IT'S A DAWG'S LIFE

Declaration of Independence (1776)

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness."

Two hundred and thirty-two years ago, on July 2, 1776, a group of courageous colonists, meeting in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, read aloud the final draft of a document which would change the course of world history. Penned by a Virginia colonist and leader named Thomas Jefferson, it had been approved by a commitee of five other rebels just a short time before the formal reading was rendered. With those bold, ringing words, those brave men declared the freedom of all thirteen of America's colonies from the British crown and King George the Third. Two days later, on July 4th, they signed their names to it, pledging their very lives to the cause of American liberty.

That Declaration of Independence became the founding document of what would become known as the United States of America. Our nation. Mine and yours alike. It told the world of the reasons why America was separating itself from the oppressive tyranny of the British Empire. These founding fathers possessed brilliant minds, though many had little formal education, and through the next seven years of a brutal and often bitter Revolutionary War, their common dream of liberty kept them going until the struggle finally ended. A constitution was then written, the thirteen colonies became independent states, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Today, in 2008, as we eat hot dogs and hamburgers -- those purely American creations that we all love -- and watch the fireworks tonight, we should all pause and reflect on what those courageous men accomplished on our behalf, on what our freedom and liberty means, and of all the brave men, then and since then, that have died defending the liberty that was declared in that document. It wouldn't hurt to re-read the Declaration of Independence today, if you can make the time. It's short and don't take that long to read at all. And its meaning is as perfectly clear today as it was at the time it was written.

Here are some thoughts of mine on this Independence Day, for what it's worth:

Freedom isn't free. Throughout the entire course of human history, nations that have attained their freedom have always had to fight for it. And they've had to fight to maintain it, because some other envious entity is always trying to take it away from you. For that reason, we should never take our freedom for granted. If we become too complacent, we run the risk of losing the very thing this nation was founded on and which we value most of all.

One hundred and fifty years ago, Abraham Lincoln said:  "America will never be taken from without. If it should ever fall, it will be from within." Wise words, and ones very much worth heeding and remembering, for all Americans. Be watchful and aware of what's happening right here at home, especially in our government. There are forces at work, here and now, that want to destroy our freedom and put us all in some kind of mass collective. They seem to promise some utopian "paradise," but they will deliver tyranny. And that tyranny already exists, on some levels. It must be stopped; squashed before it can spread further. We must be ever watchful, then rise up as one and speak with one overpowering voice in putting it to an end.

If we go to sleep -- if we falter -- everything that those founding fathers stood for will come crashing down and everything countless thousands of soldiers died for over all these years will be lost. And it will never return again.

Think about it, while you're eating your hot dog today.

10-7

moondawghouse at 12:31:57 PM EDT Permalink | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 1 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

GEORGE CARLIN (1937-2008)

Comedian and social satirist George Carlin passed away on June 22, in California, of heart failure. He had battled heart and other health problems since the 1970's. Carlin was 71.

Beginning his long career as a radio disc jockey in the 1950's, Carlin soon joined another comedian as part of a stand-up duo act, then later branched out on his own, where he developed his biting social wit and unique satirical style over the years. His immortal routine, "The Seven Words You Can't Say On Television," first performed in the 1960's, launched him into comedic superstardom and even led to a Supreme Court decision in the 1980s. Although the routine would seem tame by today's looser standards, it was years ahead of its time when Carlin created it.

He pushed the envelope of decency many times in his career, but offended few people, really, because he was always funny. Carlin had the gift of making you laugh at yourself, without really insulting you. What he said was most often so true, and couldn't be denied. He was at his best with his socio-political satire, and he targeted everything and everyone, from big government, to environmental extremists, to terrorists. Many of the politicians he joked about the most were some of his biggest fans. George Carlin was always making you laugh, but he could also make you think and that will always be his legacy. He will be much missed.

Here is a small sampling of the wit of George Carlin, over the years:

moondawghouse at 4:15:26 PM EDT Permalink | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 2 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

I was in Iowa this past week, just days after massive floods did untold millions of dollars in damage and left several thousand people homeless, their houses contaminated and ruined, unsafe to inhabit. My heart goes out to the people of that state and I pray that the Lord will speed them in their recovery.

It was a day or so after the worst of it had hit and much of the water had receded, leaving the major roads clear in most places, although some streets and county roads were still closed off. I had no problems reaching my delivery customer, nor getting to my backhaul load a little while later, something that had worried me for a few days before I headed that way, having heard the news reports about the terrible conditions out there.

I had thought, "Has my company gone totally nuts, sending me out there, right in the middle of all that??!!" Hell, they'd be better off putting the stuff on a boat, from what I had been hearing! However, as I've reported before in these pages, I have a talent, seemingly, for being sent into disaster areas right when the disaster's still going on, or immediately afterward. I think I've earned my Master Of Disaster degree, in fact. Let's see -- I've been within five and ten miles of two tornadoes; I rode out a tropical storm in Florida, back in '99; I drag-raced and outran Hurricane Charley a few years after that; I caught the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina in northern Alabama the day after she tore the hell out of the Gulf Coast and New Orleans; and now I can add post-flood Iowa to my list of accomplishments. What's next for me?? The aftermath of an earthquake?? I have to wonder. That's about the only natural disaster I haven't been in or near, so far.

It was still dark as I made my way through the outskirts of Des Moines, where many homes were abandoned. I wasn't right in town and I couldn't see much, but I had noticed several flooded low-lying cornfields as I drove in there. Crops totally washed away. The sun came up and revealed dry roads and blue skies. I'll bet those folks out there were glad to see that, at last!! More flooded fields, here and there. Normal corn rows on the higher ground, as always. Debris beside the highway in places, but nothing blocking the  roads I traveled on. I reached my destination and got unloaded in short order. After a brief wait, I was on my way up to Webster City, just down I-35 from Mason City, where my online friend, Merry, lives. She had been telling me of the hardships they were enduring there, with the flooding. Her basement had more than a foot of water in it, and she thought everything down there was ruined.

But Webster City looked as if it had escaped the fate of Merry's town. Maybe it's on higher ground, but there was no debris piled up, no closed streets, as far as I could tell, and no water damage to any of the trailers at the shipper when I arrived. Guard there said that except for a few lower areas, they had made out pretty good around there. After a little longer wait this time, I trucked on out of there. There was some damage in Waterloo, from what I could see, but the real disaster was forty miles south of there, in Cedar Rapids. That city, and nearby Iowa City, had been hit the hardest of all.

