The
Undie 500 – from the
pages of Highway America
pages of Highway America
For the next two days
the journey continued through beautiful Appalachian country to Elkton, Maryland, and a
Petro truckstop a little over an hour from the
drop-off. I parked on the end of a long line of trucks, went for dinner and
came back to read a book while music filled the air from the truck radio. When
it was time for bed I pulled the blinds around the windscreen and side windows
and stripped off to my underpants.
Suddenly there was a
loud bang and the truck rocked on its suspension. Earthquake, I immediately
thought. Then I heard a scraping noise as a semi trailer was dragged around the
front of my tractor. I ripped the blinds open in time to see the culprit drive
slowly away looking for a parking space. With visions of Carlos having me fired
for having yet another accident I leapt down to the pavement in my bare feet
and underpants and ran after the errant driver.
My Undie 500 lasted
barely a hundred yards by which time the turban-headed young driver was most
apologetic. It was his first day on the road and he was still getting
accustomed to the size of the rig and the amount of space needed to turn. In
Maryland the police are required to attend all accidents involving trucks and
we exchanged details while we waited for them. An hour later an officer
arrived, looked at both trucks (I had my clothes on again by then), took our
details and departed.
My encounter with the
police was better than that of a CalArk driver called Mike. When he got lost in
Chicago he stopped a cop and asked for directions.
‘Follow me,’ the cop
said obligingly.
They twisted and
turned through narrow streets and alleyways for what seemed an age until they
finally arrived at a police station where Mike was fined $990 for driving on
streets where trucks were prohibited.
As the traffic flow
pushed Old Bluey (my truck) along the
New Jersey Turnpike at sixty-five miles an hour I watched the big signs flash
passed overhead; Willingboro, Trenton, East Brunswick, Sayreville. The number
of lanes increased along with the traffic volume and the number of
interchanges. I was getting close to the turnpike extension and I needed to
stay alert. The Perth Amboy sign flashed by and Carteret, Linden and Elizabeth appeared quickly. The exit for Newark Liberty
International Airport slipped by and I changed lanes to line
up for the turnpike extension at Exit 14. Suddenly just a few yards away
parallel to the turnpike a big jet was taking off from Runway 4 Right at Newark while others waited to line up and the sky
around buzzed with jets circling to land.
I looked ahead for
the Jersey City sign as thousands of cars and trucks sped towards the heart of
the great New York metropolis like minnows into the jaws of a whale. I lined up
beneath the sign and followed the ramp through a ninety degree right turn. The
Manhattan skyline, the Twin Towers and the Statue of
Liberty came into view across the Hudson River as I
looked ahead for Exit 14A. I shifted right again trying to recall the precise directions.
I needed to go to the toll gates and up another ramp to Route 169 South and
turn onto New Hook Road at the second light and proceed to Avenue J and the
Exxon plant.
After carefully
making all the correct turns to connect with Route 169 South I was dismayed to
be confronted with a sign indicating that I was on Route 440 instead. Where the
hell did that come from? I asked myself as I slowed and looked for somewhere to
park while seeking assistance from the locals. There was a gap between the two
carriageways but no free space on the sides so I stopped on the median and ran
across the opposite carriageway to an office building that seemed to be just
inches from the traffic flow.
‘I’m looking for New
Hook Road,’ I told one of the workers.
‘Just keep right on
down the one-sixty-nine. It’s about a mile on the left.’
‘How do I get to the
one-sixty-nine?’
He looked at me as
though I really was the dummy that I was beginning to feel like. Then he looked
across at my idling truck in the middle of the busy dual carriageway and back
at me again.
‘You’re on the one-sixty-nine, buddy. Are you
Australian?’
‘No. I’m a Kiwi from
New Zealand.’
He looked at me again
as his expression changed to one of incredibility.
‘You come all the way
from New Zealand in a truck?’
‘Not quite,’ I
replied pointing to a jetliner blasting across the heavens from Newark. ‘I came
on one of those. I picked up the truck in Little Rock.’
‘Little Rock, Arkansas.’ He still
seemed uncertain about whether to believe me. ‘You know Bill Clinton?’
For a moment I was
stunned by the thought that Little Rock could be thought of as so little that everyone
living there could be a personal friend of everyone else including the former
Governor and President.
‘Well, no. I guess I’m
one of the few people who have never actually met him. But thanks for your
help, mate. I think I’d better move my truck.’
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