Mother Trucker

I like to tell myself I'm a brave soul. Certainly I've done brash things out of bravado and called it "bravery." And I will charge heedlessly (headlessly?) into almost any situation and think it through as I go. That requires a certain amount of fortitude.

But there are certain things I could not do. One of them is drive a semi.

Semi trucks are gargantuan. I mean, H.U.G.E. There is a four-foot drop between the FLOORBOARD and the ground. They weigh TONS. They HAUL tons. They have what seems like hundreds of gears. They appear to be several football fields in length when attached to trailers, or worse yet, TANDEM trailers.

One of my dearest friends drives long-haul. She drives a bright blue Freightliner diesel, and she is as comfortable driving it as I am driving my little Honda. And I am in awe of her. I feel like I'd like to BE her when I grow up. The nightmare of logistics, the headaches of roads that don't accomodate vehicles of her size and girth, the "good old boy" brotherhood that is both protective of her and impenetrable to her ... I just couldn't do it. Fuhgeddaboud the SIZE of the thing. I just don't think I have it in me. It seems like a huge act of responsibility to climb, climb, climb into that hunk of metal and glass, and drive it anywhere, much less onto crowded freeways, narrow surface streets, and in-between other trucks of equal size parked so closely together you almost touch one on each shoulder as you walk between them slumbering in their berths.

She is a brave queen of the road, mounting her impossibly huge and dangerous steed of steel, and roaring down the roadways. I am merely a humble servant in her admiring court.