The freeway through Cedar Rapids was clear and dry and the city was still there; it hadn't been washed away by the water. Quaker Oats was still right where it's always been, beside the Cedar River, which snakes its way through town. That river was the first indication of the disaster. It was still swollen, spilling out far above its normal banks. From the freeway, I-380, I could see many, many closed-off city streets, parts of which were still submerged. Debris was piled up all over the place, and blocked some thoroughfares completely. Houses stood in water, the level even with their first floors. Cars stood in water, some up to their roofs. Sump pumps were going; moving water out of flooded basements, through large hoses, leading to wherever. I caught the unpleasant scent of raw sewage in the air, put there when sewers erupted from the backpressure and the municipal treatment plant flooded over. A huge mess, otherwords. Reports on the radio stated that it would take months, maybe years, before things would get all the way back to normal there.

But people were out and about, working. Not sitting around, waiting for the government to do something, like they did in New Orleans in 2005. I saw bulldozers and backhoes at work in some places. The cleanup had already begun, as people started to pull their shattered lives back together. No welfare mentality in Iowa, like in New Orleans, where the dangers of that mindset were demonstrated so clearly for all to see, if they were looking. People in Iowa were helping themselves, not waiting on someone else to do everything. That's how you recover from a disaster. And that's why Cedar Rapids will be back on its feet again long before New Orleans ever is. Instead of pointing their fingers and blaming someone else, Iowans put the blame where it belongs, on Mother Nature, and are even now moving on.

One man, who was being interviewed on the radio, put it in perspective better than anyone I've heard in recent years. He totally frustrated the pinhead reporter, who was trying to stir up a controversy by pushing the guy to blame the government for his problems, the same way they did after Katrina. But the man was having none of that. He stated that nobody was forcing him and others to live so close to the river. They loved living near the river, and always would do so. Rivers flood sometimes, he told the reporter. That's the nature of a river. We'll rebuild and go on like we always have. Yes, indeed. To that I say, "Amen!!"

The Lord helps those that help themselves. There's no doubt in my mind that He's right there beside those flood victims right now.

10-7

moondawghouse at 12:02:18 PM EDT Permalink | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 2 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

If any of you remember the last motorcycling entry I wrote, you'll recall that I was musing about the biker community coming of age nowadays. Getting older, otherwords, as in "middle-aged." With my own gray beard, potbelly, creaky joints, bad shoulder, and even creakier back, I am one of this group, definitely -- battered about by life and living, but not quite ready to hang up the handlebars yet, either. I like to refer to myself as a C.O.B.B., in fact; an abbreviation for Cantankerous Old Biker Bastard. I heard that it actually stood for "Crippled Old Biker Bastard," but since I'm not crippled (at least so far), with only the typical middle-aged aches and pains, I modified it a bit, to make it more suitable.

I am a biker retread; a condition some like to refer to as "having a mid-life crisis." Uh, not quite. Nice try, but no cigar. What crisis??!! There's no crisis here! I've always been what I am, since my teens. I just took a long vacation away from my favorite hobby, sport, or whatever you call it, for several years there. I was busy with other things for those years. Now, approaching retirement age and my well-earned "me" time, I want to have one last go-round with what I have always loved before I cash in my chips and leave the table for good.

The young whippersnappers who giggle at the "old man on the Harley" on the road will have reason to rethink that when they reach my age eventually, I know. I'll have the last laugh on them all. It's subtle, aging. It creeps up on you stealthily, then all the sudden -- BAM -- you're there! You can squander your time, scratching your head, wondering where it all went, or -- if you're anything like me -- you grab hold of what life is left and put a stranglehold on it. Shit, I know where it went!! I was never one to fool myself. I wasted a lot of my time on the largely pointless pursuits of youth, and invested more of that precious commodity in pursuing the almighty dollar, trying on this and that, to see how well it fit. Experimenting and exploring. Looking for the pot of gold that never came my way. I think we all do that, at some level or other. I remember an old Harry Chapin song about life being a big circle and I agree completely with that. You go round and round and round for years, then somehow end up  right back where you started out. Older and battered, but not beaten by this thing we call life.  

I'm definitely old-school, when it comes to motorcycling. I can remember things that this younger generation has hardly heard of. And that's how you tell the difference between old-school and new-school. I've made up a little list of things that will categorize you as one or the other. There are always exceptions, of course; some younger bikers may be familiar with some of these things, but I'll wager they won't be with all of them!!

HOW TO TELL YOU'RE AN OLD-SCHOOL BIKER

1.  You remember when the forerunners of today's sportbikes were known as "cafe racers."

2.  You know how to kickstart a motorcycle.

3.  You know how to kickstart a Harley, or a cranky 250cc two-stroker, with no compression release.

4.  You know how to pop a dislocated knee back into place, after you kickstarted the Harley or two-stroker the wrong way.

5.  You know what "points" are.

6.  You know how to fiddle around with the points and *maybe* get yourself back home again.

7.  You fell in love with that Honda CB750 back in 1973, but couldn't afford one, so you ended up with a CL 450 -- the "scrambler" model.

8.  You know what a "scrambler" is.

9.  You've attended scramble races.

10. You ignored the fact that a scrambler was basically a street bike and rode it off-road anyway. As a result, you ended up riding the ground more than you did the bike.

11. You thought the new Triumph Trident and Kawasaki three-cylinder superbikes were the coolest things on wheels, until Honda's four-cylinder 750 came out.

12. You can remember bike makes like Hodaka, Bultaco, and BSA, all of which are no longer manufactured.

13. You thought Evel Kneivel was the coolest dude on earth.

14. You remember when every Honda 90 had scratches on the gas tank, made by the belt buckles of riders leaning forward on it, trying to get the thing up to 70 mph.

15. You can remember when the Honda 160 and 305 were the hottest models around. Everyone had one and everyone wanted one. Arguments about the merits of each model resulted in more than one fist-fight.

