By Fred Lundgren
This is a true story about one of my journeys to The Center of The Truth
This story comes to life in the limitless theater of the mind. If you enjoy it, please like and subscribe. There is a lot more on the way.
The year was 1975. I was farming and driving an 18-wheeler. I hauled anything that I could tie down on a flatbed trailer.
On one particular trip, I hauled postholes from Elgin, Texas to Roswell, New Mexico and returned with Alfalfa hay. My 45-foot trailer was loaded 8 bales high with all bales laid flat. Anything over 7 layers high could spell trouble because of low overpasses.
My old truck was underpowered, overloaded and over height that day, but most of the time, overloading was the only way to make a profit on the load.
If you don’t understand trucker jargon, I will do my best to explain things along the way but even if that occurs, I know this story will entertain you and give you a greater appreciation for those big wheels that keep capitalism turning.
My truck was a White 7000 cab over with a sleeper. It was powered by a 250 horsepower Cummings with a 10-speed transmission. It had dual rear axles, commonly known as a “twin screw”. The White 5000 and the heavier White 7000 were known as “Japanese Whites” because of their snub nose appearance that resembled Japanese trucks of that era.
To be sure, no respectable trucker would be caught dead in my truck if they had previously driven a long nose Ken or a Pete with a whistling Caterpillar engine.
My White was a basic vanilla truck that would always get the job done but not very fast. It was so underpowered that could not fall out the sky any faster than 65 miles an hour. Together, we became very adept at evading the ports of entry and we learned to sniff out a DOT inspector from several miles away.
The best thing about my truck was its purchase price of $4,000 and it was clearly worth a whole lot more, but sadly, even on its best days, it was just butt ugly, and as we all know, nobody wants an ugly truck. Regardless, I grew to love that old truck. It fed my family and it never let me down.
The trip from Elgin, Texas to Roswell New Mexico took about 11 hours with one break along the way. I enjoyed driving at night. It’s cooler and easier on the truck. Also, there are fewer cops on the road. Over time, I figured out when a few of them changed shifts and the best times to avoid them.
Now, imagine that you’re riding shotgun for me on one of those trips.
We departed Elgin at about 5 p.m. and pulled into the Roswell farm at around 4 a.m. We were loaded up, tarped down and headed back to Texas by 8 a.m. Everything went ok until my mistake at Abilene.
I should have taken loop 322 South from Interstate 20 in order to reach Highway 36 South, but because my load was too high, I was worried about a low overpass on the loop. The legal height was 13 feet 6 inches, and my height exceeded the legal limit The legal weight limit was 80,000 pounds and my load exceeded that limit too. So, I stayed on I-20 and went south on a Farm to Market Road between the towns of Clyde and Baird.
I remembered that road from an earlier trip to New Mexico when I was not loaded. Long steep hills look totally different when you are not loaded and traveling in the opposite direction.
I was unprepared for what happened that day. The thought of running out of horsepower on a long steep hill is terrifying. Some of those Central Texas hills are the equivalent of a small mountain.
Soon after I turned south on the Farm to Market Road, it became clear that I had made a big mistake. Each hill became longer and steeper. I dropped into 4th gear a few times, but I convinced myself that I had seen the worst of it.
I was wrong.
There was a Mack behind me, and I watched the driver in my rear-view mirror as he stopped the truck and walked to the front of it and leaned back against the grill and crossed him arms. He obviously knew the road ahead and wanted to keep his distance.
For a few seconds, I wondered why he stopped. Then, as I rounded the next curve, his reason became clear. The steep incline ahead looked like the old Galveston causeway on I-45 south. Obviously, it wasn’t that steep, but it was long, very long and the incline continued beyond the distant curve ahead. The road had been built on a ridge so the drop off on each side became more perilous as the road progressed to the top of the hill.
There was no place to turn around and besides, I was gaining a loyal audience as several more trucks had stopped, and all the drivers were standing in front the Mack watching me.
I pushed for as much speed as possible, but I ran out of runway in about 1500 feet. I was only going 50 miles per hour, and I needed to be at 65 or faster to safely make it to the top which was at least 3/4th of a mile away and hundreds of feet higher in elevation.
I knew that if I missed a gear while downshifting, I would have hell to pay, but I was good driver, a damn good driver who made a mistake and now, I had to put it all on the line.
10th gear, 9th gear, 8th, gear, 7th gear, 6th gear, range change to fifth gear, 4th gear, 3rd gear, always shifting perfectly between 2100 and 1800 RPMs.
I thought about holding in 2nd gear, but I ran through 2nd as fast as all the other gears.
Now, I’m in low. Grandma was keeping hope alive. Grandma is trucker jargon for low gear, a gear normally used to start a truck moving from a dead stop.
I could not see the end of the hill because it curved to the left out of sight near the top. The drop off on each side was hundreds of feet below the road.
Now, I was out of options. The RPMs began to drop 1900, 1800, 1700, 1600, 1500. I said out loud, (Expletive), I’m not going to make it. There is no way the brakes will hold if I stall out. I’ve got to be ready to jump.
My heart was racing, and I was trembling so badly that I could barely control my arms and legs.
The accelerator was floored. My truck was blowing black smoke like it was competing in a tractor pull.
I put my right foot on the accelerator and my right hand on the left side of the steering wheel and opened the door with my left hand.
I positioned myself on the edge of the seat and I dropped my left foot to the top step. When the truck stalled, I would have just enough time to pull the brakes and jump.
My truck was heaving with the torque. The frame was twisting and groaning with each heave.
The RPM’s dropped with each heave and twist of the frame. I could see pavement moving below my open door and I prayed that no one would approach from the other direction at the moment I had to jump.
1500 RPMs, 1400 RPMs, 1300 and now 1200 RPMs. I didn’t look at the pyrometer which measures exhaust gas temperature, but it must have been hot enough for the devil to warm his hands.
I stayed focused. I found myself talking to my truck. You can do it. I know you can do it. You’ve never let me down. It's just a little further. Each heave and twist of the frame almost sounded like it was taking another breath and giving it everything it had to give because it did not want to let me down.
Then, almost magically, the RPMs stabilized at 1200, and with only a few hundred feet remaining to the top, the degree of incline decreased just enough for the RPMs to increase. During such times, we promise God that we will live angelic lives but first, please get us out of this mess.
As my truck reached the peak, I saw my audience of truckers in the rear-view mirror. They were walking back to their trucks.
Once on level ground at the top of the hill, I stopped to collect my senses. In a few moments, my audience passed by me, honking their air horns in support. I honked back and continued on my way.
A Trucker's Nightmare
Great article, too! Are you still publishing - substack or wherever?
I am reading your book on Nature of Wealth!
Regards
Howard
Great article - Sounds like quite an experience - you really made your recollection come alive - Congrats!