OldTroubador's blog post - Shifty Characters

So, I had just picked up a load of beer in Columbus, OH and was headed east then south to Winchester, VA. Eastern Ohio is marked by long, tall hills that will wear your truck down. I knew I would be downshifting from tenth to ninth gear a few times to finish climbing some of them. What had me worried was that in a couple of hours I would be driving around Wheeling, WV where the hills were steeper and I would be in seventh gear, if not lower to climb. Anyway you sliced it, I was going to be spending the late afternoon and early evening playing The Bear Went Over The Mountain. As I was drifting down one hill, engine brakes complaining, a truck whistled by me doing all he could to try and break the sound barrier. He came back into the right lane when he thought he was clear; I had to hit the foot brakes hard to keep the last fifteen feet of his trailer from crumpling my tractor. He just made it over and continued flying low. This got my attention and I kept an eye on him. I was wondering what kind of nut would let his truck roll that fast in Ohio, which is a 65 mph state, when we hit the next upgrade. I muttered to myself “oh” as his truck slowed dramatically on the grade. I slid to the left and climbed right past him. I glanced over and gave him a wave as I went by. He glared at me hard and sent a rude gesture my way. Well, I guess someone really needs a hug today, but he won’t get it from me.
Now, there is sort of a protocol when drivers are playing tag on the hills like this. If one truck climbs better than the other and the other is better on the downhill slide, the drivers acknowledge each other with waves, maybe a salute with the coffee mug, some silly grins or looks, that kind of thing. If everyone has their CB radios on, then the one that climbs well will shout “Hey, I’ll toss you a rope next time I go by. Grab hold and I will drag you over the top”. We have all played this game – except for this one guy.
We kept this game up for about 30 miles – me smoking past him on the uphill, him lighting the afterburners on the down side. I was getting tired of the game, not just because he was a butthead, but also because his driving was bordering on the dangerous. He was fading to the right lane whenever he went by, making me run on the shoulder. He was tailgating, changing lanes without signaling, just flat out dangerous. When I saw a sign announcing a rest area up ahead, I figured I would take a break there and let him get out in front. If he wanted to act like he owned the road, I was going to sign over the deed to him.
I wheeled in, parked the Freebird and headed inside to introduce myself to the water treatment system. After that, I wandered around, looking at brochures, just killing time. I let fifteen minutes or so slip by and clambered back into the driver seat. I figured that, even as bad as he was climbing, there was no way my truck, governed at 62 mph, would ever catch him. Besides, he might have gone north or south on I-77, there was no way for me to tell. So, in my mind, he was out of the picture.
For the next hundred miles or so I slogged up and down the hills, not looking forward to West Virginia. I was going to go around the south side of Wheeling and once I crossed the Ohio River, there were two very steep, long hills. West Virginia is a lot like Ohio, except everything is squeezed together, so the mountains and valleys are twice as steep and twice as hard to climb. And the curves are tricky, so a driver really cannot make up time letting her all hang out running downhill. I made it over the first hill, working the gears between seventh and eighth, in pretty good order. Rolled on the downhill, topped a couple of lesser hills and started up the second of the big ones. As I did, I saw a truck about halfway up struggling hard to keep moving forward. Something about it looked familiar. Was it? Could it be? No, surely not him. Oh, be still my heart, it was. Even giving him a fifteen or twenty minute head start, I still caught up to my nemesis. I ground the gearbox down into seventh and gained rapidly on him. This was an opportunity I could not let pass. There was no traffic, so I slipped into the center lane and pulled even with him. As I did, I let up on the accelerator a touch and looked over at him. A quick glance at the tachometer to make sure I was still in the power band, then I turned on my inside lights. That got his attention and he looked my way. I waved and mouthed the words “Remember me?” I returned the favor and flipped him the Hawaiian peace sign. I stood tall on the ‘go, go, git ‘em, git ‘em’ pedal and walked away from him. I grabbed a handful of eighth gear and let the diesel exhaust write him a good bye note. I sailed over the top and looked in my mirrors. He was still in about the same place he was when I showed him my taillights. I ran the last 60 miles to the truck stop I was aiming for and never saw hide nor hair from him. I have no idea whether his truck blew up trying to get up that last hill or if he just gave up. And frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.

“Breaker 1-9 for the Struggling Stroker back there. I don’t know if you know this, but my truck-ma just ran all over the top of your karma.”