16. You met the "nicest people on a Honda," but the badass Hells Angels on their Harley choppers were WAY cool!!!

17. Your cousin gave you your first ride on a Harley and it was instant love. Thirty years later, you bought one.

moondawghouse at 8:58:26 AM EDT Permalink | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 3 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

Temple, GA ( a point enroute to New Jersey)

Not home again this weekend. Actually, I could go through Knoxville, but considering the distance from there to my destination and the ridiculously early delivery appointment time on this load (1 A.M. on Monday), why even bother?? Not really out of route -- there's more than one way to get from Texas to New Jersey -- but a waste of time to go that way, since I would only have a few hours at home before I'd have to leave right back out again. Not enough hometime to even bother with at all. The Interstate 20 to Atlanta, I-85 to Petersburg, VA, I-95 to NJ route I picked was the easiest and most practical, so here I am.

I sat two entire 24-hour days in Robinson, Texas, just south of Waco, after delivering a load to a customer's new warehouse in Waco, Wednesday morning. No load was forthcoming, and it was no surprise, since a quarter of our fleet seemed to be at that place at any given time of the day. As I said, it was a new warehouse and we were all delivering the "wares" that would be stored there, my company and CFI seemed to be the dominant trucking outfits rolling in and out of the place.

I counted one, two, three, four, eight, ten, fifteen of our trucks, in and out of there, while I unloaded. At least five were lined up at the gate, waiting their turns to dock, and a local-yokel driver, hauling shuttle trailers in and out of there, told several of us that it was worse on Monday, with more than twenty-five of us there that day. "Oh, crap!" I thought. All these company trucks here at the same time equals no load for awhile. And, sure enough . . . I got the expected "No Load" message as soon as I sent my "Empty" message in. I wasn't under any illusions at all, unlike one new driver, who was napping in the parking lot, awaiting a load which wasn't going to come for quite some time. He'll learn, just like I did. I headed a few miles south, to the Pilot in nearby Robinson.

The problem at hand was a simple and basic one:  With so many of our trucks in one place at the same time, it overwhelmed my company's load board, bigtime. Not the first time this has happened, by any means, andit won't be the last. Here's the equation, if you're into math:  20 trucks, minus 10 loads available, equals 10 trucks left stranded empty. This is an example only, but it should explain the simple principle. It's a simple matter of too many trucks and not nearly enough loads. It's supposed to go by who got there first, as to who gets the first load outta there, but it doesn't always work that way. In typical trucking company fashion, it usually depends on which dispatcher can get which load to which truck the fastest. If your dispatcher is slow on the draw, you can wait awhile. It takes patience, on the part of a driver, to understand and deal with these things.

But drivers are human and patience has its limits. I was almost at the end of mine, Friday morning, when the Qualcomm finally beeped three times in succession, indicating a load. I was on the phone with mom at the time, and I cut the conversation short, so I could write everything up and get the heck outta there at last!! At that point, if they'd have sent me to Istanbul, I'd have been plotting fuel stops in mid-ocean, while on the way!! Desperate. Wanted a load. ANY load. And I finally had one. And that's how I got here, writing this.

I'm not even bitching about going to Yankeeland this time!!!

10-7

moondawghouse at 8:51:01 PM EDT Permalink | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 2 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

I was sitting in one of my favorite local biker bar hangouts the other day, sipping a cold brew, making small talk with others, and checking out all the "chrome ponies" that were coming and going through the lot, when a thought hit me:  The entire motorcycling community is getting older. A lot more gray hair, balding pates, white beards, and middle-aged bellies in sight than ever before. Many of the hot biker babes of yore have wind and sun-wrinkled faces and sagging figures of varying degrees nowadays; some are still hot, but it's a relative thing. Your perceptions change as you grow older; what's "hot" at 50 would've gagged you at 25. So it goes.

It's not like there aren't any younger bikers out there on the streets, because there certainly are. There's just fewer of them than before. Smaller generations and more overprotected than we were. But you will still see teenagers and twenty-somethings on their "crotch rockets," zooming down the highway, zipping in and out of traffic like it's not even there at all, looking sudden death square in the eyes and spitting in its face. We older, wiser bikers just grin when we see them fly past our Harleys, British Classics, and Gold Wing Hondas. Yeah, we used to do that stuff too. Some of us still do, but most have learned our lessons via dislocated and broken bones, with arthritis and rheumatism in our joints as a reminder of the foolishness of youth. It catches up with you, sooner or later. Always does. There are old bikers and there are bold bikers, but there are no old, bold bikers. I don't know who came up with that old saying, but I know for certain now that it's true.

I'm like so many others. I got motorcycling in my blood when I was a teenager. Had lots of fun, fell off of and dropped the thing ten dozen times, then crashed bigtime. Totaled my bike and ended up in the hospital. I bought another one a few years later and got over the fear. You either do that, or you choose not to ride again. And some can't ride again, after crashing. That's just the way it is.

I sold the second bike, then didn't own one for many years, until I bought my Miss Velvet last year. But that had always been in the back of my mind somewhere over all those bike-less years. Once you get the motorcycle bug, it never completely leaves you. Something about the wind in your face on a deserted country lane in the morning, the smells of nature in your nostrils, alone with your thoughts, with the sound of the powerful machine that you become a part of. It's freedom. True, utter freedom. It can't be explained. You have to experience it for yourself. But it's that sense of freedom that drives us all.

We have been somewhere where a non-biker never goes, experienced something unique which they can't begin to imagine. We aren't criminals or bad people, for the most part. Those are the one-percenters. We're some of the sweetest and nicest people you could ever meet. We aren't out looking for trouble; we only want to ride and have the cagers respect the fact that we share the road with them. Give us our portion of it. That's all we ask.

I've always been a biker, ever since I first climbed on a motorcycle and brought the engine to life. Now I'm back again. The world's changed, the bikes have changed, and we have changed and aged ourselves. But we aren't ready to trade our 2-wheelers in on trikes quite yet, thank you. As long as we can still put our wobbly old legs down and hold the damned thing up, we'll be leaning into those curves and chasing the wind. It's a way of life for us.

 

We Don't Do Fear

Over the last 105 years in the saddle, we've seen wars, conflicts, depression, recession, resistance and revolutions. We've watched a thousand hand-wringing pundits disappear in our rear-vew mirror. But every time, this country has come out stronger than before. Because chrome and asphalt puts distance between you and whatever the world can throw at you. Freedom and wind outlast hard times. And the rumble of an engine drowns out all the blah, blah, blah on the evening news. If 105 years have proved one thing, it's that fear sucks and it doesn't last long.

So screw it, let's ride.

