As I left off the story last week, I was sitting in the cab of my friend Jack’s eighteen wheeler, recovering from the embarrassment of selecting reverse gear by mistake. Flashing a sheepish grin at the anxious crowd (which included my daughter, Robin) I found first gear and started down the mountain toward Jonesville, Virginia.

Now I mentioned that this monster truck had a long hood, which is a distinct disadvantage when descending a steep, curving, mountain road. Basically, I could not see exactly where I was going. So I practically stood up in the cab as we crept forward and downward. Reaching the bottom and turning on to a paved highway was a great relief – for a while.

The next challenge was to get through the town without hitting anything. One car in front of me slowed abruptly and I hit the brakes. All the trailer tires grabbed, screeched and smoked. So that’s how air brakes worked! Finally out of town, it was all tranquil until we came up on an old pickup truck moving along at a snail’s pace. The driver waved us by. You’ve got to be kidding! I gulped, caught a lower gear and floored the nine jillion horse engine. Slowly we crept by the pickup and again it was smooth sailing.

Did I mention the Cumberland Gap? The road through it climbs slightly and then plunges down toward Kentucky. On the downhill side I remembered seeing signs somewhere saying “Trucks use low gear!” so I tried to find one. It seems I missed something though, because between moving the little three-position lever on the shift knob. putting in the clutch and moving the shift lever, I found the truck was stuck in neutral. Neutral as in no engine-braking. Going downhill. Fortunately the trailer was empty, so I kept the engine RPMs up to maintain air pressure and feathered the brakes gently, and soon we were on level ground again. I turned to the Pastor and said, “I missed a gear back there.” He replied, “I thought something was wrong, your eyes got kinda big on the way down.”

As we approached Middlesboro, Kentucky, I mentioned that we needed to fuel up the beast. Pastor asked, “What kind of gas station are you looking for?” “ A big one” I replied. After spying one with sufficient acreage, I pulled in, fueled up and handed the proprietor a big wad of cash.

Then it was a pleasant drive up highway 25E to Corbin, Kentucky. The team vans were ahead of us, and we caught up with them at a rest stop along I-75. The Pastor decided to give up his seat to one of the high-schoolers. I was never sure if Pastor’s faith had been so sorely tested during that ride that he needed some relief, or if he was so impressed that I didn’t wreck that he figured the kid would be safe. The vans left and were soon out of sight as we made our way north, blissful in the thought that there was nothing but interstate all the way to Jeffersonville, Indiana.

Up ahead, the interstate split. I-64 goes west to Louisville, Kentucky, and Jeffersonville is just north of there over the border. I-75 continues straight north to Cincinnati, Ohio. But a state police car with flashing lights blocked the I-64 lane, forcing us to go north on I-75. Nothing against Cincinnati, but I really wanted to go west where there was a motel room with a soft bed waiting for me. Now, in a car, this would not be a problem. Just find a back road going west; take a scenic detour. But I was driving the beast.

I exited the interstate and found a big parking lot. The kid and I had to do some thinking. We opened up the big road atlas and I told him, “We’re looking for wide roads”. We identified US 460 as a likely route and cautiously made our way west toward Frankfort, hope not to encounter any low overpasses. Eventually, we found our way back to the interstate. I saw the Jeffersonville exit, took it, and quickly realized I was heading right into the city. You see there are two Jeffersonville exits. This was not the one I wanted. So I told the kid we had to turn around. I hung a left hoping to circle a park there, but it was a little tight, with cars parked on the street. At one point, I had the kid get out and guide me as I backed up to get into position to make the turn. 

A few minutes later, as we pulled into the motel parking lot, I saw a large group of people standing there. Some cheered. I think my daughter had tears in her eyes, And there was Jack, eyeing his truck for damage. Glad to see him up and around, we all reunited and headed off for supper and sleep.

The next morning began with a bit of tension. My friend Jack, having been released from the hospital felt he was ready to take back his truck. Our Pastor had other ideas. “Where are you going, Jack?” he asked as Jack was walking toward the truck. Now, Jack was about six-five and had a strong body built for hard work. Pastor was about my height, five-nine or so and with a build better suited for academic pursuits. Would reason prevail? Jack simply muttered a bit, and turned around to find his wife and car.

Pastor seemingly had regained a measure of faith, and decided to ride shotgun with me again. So we convoyed out of the motel parking lot and got on I-65 North.

Once, when we were on a different adventure, Jack told me a joke. “Do you know how a trucker spells relief? C-L-O-S-E-D”, as at the entrance to a truck weigh station, where the potential for legal trouble abounds. Unfortunately, the next sign I saw read “O-P-E-N.” Now I have to point out that by driving the beast I was doing nothing illegal. Stupid maybe, but perfectly legal. I also knew we could not be overweight, since the trailer was empty except for some luggage. Nevertheless, it was with some queasiness that I slowed to enter the scales and subject myself to the scrutiny of law enforcement.

I tried to look like I’d been there before. I slowed to the posted speed and slowed to a stop when the sign flashed “STOP”. Then a voice came from the loudspeaker, “Um, would you back up a bit?” Oh, good, now I’d drawn attention to myself! An officer emerged from the building, and approached the beast. I rolled down the window and he said, “Can I see your log book?” As a private hauler, one who only hauled his own stuff, Jack just kept records in a pocket calendar. He’d shown me how to do it once, so I had written down my start and stop times, locations and mileage. The lawman looked at the calendar and asked, “Don’t you have a real logbook?” At this point the pastor panicked, and he blurted out, “We are on a church mission trip, and we’re on our way home.” The officer replied, “You’re empty now, right?” Then he waved us on.

Relieved and grateful, we moseyed back out onto the interstate and headed for Chicago.  I had driven through the Windy City many times, but I could never get used to the driving style, which is a characteristic of both the Indy 500 and your local Saturday night demolition derby. The death wish is strong. Being from New York, you’d think I wouldn’t be fazed by the traffic, but in the Big Apple, we mostly honked our horns and yelled at each other, while hardly moving at all. In Chicago, I felt I needed a crash helmet.

Our practice as a mission team (we had done this for several years) was to stop at the last oasis (Illinois’ fancy name for rest stop) where the leader would call someone back in Racine to alert them of our arrival in about an hour. That way, anxious parents could rush to the church parking lot and worry until the first van appeared. So we stopped, took a bathroom break, and walked back out. “Give me the keys.” said Jack. I looked up, way up, to where the voice was coming from and said, “Let me finish what I started.” Gulp.

Two male egos were about to ruin a great friendship. Jack graciously gave in, but then insisted on riding shotgun. What little confidence I had built up in the last day and a half wilted under the watchful eyes of “The Boss”. Every shift (remember, there were thirteen forward gears), every movement of throttle or application of the brakes, every glance at the mirrors, every detail being scrutinized by the guy who owned the truck! As we approached the last toll booth, Jack told me to be careful because he’d had an accident right at this very spot when some eager driver cut him off. Then he told me I should downshift. It was agony.

Soon however, we spied the “Welcome to Wisconsin sign, and we were on the home stretch. I flicked on the right turn signal, braked, downshifted and took the Highway 20 exit. A few minutes later, I turned right two more times and drove up the hill to the church. My younger daughter and wife were standing there, and when she saw me, my wife exclaimed “Daddy’s driving!” I turned to Jack and we shook hands, then with one last whoosh of the airbrakes, my journey was over.

This little trip didn’t change the world, but God saw to it that Jack’s truck would get home. TBTG

For it is God who is working in you both to will and to work according to his good purpose. Philippians 2:13 (CSB)