Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away, I used to drive a truck. It was after the era of the Good Buddies, but before so much government regulations you have to have a permit from each state you are thinking about driving through for the next week in order to sneeze. The time when log books were paper and as truthful as a campaign speech.

One fine January morning, having driven all night, I pulled into a truck stop, fueled the truck, grabbed some grub, and jumped back into the seat. As I was pulling back onto the interstate in Kentucky, headed west, the news broke over the radio and the CB – Shuttle Challenger had exploded after launch; all were feared lost.

I was a big fan of the space program. Had been ever since we landed on the moon in ’72, I think – and I didn’t get in trouble for having my little AM radio turned on, listening to the news, in class, while the landing was happening. The teacher had a mixed look on her face – “why you little – what a wonderful learning experience” and she held the radio high so everyone could hear the news. Now that I mention it, I don’t recall seeing that radio after that …

ANYway – out on the road, dead silence on the CB (which was a minor miracle in and of itself), then something happened that probably hasn’t happened freely since – the trucks started forming a procession at the posted speed limit. Wherever they were headed, they would start grouping up and rolling along, lights and flashers on, and talking back and forth about what had happened. Most of us had a crush on Christa – that cute teacher chick that was going to ride to the outer reaches of earth. All of the astronauts were mentioned, talked about, their careers mulled over. Truckers, having a lot of time, tend to be more informed than most people would like to admit. We have hours and hours in which to turn over every detail of a news item, and dissection of the news was a pastime for most. Sports stats? Baby steps. Knowing who is sitting in what capacity in the government, and their decisions? No problem. Following the careers of major players in the space program? Hobby!

As the day turned into evening again, the procession I was in had grown to well over three thousand trucks, according to the news van driving alongside and talking to us on the CB. Now and then trucks would pull off to get fuel, but then would drop back into line in the same procession, even after taking the 45 minutes to an hour to get fueled, paid, fed, and back up to speed. As we approached certain states known for their overzealous application of traffic laws on trucks, we would notice a sudden lack of police anywhere. I think they were afraid of us. The procession kept going, a huge blob of trucks stretching out through several states – and since I”m talking western states (where the counties are bigger than the eastern states) you know I”m talking about a lot of trucks. The second evening, the head of the procession was approaching California. Normally, midweek like this, the scales would have been open and weighing everything that looked like a commercial vehicle – but again, no scales were open, and the only sign of law enforcement were the tail lights of the cruisers as they departed the interstates.

No, we didn’t “accomplish” anything – except to honor those who lost their lives that day, twenty five years ago. And, it seems we scared the punk out of quite a few cops, too. None of them wanted to mess with that many trucks all at once.

Twenty five years. Man, I’m feeling old today.

Chat ya later…

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