Copyright 2008, Harley-Davidson Motor Company

moondawghouse at 9:40:18 AM EDT Permalink | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 1 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

Didn't get an entry in last week, as it was a holiday. I got all three days off at home, the weather was great, and I was busy, out riding Miss Velvet all over creation. Not to mention the fact that I really didn't have anything to write about, either. Routine weeks are just that -- routine -- and I don't want to bore you, my loyal and beloved readers, with endless and useless details like, "picked up load here and delivered it there. Then I picked up another load. . . blah, blah, blah." Who needs that??!!!

This week, though, was anything but routine, as it seemed like I wasn't going to be able to get from point 'A' to point 'B' at all. For awhile there, it looked like every tire on my rig was either going to blow out, or go flat! Have you heard the old saying that "bad things come in three's?" Well, it's true, and sometimes they come in fours (or maybe fives). "When it rains, it pours." Yeah. Right. But it wasn't raining, at least.

I was grinding my way up I-75 in Kentucky, enroute to deliver another heavy-ass load of huge paper rolls -- what I refer to as "King Kong's Toilet Paper" -- to one of our loyal customers in Ohio. I was somewhere between Richmond, KY and Lexington, rolling as fast as I could, to build up enough steam to conquer the next hill, when I spotted a metal something lying at the edge of the road. At that speed, I didn't get a really good look at it, so suffice it to say that it was a piece of junk lying there. It appeared to be cylindrical, with a round flange on the end of it. That's all I observed before I hit it.

I was just coming out of a curve and evasive action wasn't an option at that moment. I had another truck right beside me, on my left. I moved over that way a little, but it wasn't much at all. To my right was the shoulder and the offending piece of junk. Try to straddle it?? No way. It was lying partway on the shoulder, with one end out in the road, and likely would be kicked up and tossed up under my tractor, where it could maybe punch a hole in a fuel tank, or the oil pan, take out an air line, or any number of any other nasty things you can imagine. Besides, my load of paper rolls was decidedly top-heavy, as they load those things standing up on their ends. Any attempt at swerving with that load would almost certainly result in my rolling the truck over on its side, which could be hazardous to my own health, to say the least. Swerving was definitely off the table. So, I ran the thing over, having nowhere to go, in order to avoid it. My right steer tire hit it, dead-on.

Have you ever seen a heavy truck tire blow? 110 pounds per square inch is an ENORMOUS amount of air pressure. Much, much more than the 35 pounds, plus or minus, in the average 4-wheeler tire. Truck tires don't give a polite "pop" when they go; they literally explode right off the rim. My steer blew out with a "BOOM!" that sounded like a shotgun going off, at point-blank range. Instantly, I became very busy behind that wheel, as the truck lurched to the right and the right front corner dove downward. I had a death grip on the steering wheel, seesawing it back and forth frantically, struggling to stay away from the truck beside me, as well as to not let it sway all the way onto the lower shoulder. At 65 mph, I would have landed upside down, probably, if that had happened. Keep it straight as possible, don't let it yank that wheel from your hands, foot off the accelerator, don't touch that freakin' brake pedal at all!! Let it slow down gradually on its own. Pull out the 4-way flasher handle. Tire smoke from the right corner, blue-white, stunk like hell. Wobbling all over the place; blown tire slapping the body work over there, then a ripping sound and no more slapping, as something tore loose. Speed coming down now; wobbling not as severe. Stay off that flippin' brake, Dawg!!! Speed down, down, down; hopping up and down like a pogo stick back in the 50's. Down to 35, 30, 25, 20. Clutch chattering like a jackhammer, trying to stall. Press the clutch pedal in and start easing it over, very gradually, onto the shoulder now. A lurch as I leave the roadway pavement; truck stays upright. 15, 10, 5 mph; start easing the brakes on now and bring it to a smooth (relatively speaking) stop. Pry fingers from steering wheel. Throw it in neutral and pop the parking brake.

"WHEWWWWWWWW!!!" Said a little prayer, thanking the Guy Up Above for guiding my hands on that steering wheel! Heart still hammering like a piledriver. Unbuckle seat belt and yank armrest up. Get up and go into sleeper, to use my "emergency bottle" before I go in my pants!!! I couldn't see my own face of course, but I wager that it was white as a sheet right about then. Believe me, THAT will scare the dickens out of the bravest driver out there!! And anyone who claims that it don't scare them is either lying through their teeth, or is completely insane!!

Once I had recovered somewhat, I sent a Qualcomm message, informing dispatch of my dilemma. Then turned on my CB and began asking other drivers where the hell I was, mile-marker-wise, so I could give my location to the shop when I called them. A passing driver told me I was at the 99.4 yardstick. I thanked him and called the shop, who put me in touch with a local road service provider. I wondered if the guy who came out would be my friend Lori's son-in-law, Danny. Couldn't remember the name of the outfit he worked for, but I was definitely in his neck of the woods.

While I waited, I got out and assessed the damage. Steer tire, of course, was dog-meat. Shredded, looking like a hand grenade had gone off in it and hanging partially off the rim, still smoking a little bit. The fibreglass body panel between the right steps and the fender was AWOL. Ripped away by the flapping steer tire when it blew. I walked the length of the truck. Outer drive tires were bulging, but with it down on the front corner, the way it was sitting on the shoulder, and the weight of my load pressing on it, I didn't pay a lot of attention to them. They didn't look flat, under the circumstances, and were still seated on their rims. The steer tire was #1 on my mind right then, and I was still coming down off my adrenaline high, so my brain wasn't exactly 100% functional anyway. Trailer tires looked okay. Back inside, I noticed that the steering wheel was slightly bent, doubtlessly from my frantic efforts to control the truck. I tugged around on it and managed to straighten it up pretty well. Made a note to let the shop check it next time I'm at the yard. Likely nothing wrong at all, but just to be safe, I will do so.

The guy came and put a new steer tire on. Rim was okay. And it wasn't Danny at all, but I gave him five bucks anyway, for his supper. Those road service guys work hard and have a very dangerous job themselves, working out on that shoulder like they do, in every kind of weather imaginable, so I appreciate them all. The dude left and I started 'er up, put 'er in gear and headed north once again.

I hadn't even quite got to Lexington before I heard another bang, not as loud this time, and saw rubber pieces flying from my right front outer trailer tire. I knew then that it had likely been damaged by running over the same piece of metal junk from hell that had blown my steer tire. Well, I had a spare for that one and I could move on, slowly, and hopefully make the Pilot at exit 129, where I knew they had a shop. I pulled in there, went inside and told them what had happened, filled out a work order, then proceeded to wait an hour and a half before they could get me into their bay.

