The following comes from the cab of Wes Memphis — as I noted last weekend, Wes is the obviously pseudonymous moniker for a Midwest-based former owner-operator turned company driver, coffee shop philosopher and former child. He’s chronicling his transition to e-logs, brought about when his small fleet began the transition earlier this year.
Well, week two of e-logs is in the books. Ran two rounds straight to Texas just to see what we could get done before hitting a wall. On the second leg of the second round I had to call dispatch to tell them that, short of turning the truck up to 80, I just wouldn’t have the hours to make Detroit.
It is difficult to express the sense of personal shame that someone who has done this for 30 years feels after making such a statement. It was always the sissy boys, the snitches, the troublemakers who uttered such defeatism — the pretty boys with their RN wives, the J.B. Hunt rejects.
I suggested, perhaps, a relay. There was a pregnant pause on the other end of the line… buffering… buffering.”OK Wes, call us back in an hour. We got to see what we can figure out here.”
About an hour later I got the call that I was being reassigned to a shorter load, which delivered later in the day. When I walked into our Arlington terminal the traffic coordinator looked at me as if I had just boxed his ears. He handed the paperwork over as if it was something that had been court-ordered. He was unlearning. I was unlearning. It was disturbing.
By the time I reached the truck stop to weigh, I felt this primal anger arising from some long-unresolved grievance. I had never asked to be part of this pilot program. They called me. I said I would do so as they had been good to me for the last eight years. They didn’t want this any more than I did. But to let on that I was the goody-two-shoes who was throwing a wrench into things was bull.
I quarreled with a driver at the truckstop, which I never do, because he wanted me to pull forward before I even fueled, as I had been wating in line 15 minutes just to get set up.
After I finally got going again, I did something I hadn’t done in years — I called a guy about a job. When my 14 was up in Gurdon I was all in. Ten hours downtime was sounding better all the time.
If you missed it last week, read part 1 via the following link: