“Got it?” he finished.
“Got it.”
“Go get ’em, kid. No claims this trip, right?”
“Right. See ya, Gary. Gotta get rolling.”
Here’s the translation: 9/21AM meant September 21 in the morning. OA was the origin agent who booked the move. That’s where I’d pick up paperwork and arrange for helpers. I had a directory in my truck that listed all the North American agents, so Gary kept it all in shorthand. Murray was the shipper, and 1,000 pounds the estimated weight of the shipment. SIT (storage in transit) meant I’d be loading out of Woodway’s warehouse and not out of a residence, which is represented as “res.” Line haul was what the shipment would pay, and DA was the destination agent, which told me where the shipment was going.
I was figuring out a bunch of things all at once; what I had here was 20,400 pounds, loading in seven shipments on four different days. It had a line haul of $19,200, which was solid, but I don’t get a paid a nickel to drive empty, called deadheading, up to Vermont. That would cost me $1,000 in fuel and tolls, plus marginal expenses in cigarettes and Dr Colas (half Dr Pepper and half Coca-Cola, loaded to the brim with ice—my trademark road-sprint drink). I would start back south on the 23rd and unload Beverly Hills, Largo, and Sarasota on the 25th, unload Naples, Fort Lauderdale, and Kendall on the 26th, and finish in Key West on Sunday the 27th. The categorical imperative would be for me to be empty and ready to load on Monday the 28th. Movers are busiest at month end, when house closings occur and lease periods end. All I can do is set up my schedule to be ready at the right time. Full loads out of Florida were so rare that Powerlane drivers called one a “Pot of Gold.”
I woke the next morning at five thirty and headed north. I had 1,700 miles to do in forty-eight hours. (That’s the same as going from Philadelphia to Denver.) I needed to keep the hammer down and break the back of the trip on day one. I generally enjoy a couple of days driving because it’s easy. I don’t have to worry about getting help, lifting stuff, or dealing with shippers, but this was a marathon, not to mention highly illegal since I’m only allowed to drive ten hours per day.
I filled up with fuel at the Ormond Beach truckstop for $800, checked my fluids, restarted my logbook, cleaned my windshields inside and out, examined the wipers, grabbed a couple of extra gallons of Rotella motor oil, and remade the bed in my sleeper. Then I changed into a loose shirt, shorts, and sneakers, bought two Dr Colas, three packs of smokes, and an audiobook. I was ready for the northbound dash and my truck was too.
I had named my truck Cassidy. She was a dependable, good-looking GMC Astro 95 with a Cummins 290 diesel engine. (Don’t ask me why GM puts Cummins engines into their trucks when GM makes diesel engines.) Her odometer read 645,783 that morning, and every one of those miles was laid down by me. She’s considered a total piece of shit by the freighthauler fraternity. They all want the long-nosed Peterbilts. Another disconnect between movers and freighthaulers is that movers don’t much care what powerplant we drive so long as we’re making money. The freighthaulers are the opposite. This is totally ludicrous to me, because it’s not like they own what they drive. In my personal hierarchy, an owner-operator driving the junkiest old cornflake Mack is still miles ahead of a clockpuncher in a company-owned Pete. “Whatcha drivin’?” is a standard first question at truckstop coffee counters. “Got a bank account?” would be my first question.
Cassidy was running really well as I left Daytona, but she was not going to like the trip up north with an empty trailer. The further north you go, the rougher the roads get and an empty trailer bounces like crazy. Diesel engines want to work hard. What they like is a full load and a twenty-hour run at 65. They are phenomenal machines. When you get a good one and maintain it properly, which really only means keeping the oil clean and buying good fuel, you’ve got something that will run a million miles. There are five Class 8 (big-truck) diesel engine manufacturers in the United States: Cummins, which is the market leader, Detroit Diesel, which used to be GM but is now a division of Daimler, Volvo/Mack, PACCAR, and Caterpillar. They’re all great, but the truckstop cowboys prefer the big Cats so they can wear the trucker hat that says DIESEL POWER. Engine manufacturers are different from truck makers. The Class 8 truck brands are Freightliner, Kenworth, Peterbilt, International, Volvo/Mack, and Western Star. All of them make excellent trucks, but Freightliner, also a division of Daimler, is far and away the industry leader. With the premium truck brands like Peterbilt or Western Star, a buyer is actually custom-ordering a vehicle. When you buy yourself a Peterbilt you order the engine, the transmission, the rear end, and any other features that you want, like an expanded wheelbase or a sliding fifth wheel. Petes are expensive because you’re making a composite of the best features made by all the best manufacturers and putting it into what is probably the best truck chassis. I wouldn’t know how to order one myself because I don’t know a wheelbase from freebase. I’m a mover, not a gearhead.
I was running north in a convoy with nine other trucks through the interminable 199 miles of swamp, palmetto scrub, and south of the border signs that people call South Carolina. A convoy is a group of trucks traveling together. I don’t get inside convoys very often because most trucks run too fast for me.
The front door of this convoy was a Bowman freighthauler followed by three Armellini reefers hauling fresh flowers, then me, then a skateboard steel hauler, an Atlas bedbugger, another skateboarder hauling hot tubs, and the back door was a Schneider freight box called a “Pumpkin” because of its orange color. We flew together for 130 miles doing 65 the whole way. It was wonderful sitting in the cradle of the convoy. If the front door saw a gator in the road (gators are big pieces of tire tread on the roadway), he’d drawl “Gator” on his radio and pull into the hammer lane. I’d pull out after the Armellinis. We all fell into a groove. Everybody was driving well, everybody was professional, everybody was going fast but not crazy fast, and there was a plane of consciousness that we had together. It’s the closest thing to a Zen experience I know, except when I’m in my loading trance. Both of those things are what keeps me out here. The rest of it is just hassle.