When I pulled it in, the guy in charge noticed that my two outer drive tires were also flat, although they weren't blown out at all. Damaged and leaked slowly down while I was on that shoulder, probably, I knew. One piece of metal junk had killed four (4) tires, in one fell swoop. Thus my remark about bad things coming in fours. The Mother Of All Chain Reactions. I ate my supper while they worked on it. If I'd been an owner/operator, I'd likely have been crying, with fuel prices on top of tire prices. As it was, I still wanted to know where that piece of metal with my name on it had come from, whose truck it had fallen off of, so I could personally take the thing and ram it up his posterior. And I wouldn't have been too awfully concerned about how well it fit, either! Turn it sideways and rotate it three or four times, for good measure!! But, of course, I'll never carry out that empty threat. Nobody's going to solve that whodunit in this lifetime.

All-in-all, I'd killed three and a half hours on tire replacement. No, I didn't have to worry about that crazy Cincinnati rush hour now, but as I motored up I-71, another thought hit me:  Would the place still be open this late?? Could I still deliver my load that night? Hmmmmmmm. I pulled off in the first rest area I came to, which was only about 40 miles from my destination. I asked dispatch first, and, as usual, those people who act like they know everything didn't know at all. I called the customer. "We shut down receiving at ten o'clock," the guy that answered told me. "Well, it's 9:30 now and I'm still 40 miles away," I replied. "I won't make it up there before you shut it down." "Nope," he agreed. "Bring it in at seven in the morning." I hung up, informed dispatch, and climbed in my bunk shortly thereafter.

The rest of last week went routinely, thank God. Surely now I won't have any more flat tires for a LONG time! I think I had more than my share of them in that one afternoon! One bright note was that I confirmed that I will get my third week of vacation this year. I wasn't sure how to interpret the policy, but I passed my 10th year, officially, this past April and now I'm starting on my 11th year, so I get another week. And this time, NO DOCTOR APPOINTMENTS!!! Already got all that squared away, except my physical, which is the middle of June. I set it up for the middle of August, while it's still full summer and full Velvet-riding weather out!! Yay!!! Hooray!!!

10-7

moondawghouse at 7:04:46 PM EDT Permalink | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 2 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

Stony Ridge, Ohio  (Toledo Area)

I'm stuck out away from home this weekend, a victim of the slow freight situation in the Northeast region, which hasn't changed much at all from last year. In fact, it may be a little worse this year, since it's an election year. I sat for a little over 24 hours last week without a load, in southern Pennsylvania. I lucked out and got home last weekend, but no such luck this week. I'm set to deliver this load in Detroit tomorrow (Monday) morning.

The Powers That Be in my trucking company are bound to know by now that freight is -- and has been -- very soft in the Northeast and I just can't figure out why they keep insisting on sending me there, when there's such a problem with getting me back out of that area. I mean, my company, like all trucking companies, is a little slow on the uptake sometimes, but they're hardly that dumb, either!! Or at least one would think so.

"But we have customers there to service!" That would be their presumptive response to the above query, to which I would reply, "Well what do they expect?? That I'm just gonna move in there, indefinitely??!! How about those fine customers spending a little thought on getting me rolling again, preferably in a southward direction!!" Alas, that's not happening, though, and this week, when the Powers sent me to Brooklyn, New Yawk, with a Thursday delivery, I sensed that any hometime this week was more than likely doomed. Am I a prophet? Hardly. I know from prior experience that there is little freight going south out of the NY/NJ area, even when the volume is normal, so it didn't take the mentality of a rocket scientist to figure out that my goose was more than likely cooked this week. So, here I sit, chatting electronically with all my cyber-friends.

Okay, that's more than enough background info to start a professional editor tearing his/her hair out by the roots, so let's move on the point of this entry (if it can be said to even have one.)  I want to impart a little offbeat knowlege to you people today about trucking company names. Actually about silly, stupid trucking company names, such as the ones I've made up in my spare time with which to label companies that essentially have no  names at all, along with some all-too-REAL ones.

First, the ones that have no actual name at all. Just a collection of letters. Such as PAM Transport, which is actually denoted as P.A.M. on their trucks and trailers. A female first name, short for "Pamela," in the formal sense. Did the company's founder name it after his wife, or daughter, as the late Dave Thomas did with his Wendy's hamburger chain? That would be a logical assumption, but no. Actually, according to one of their drivers, whom I asked once upon a time, the head honcho of that outfit named it after himself. P.A.M. is his initials, standing for Paul A. Mitchell, who founded the company. Another of my favorites of this variety is an outfit called G.O.D., which actually stands for Guaranteed Overnight Delivery. But what possibilities come to mind there!! Imagine -- somebody asks you what you do for a living and you can tell them, "I work for G.O.D.," and not be lying, nor do you require a divinity degree to back up your claim!! Pretty neat, huh??

But there are plenty of other of those "letter companies" on the road, and they must stand for something, but I'll be damned if I know what!!  To that end, I've applied my endless imagination and created names based on the letters, with which to better identify these 18-wheeled entities. If you can think of something better, feel free to name them yourself, but these are mine!!

KLLM -- Kinky Lot Lizard Molesters, or Kan't Leave Lower Misssissippi

SWIFT -- See What I F---ed (up) Today, or Sure Wish I (had a) Fast Truck

CRST -- Caution: Real Slow Truck

ABF --Anything But Fast

DHL -- Definitely (an) Hour Late

CFI -- Cheap Freight, Incorporated

STI -- Stupid Trucker Inside

PTL -- Perpetually Tired (and) Lost

UPS -- Under (the) Posted Speed (limit)

And, of course, the famous ROADWAY, or (on the) ROAD (and in the) WAY!! And my own outfit:  STAR -- Slow Truck At Rear.

There was once an outfit called Rude Carriers (it got gobbled up by a larger company). Now, what if Rude drivers really lived up to the company's name?? I can just see it:  A Rude driver walking up to a shipping office window somewhere -- "My load ready yet, ASSHOLE??" or maybe something like, "Got my bills, BITCH??" That company name could have given them the credentials to actually say what thousands of drivers wish they could say, after some shipper makes them wait on the lot for five hours!!! I can just hear some office wonks talking to each other:  "Oh, it's just that Rude Carriers driver. Don't pay him any mind -- they're all like that. It's why they got that name, y'know?? They're Rude!!"

