correct and prepared to move. First though, I needed to adjust the tandems forward. (Trailers are harder to maneuver when the tandems are slid all the way to the back, but they must to be set all the way back so that forklifts can safely load the trailer.) However, things were now a bit different since the trailer was now completely loaded with frozen green beans: with all that weight, now the lever didn't want to budge. I pulled and pushed and swore put all my manly-man strength into it and eventually it relented. The tandems were finally able to be slid forward, where I wanted them to be.
I drove back over to our yard in Layton, a short trip, maybe ten minutes. It was still before dawn. I wanted to use the scale there to make absolutely certain that I was legal to drive before I set out onto the Interstate.
The scales at our yards are somewhat basic; you have to weigh in stages, unlike at a commercial Cat scale. I was worried about this particular trailer's weight for several reasons: one, that this load of green beans was pretty heavy, two, because I had just filled my fuel tanks and all that added weight could, by itself, put me overweight, and three, because I am a chronic worrier.
The "steering" axles were heavy; at about 12,800 pounds, but my "drive" axles were OK, under 34,000. The "tandem" axles weighed out to close to 38,000 though: way too heavy. I needed to adjust the tandem axles backwards, in order to get their weight to be legal, or under 34,000 pounds.
The tandems did not want to move, the handle wasn't moving, the pins stayed locked, it was cold and dark and I was miserable. After a tussle, I finally got them to move. I got back in the truck, released the brakes, pulled the trolly brake and moved the trailer while keeping the wheels in place. (No, it is not at all easy. Thanks for asking) I moved the trailer too far: it was still not road-legal.
I had to think. I hate to think. I had to do basic arithmetic. I hate that even more.
I decided that I need to move the trailer exactly "X" notches. I did that. I got it right. My weights were now legal, and I would not have to worry about getting fined. By now, my right shoulder was throbbing with pain. Doing all that pulling on the recalcitrant tandems had hurt me. I swallowed some Ibuprofen.
I made it to Portland on time, my reefer temperatures were still good and the pain in my shoulder was almost gone. In Portland, I gladly swapped that ancient, rusty, reefer trailer for a much better, dry trailer.
I hope I never see trailer 9429 again.
