Troubled Trucker

Most of my 12.438 readers know that I have been a trucker in a past life. Up until my retirement in February 2000 I had set a tire on every foot of United States Interstate save I-4 which diagonals across Florida, and assorted bypass routes.

In my nearly 2.5 million miles I never received a moving violation. That’s not to say that maybe sometimes I warranted a speeding ticket but I managed to dodge the bullet on a couple occasions.

One of those times was in Nevada on I-80 coming off Golgonda Summit which is a pretty straight 6% grade of maybe four miles in length. Plenty enough miles to build up a fairly rapid pace when hauling about 46,000 pounds of beer and grossing 80,000 pounds on a steep grade.

Silver Tip (CB handle of the local State Patrol guy) and I would often talk CB talk late at night when meeting each other on this often deserted and desolate stretch of interstate. He knew I pretty much obeyed the speed limit and he also knew I was most likely about a week over on hours in my log book. Silver Tip would “shut ‘er down” and go home most nights around three or four am.

This particular night however, he didn’t.

We had just put brand new tires on Ol’ Brown (1976 Kenworth conventional) on every corner, there was a full moon rising, I was feeling the effects of “highway hypnosis” and I was thinking, I wonder how fast Ol’ Brown can go.

Now, when coming off Golgonda heading east one can see all the way across Pumpernickle Valley which is about three miles west to east - and east to west I would assume- so seeing no headlights or taillights I put the proverbial pedal to the metal, hollered “Geronimo” and watched the speedometer climb at an alarming rate toward the magical 80 mph at which time the needle is supposed to hit a stop and go no higher. This one continued climbing although there were no numbers to indicate how fast I was going.

I hear ya’. Pretty dumb, Virgil. Yup but there I was screaming off the pass, air horn also screaming loudly, and Tchaikovsky’s William Tell Overture blaring out of the radio speakers. If there was to be a wreck it would be spectacular indeed and I would be the sole witness to the conflagration.

But.... at the bottom of the pass there is a little turn-out to the right where the cops usually sit and have their lunch. I wasn’t worried because I had called Silver Tip on the CB and got no response so I figgered he was home.

For the second time in my life I figgered wrong. As I, along with 38,000 assorted cans and bottles of Budweiser along with 14 kegs of the same hurtled past the turn-out I caught a glimpse of something flashing in the light of the full moon.

Yikes!!!

“Silver Tip . . . Is that you” I asked on the CB radidio. “Yessir. Pathfinder is that you?” “Yes sir” I replied. I said “What the hell are you doing here at this hour?” “Taking a nap until you woke me up with that darned Lone Ranger music” was his sardonic reply. “Hadn’t been for that I probably would have slept through it all. Now pull that thing over and we’ll have a chat eye to eye.”

Silver Tip invited me to come sit with him in his car while he figured out what to do with me. He mentioned he was “shocked’ it was me instead of Don (other driver at times).

I asked him how fast he thought I was going. Without hesitation he said “124 mph.” Well I told him my speedometer only read 80. He said he’d split the difference and knock the ticket down to read 120 mph. (Split??? I thought)

We sat and told each other lies for a half hour or so when he said, “Pathfinder, if there had been anyone withing eyesight, if I had seen one tail light or head light I would have tossed you in jail but as it was just you and me out here I’m going to write the speeding ticket off to temporary insanity and send you on your beer-y way.”

Thanks again, Silver Tip.

That’s it for now folks. Thanks for listening.