There are other trucking company names out there that make you scratch your head and wonder where that one came from, too. One of my favorites is Pollywog Trucking, complete with a little Kermit-like frog cartoon on their trailers. What in the exact HELL would prompt someone to give a trucking company a name like that??!!! Did the owner let his three-year-old rugrat name it?? Gotta wonder about that. There's Camel Express, but it's based in North Carolina, for God's sake, not in Saudi Arabia, as one might suspect! And they're not dedicated to cigarette deliveries, either.

Well, those are some of the stranger ones out there and I'm sure there are many more that I haven't encountered, or just haven't noticed. I think some people who started trucking companies just couldn't come up with anything to name them, so they just stuck the first thing that came into their minds on their trucks and trailers. Kinda like I am with baby names, really, if I were ever to become a daddy (a VERY remote possibility now, at my present age). I'd likely name my kid "Peterbilt," or something like that. My old lady would be plotting to kill me and the kid would likely curse me forever, for sticking him/her with that moniker!

"But it seemed like a good idea at the time!!"

10-7

moondawghouse at 11:22:08 AM EDT Permalink | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 2 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

Notes From The Debriefing Chamber:

My second "sleepless study" went a little better, in some ways, but I'm still almost brain-dead from lack of sleep this morning (Friday). The bed was a little better than the first time. At least I only sunk into it so far before it bottomed out. And I was better prepared in most ways, having been through it once before. This time, I shorted myself on sleep the day before, arising at 5 A.M. and not letting nyself give in to the urge to take a nap during the day, when I became drowsy a couple of times. My plan was simply to try and wear myself out, so that I'd be so tired that I'd sleep through anything. And it almost worked. Almost.

I was getting sleepy around ten P.M. last night. Quite sleepy, in fact, but two things hindered my somnolence:  (1) The fact that I left the house and forgot to take my own CPAP mask along!! Grrrrrrrrrr!! and (2) the inevitable wires, wires, and more wires. Plus two straps; one across my chest and another circling my abdomen (which kept slipping down to my hips every time I got up.) You ladies can likely relate well to the chest strap, if you've ever attempted to sleep wearing a tight bra! That only added insult to injury, discomfortly speaking. It wasn't enough that I have chronic allergies that like to stop my sinuses up so that I can't half-breathe. No, now they tighten an elastic band around my chest which further restricts that vital function!!

Then, the lights went out and the study began. I lay on one side, then flipped over to the other. Nobody told me to, this time around -- I did it on my own, trying to acheive some degree of more-or-less comfort and avoid being strangled by my wiring harness in the process. I got close to slumber, then coughed and woke myself back up again. This seemed to happen all night long. Get close to slumber and cough, cough, cough, then have a need for the bathroom twice. The tech has to come in and unplug you from the monitoring gear, so it's not a matter of just getting up and going, as you would at home. You learn very quickly to summon help early-on, before the urge becomes too critical, so as to allay the possibility of an unfortunate accident!

But the "loaner" mask proved to be the biggest single aggravation and my anger at myself for forgetting the one I use all the time, and am thoroughly used to, didn't help me get to dreamland any faster. First I played with the straps for what seemed like hours, trying to get it adjusted right. Then the nasal cushion kept rubbing my face, irritating the shit out of me! I pushed the mask back and forth around my face, trying to get the cushion positioned properly. I pulled that mask from hell all the way out, against the elastic straps, completely off my face, then let it snap back, like a rubber band! And at the same time, it was leaking air pressure upward, into my eyes, and I tugged and mashed around on it, trying to get it adjusted so that it wouldn't leak air. In retrospect, I think the thing was too large in size for the contours of my face, but that knowledge was little help in trying to live with it for several torturous hours.

At some point, or points, I must have slept a little, because when it at long last came to an end the technician told me I had slumbered enough for him to adjust the air pressure a time or two and get an idea of what permanent adjustments needed to be made. I was never even aware that he came into the room to make the adjustments, so I was out like a light for at least ten or fifteen minutes, seems like. So now they will analyze the study and my sleep specialist doc will make the final decision and issue an updated report within two weeks. I also know now that the increased pressure was likey what kept making it leak so much. Great to know, but I was still a walking zombie when I left the place earlier this morning. 

Well, at least it's over!!!! Now I need to stay awake, as much as possible, today, so that I can sleep normally tonight. I'm a trucker and that's an occupation where going around half-asleep is a way of life, as I implied in Part 1 of this saga. And that occupational dilemma is where the rest of this story kicks in.

The problem which leads to widespread and common sleep deprivation among truck drivers has nothing at all to do with any sleep disorder. The real root of the problem is in the Hours Of Service (HOS) regulations which our all-knowing, all-seeing government imposes upon us. The problem isn't that we don't need some regulation, because we certainly do. Dispatch and the customers would quickly run us into the ground without some sensible regs. We'd never get any rest at all without them. But the key word here is "sensible," and many of the regulations are anything but sensible. The problem, in a nutshell, is that the regulations are a "one-size-fits-all" package. They fail to take into account that everyone is a little different and they fail to provide any flexibility, which is badly needed. They are ramrod-stiff and totally inflexible.

With the advent of the new, "improved" regulations, in 2004, things changed. Then the situation became even worse when one of the regulations was again altered in 2005. Basically, you had 11 hours you were permitted to drive and a 10 hour mandatory break period. The total hours a driver was permitted to work (both driving and other, non-driving activities) was cut from 15 to 14 hours. The real problem kicked in the following year, when they changed the split sleeper rule from 5 on, 5 off (or any combination of split breaktime that totalled 10 hours,) to a rigid 8 hour and 2 hour split. This meant that now any sleeper berth time couldn't be counted as break unless it was 8 full hours. The two other hours didn't count as break without that mandatory 8-hour segment being taken.

Drivers were incensed in general. This made the 14-hour work clock virtually unstoppable, meaning that if a driver got drowsy on the road that he couldn't stop for a brief 2-hour nap, then resume driving. It couldn't be counted as break on a logbook unless it was 8 hours in length. This also meant that all waiting time, to be loaded or unloaded, couldn't be counted as break, unless you had to wait a full 8 hours. If the waiting time was under that, it counted as On-Duty, Not-Driving status. Otherwords, it counted against the 14 hour limit on your worktime.

Let's do some arithmetic here, so you'll understand where I'm coming from with this:  14 allowable work hours, minus 11 allowable driving hours, equals 3 hours left out of the 14. That's all the "cushion" a driver has -- 3 hours -- for any non-driving work activities, which now includes any and all waiting time under 8 hours in duration. You can kiss 30 minutes of that 3 hours goodbye automatically every single day, because of the 15 minutes of ODND that you must showfor a mandatory pre-trip or enroute daily vehicle inspection, plus another 15 minutes for the fuel stop that you will log almost every day. Sometimes you can combine them into one 15 minute stop, but not always. Anyway, you really only have two and a half hours to play with, and even less if you drop and hook a trailer once or twice, because you have to show a mandatory pre-trip inspection on every new trailer you hook up to. You can easily lose a whole hour, just for fueling and inspections, leaving you with only a two-hour cushion.

So, let's say you pull into a shipper to pick up a load and at that point you've driven 5 hours since your last break, and have used 30 minutes of ODND time. You have 6 legal drive hours remaining and a 2 1/2 hour cushion that you can wait for the load. But, the load isn't ready and you sit in the dock for 5 hours, waiting for it. Do the math yourself this time, and you'll see that instead of having 6 drive hours left, now you have only 3 1/2, because of the extra 2 1/2 hours you spent waiting. Any extra time spent waiting, under 8 hours, cuts into your remaining drive hours, because you can't stop the clock by counting it as breaktime, as you did in the bygone days of yore.

Ah, you say, but then you just start your break a little earlier, right? Well, that would normally be true, except that this load is set to deliver nearly 600 miles from that shipper, at 6 A.M. the next morning! And it's an appointment load, which means that you have to be there at that time and the appointment can't be easily rescheduled. You're looking at a ten-hour drive, at least, and it's now 3 in the afternoon, leaving you just 15 hours to take a 10-hour break, resetting your 14 and 11-hour clocks to 'zero' again, and make a 10-hour driving run. Mathematically impossible. You need at least another 5 hours.

Now do you see the dilemma these inflexible regulations force on truck drivers? The load has to be there on time, but you don't have enough hours, mathematically, to get it there legally. You're forced to "make" the hours, on paper, in order to do it legally, on paper, and pray that the DOT cops don't pull your ass in for a roadside inspection. You only show a minimum of waiting time on your logbook. Then you show starting your break much earlier than you actually do, so that  you can  come off of the break early enough to have sufficient drive hours to get the load delivered on time the following morning. If you do things right, you'll deliver the load on time and be perfectly legal, on paper, at the same time. And, after the fact, it's hard for the DOT to prove anything. They don't have the manpower nor the time to check things out that thoroughly, unless they suspect something. And it's usually the driver who gives them the reason to suspect anything, whether via attitude, or via glaring logbook mistakes.

But the downside of all that is that it deprives drivers of sleep on a routine basis. You, as a driver, have to deal with real time, of course, and not the artificial time you created in your logbook. This means that in order to come off your break and hit the road at the proper time, you'll only be able to get 6 hours of actual breaktime, instead of the full 10 that you've logged. It takes you the better part of an hour to unwind and get to sleep, so you actually sleep only 5 hours. Most of the time you don't get as much sleep as you want or need. This adds up within a week's time, when you're routinely shorted of sleep in this manner. You build up what the sleep specialists call a "sleep debt" and you're going around fatigued and not nearly as alert as you should be. As I said in Part 1, all the CPAP machines in the world won't do you a bit of good if you don't have the time to get all the rest and sleep that you need.

 Of course you won't always have next-day deliveries. Sometimes you'll get a load with a travel day built into it. This relieves the pressure a little bit and will let you get a little more sleep, but you still have to cover the miles and deliver when you're supposed to, so the pressure is still there, but just not as heavy as usual.

So often, though, the loads with that extra time will lead to the dreaded "shift-change syndrome" turn-around on the next load. For two days, you've driven during the day and slept at night, like normal people do. Then you go to pick up that next load and you're wide-awake, refreshed, and all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. You go into the shipper and proceed to wait all day long on the load, when you're not the least bit sleepy! You've got all that time spent waiting and it's wasted, because you can'tmake yourself sleep when you're not sleepy at all. You don't have a switch behind your ear which allows you to turn yourself off and on, although dispatchers apparently think you do! You'll get no mercy from them. All you'll hear is:  "Well, you had all that time you spent waiting! It's YOUR fault if you didn't get any sleep!"

This load, like most, has to deliver at dawn the next morning, 400 miles away, so you know you'll be driving all night, as the wait becomes longer and longer. You sit there more than ten hours; a full break, but you haven't gotten a wink of sleep, and now the load's ready, it's 9 P.M., and you have to hit the road. You're getting drowsy now, but you can't sleep. The load has to get there and you've just wasted a whole break and not gotten a bit of sleep. As a result, you're out on the road all night, fighting back sleep. You survive only because you're used to the routine and you know what to do in order to stay awake. But you're still nowhere near as alert as you need to be. The only thing in your favor is that traffic is so much lighter at night. During the day, the chances for an accident would increase tenfold.

What I have attempted to describe are the routine, almost daily pressures of my occupation. Add to that the stress of constantly being under loads that have to deliver at rigid pre-set times, while juggling logbooks and the equally rigid regulations, and it's easy to see why many truckers don't sleep well when they do sleep. I always sleep much better and sounder at the end of a week, when I'm headed home with a load. Then the pressure is off, with the knowlege that the load does't deliver until Monday. When the psychological stress is off of you, you tend to get more rest. I spend many weekends just recuperating from the previous week and that very often throws you behind on things you need to do at home. I've learned not to worry about that. Just do what I can, when I can. Real safety on the highway starts with a well-rested driver and I make that my top priority. Housework can wait until I have a longer weekend sometime.

I need my rest. Not everyone is the "Energizer Bunny" type, like some people I know, who just keep going, and going, and going, seemingly forever. People are all different, and with such inflexible schedules versus equally inflexible regulations, it doesn't allow for those differences. The old regulations were far better for that than these newer ones. Drivers actually got more rest then than now, because they could stop the clock and utilize waiting time for breaktime. They need to  put that back the way it was. Stop listening so much to the one-track-minded activist groups, like PATT, CRASH, and Public Citizen, and start listening more to the drivers, who have to live with the regulations!! And shippers absolutely need to have incentives to get us loaded faster and minimize the waiting time. Appointments need to be set to give drivers adequate breaktime enroute.

Until and unless all that happens, it will remain as it is now, I'm afraid.

10-7

moondawghouse at 10:15:00 AM EDT Permalink | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 4 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

Vacation time is the time for me to spend at least one week jumping through various medical hoops, like a trained dog, and this year was no different. In fact, the one week I wanted to take, turned into two when I visited my local Sleep Clinic. They are very good at hanging me up there, and they struck again. Now I'm forced to take BOTH weeks of my vacation, so I can do another sleep test tomorrow (Thursday) night. The doc I see out there don't think my pressure is high enough on my CPAP, so I have to go through all that baloney again that I went through three years ago, then come back in in two weeks or so, in order to get my machine reset, have a followup visit, and finally get a silly form signed that Uncle Sam says I HAVE to have signed each year, in order to stay medically qualified to work at my occupation another year.

And do you know what?? I'll get all that done, hit the road again, with my machine blowing air into my lungs harder, and still be sleep-deprived for half the week anyway!!! I've told that doctor before that my sleep apnea therapy only impacts the actual sleep I get by about 25% (my own estimate); the other 75% is the working conditions I endure on a daily basis and the normal stress of my occupation which, all too many times, actually reduce the amount of sleep I'm able to get. It ain't just a matter of strapping my mask on and drifting right off to dreamland on my break (assuming I'm able to even get a full break!) Not at all. Oh, do I ever wish it was that easy!! Apparently, though, because I haven't actually seen the doctor himself for two years, seeing his assistant instead, I guess he forgot about it. I didn't feel like explaining it all over again when I was out there last week. Maybe I'll print out a copy of this entry and give it to him when I do the followup visit. Or maybe not. Who knows? Sometimes I just tend to shrug and say, "What's the point?"

All I know is that my vacation is dead until next year. That second week that I wanted to take later, free of [Bleep!!] doctors, is being taken now instead of sometime in the near future. Oh, I could have reset the test for another day, even for a Sunday night, but that would have left me more than likely having to leave out on Monday with a probable accumulated 3 to 4 actual hours of sleep, if that much, and then, naturally, be expected to drive all day in that dangerous condition. So, in my infinite wisdom, I decided that just taking the second week and getting the crap over with would work out best, as I'd at least have all day Friday to recuperate. If there's something distasteful I have to go through, then I at least want it over with ASAP!

The task that awaits me tomorrow night is decidedly distasteful, namely because a "sleep test" is much more of a "I hope I can maybe sleep a little bit" test, in reality. For those of you who have never experienced one, allow me to enlighten you:

1.  For starters, you're sleeping in a strange bed -- not the one you're used to at home (or in the sleeper, in my case.) The one I had on my initial test reminded me of sleeping on a big marshmallow. Mattress was WAY too soft and I kinda sunk into it, like lying in quicksand. Could barely get back out of it on my own. It was worse than the worst $25 fleabag motel "sag-o-matic" bed that you could ever imagine!

2.  You're hooked to approx. 23,754 (est.) different wires, with sensors glued to your head and an electrolytic cream all sticky and gooey in your hair. When you're hooked up and attempt to speak, your words come out in full stereo and the gizmos on your skull can pick up radio stations 100 miles away. You could snap your fingers and light up your cigarette with the sparks (except, of course, you aren't allowed to smoke in there!) Okay, okay!! I'm exaggerating slightly, but you get the idea -- it AIN'T comfortable at all! And then you're expected to actually sleep, all wired up like that!! Yeah. Right. Tell me another one!!

3. You know you're being constantly monitored; that a technician is listening to every sound you make, to see if you snore any (one of the chief symptoms of OSA.) Er -- uhhh -- well, suffice it to say that this is NOT the best time to eat two plates of beans, or a big bowl of chili for supper on the night of the test. Stomach gas is a no-no here, definitely. At any rate, it makes it even harder to sleep, knowing you're being watched over by Big Brother in the next room (or Big Sister, as the case may be.)

4.  Then you do finally manage to nod out and . . . the @#!!!%&*!!  so and so's keep waking you back up!!!!!  It's like the late, great, Charlton Heston cried in Planet Of The Apes, "It's a madhouse!! A MADHOUSE!!!" The techs either wake you up coming in to adjust the air pressure setting on the CPAP you're using, or you'll hear a soft voice over the intercom system intoning, "I need for you to turn over on your other side, Mr. Wayland." or "I need for you to sleep on your back now." My back??!! I NEVER sleep on my back, normally! I am a confirmed side-sleeper, or sprawled out halfway on my belly at times, but never on my back. But since that's also the most apnea-prone position you can sleep in, they want to see how effective the new pressure setting is. And then of course, about the time you're really sleeping soundly and they leave you alone, they wake you up for good. It's morning. Test over. They take the wires off of you and you shower the goo out of your hair.

And, bleary-eyed and sleep-deprived, you walk out of the clinic, get in your car and drive to the closest Waffle House, to get some breakfast, with extra caffeine in whatever you drink. It's gonna be a LONG day!!! And an even longer wait to get the results of the test. Averages two weeks while they study everything there is to study. So, it'll be that long before I even get my machine turned up, and that has to be done by the technicians at the medical supply place that supplied the machine. Takes a special code sequence to get into the menus that allow you to reset it. Only the techs have those codes, so it's not a user-friendly deal at all.

Then I talk to the sleep doc again, and then, finally, get the signed FMCSA form I need, so I can give it to my regular doc when she does my DOT physical in June. That's all assuming everything goes well, of course. If it doesn't, I might get some unpaid vacation I definitely don't want and can't afford to take, what with all the bills I owe. Got my fingers and toes crossed as I do every year. All this, for one lousy piece of paper, in order to stay qualified.

The government gets involved and everything goes from bad to worse, as usual. If it moves, tax it; if it moves too slow, regulate it; if it don't move at all, subsidize it -- that's how the government thinks. I work in one of the most overregulated occupations in the world. It's supposed to all be about "safety," but in reality, only about 20% of the regulations have any direct bearing on safety in the first place. They're lightning-fast, jumping in on the medical hoopla, but, as I said above, the rigors of the job itself are more to blame for driver's sleep deprivation than any actual sleep disorder, or treatment thereof. And no one, seemingly, is interested in doing anything about some of the real problems in my industry.

More to come on that in Part 2, a little later.

moondawghouse at 9:37:27 PM EDT Permalink |