THE CAMEL RUN
A True Story
11/24/12
The locals, and others in the know, call it The Camel Run. And the reason that they call it this rather
unusual name has nothing to do with actual dromedaries. It’s meant to be a
warning: you’d better fuel up your camel
before you hit that stretch of highway, ‘cause there ain’t nuthin’ out there! Well, my brother Joe and I learned all about that
little bit of local wisdom only AFTER we found his truck out of fuel on, yes,
you guessed it, THE CAMEL RUN!
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| My brother Joe on my left |
My younger brother, who was only about twenty-one at
the time, was living his childhood dream; owning and operating a
tractor-trailer. She was a beauty – a
“cab-over”, bright red Peterbuilt,
one of the most sought after models in the trucking business. He bought it used
but it was in great shape and my brother was fanatical about keeping it that
way. My father, who would do anything to see us get ahead, re-mortgaged our
house to help him finance the purchase. And, man, my brother could really drive, too.
It’s all he ever really wanted to do. I remember him as a kid, almost obsessed
with caring for his Tonka Toy truck collection. So, while I went off to
college, my little brother went to learn to drive THE BIG RIGS. And, now, he even owned one.
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| Peterbuilt "Cab Over" |
The problem was that, despite the fact that my brother was
an incredible driver, he was still just 21 and a neophyte when it came to the
“business” of trucking. Plus, the truck itself was highly technical and
required specific and regular maintenance. All in all, it was a lot for a kid
to handle and he struggled to make ends meet. I’m two and half years older than Joe and was
just starting to find out what I was going to do with the rest of my life.
Despite my so-called higher education, Joe was way ahead of me in figuring out
the direction his life would take. At least he knew what he wanted to do. He
always did. I was still searching. At that time, I was teaching wherever I
could find a long-term substitute gig. But the work was sporadic. This was one
of those good thing/bad thing scenarios. It was bad because I was perpetually
broke, but it was good because it gave me the time to explore life in a way
that I had always wanted to. This meant that, when I had the time and Joe
had a job that required him to travel almost anywhere in the country, we were
going together. I couldn’t drive (no license) but I could help load and unload
the truck and I’m damned good company, too! And believe me, since trucking can
be a very lonely life, the importance of companionship cannot be
over-emphasized.
It was Easter Time and schools were in recess. Therefore, I
had time on my hands and Joe had a gig – a good gig: he was to pick up a load
of industrial chemicals at Port Newark and deliver them to a warehouse just
outside of Charleston, SC. He would then reload there for the return trip. Joe
figured that, if all went well, we should be able to do it in a few days.
Perfect. I had a teaching assignment coming up but that was still a week away.
We packed a few things to last a couple of days and, with our old man seeing us
off as he always did from the corner near our house at dawn, Joe and I took off together for
another adventure. Just how much of an adventure we could not have imagined. .
.
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| Charleston, S.C. |
The trip down to South Carolina was uneventful. The weather
was unusually cold, even for the South, but clear. The truck was humming along
and we made great time. We put in 5-600 miles and decided to call it a day. We
could make our delivery the next afternoon. As usual, we were broke as hell and
had no money to stay in a hotel – even a cheap trucker’s one. We would spend
the night in the parking lot of a truck stop. Joe’s truck was a “sleeper” and
had a small bed located in the back of the cab. Joe was going to sleep there.
It was only fair; he was doing all of the driving. Besides, it was HIS truck
LOL. So, I had to sleep across the two front seats. The problem was that the
seats were separated by this hump that, because of its “cab-over’ design,
covered part of the engine. It was covered in carpet and acted as a sort of
table. Unfortunately, it was also just slightly higher than the two seats.
Therefore, I think that I have a permanent crook in my spine from sleeping over
that hump!! My brother's little sleeping compartment that not only had a
bed and a radio but could be zipped closed to seal it off from street lights
and noise. Shortly after he said good
night, Joe sealed himself in his little cocoon. I, on the other hand, was
left to fend for myself. That damned truck stop had these huge lights
illuminating the entire lot. I mean, we might as well have been back in fuckin’
Times Square! So, I took some of the clothes out of my bag and draped them over
the truck’s sun visors so that, in hanging, they would block out at least some
of those damned spot lights. It would have to do. I only needed a few hours of
sleep, anyway. Besides, I could doze while Joe drove.
We both got a few hours of shut eye and raced the sunrise to
see who would reach the highway first. Again, with the truck humming and the
radio blasting, it was easy to feel good. It’s the upside of adventure. We
accept the challenges for the moments of bliss, like this one. Joe and I were out on the open road; free men
on a freeway. We were making our own rules. In fact, there were NO rules. We
were young and we were fearless. Perhaps, because we were so young, we could
not know fear. Fearlessness lies within the realm of the youthful. Consequences
are not contemplated. They are only learned through the prism of time and
experience. We were wild stallions on a mission.
We reached our destination right on schedule and unloaded
and reloaded without incident. Our plan was to start back, do our 5-600 miles,
and sleep a few hours before making the final leg home. Joe consulted his maps
(this was in “ancient” times before GPS and there was an art to reading a map)
to plan our trip back from our current location outside Charleston. He also had
to figure our fuel consumption and plan the appropriate fuel stops. After
checking his fuel gauges (there were two, one for each 100 gallon tank), he felt
like we had enough to get through the first leg of our trip before we’d have to
stop to take on fuel (by the way, NEVER say “gas” to a trucker – they use FUEL,
not GAS!). Joe fired that BIG TRUCK up and we were soon on the highway, racing
with the wind again.
After a short time, we hit what we came to know as The Camel Run. After passing what
looked like a small trucker’s restaurant, we reached a stretch of road snaking
through dense pine forest – and NOTHING ELSE! I mean there was no sign of life.
No roads. No towns. No lights. No nuthin’! Just pine trees. I thought to myself, I’d hate to get stuck here. If we did, they
might not find our bones until summer. But, there was no cause for concern. Right? I mean, we were humming right
along. Then, suddenly, in the middle of this wasteland, the truck began to run
really rough! The engine was struggling like it was starving for fuel. And, we
were losing power, too. I saw the alarm on Joe’s face, which made me even more
concerned. Joe,
what’s goin’ on? He answers, I’m not
sure, but I think we may be out of fuel. I ask, what does the fuel gauge read? A
little under a quarter of a tank, he replies. Then, the truck coughed one
last time and died. Joe managed to limp her to the emergency shoulder where we
could try and assess what was really wrong. After we pulled over, he kept trying
to restart the engine. She cranked but wouldn’t fire. The injectors just seemed
to not be getting any fuel. We just HAD to be out of fuel. In a fuel injected
Diesel, that’s a very bad thing. Well, as I said, Joe was a great driver, but
there’s more to successful trucking than just driving. The gauges must not have
been calibrated properly. We were indeed out of fuel. Joe
knows now that he should have never cut the margin that fine. The level should
not have been allowed to drop below a quarter of a tank. But, as I said, we
were kids and we were learning – the hard way.
So, now, two mostly clueless
young guys from New Jersey were stuck in the middle of some godforsaken
Southern wilderness. And it was cold. Really cold. Record cold. We were in
South Carolina and it was only in the 20’s! Radio reports warned that record
low temperatures would plague the area for the next few days. Great. We were
catching every break - NOT. Breaker, Breaker
1-9, Joe announced into the CB radio, trying to raise someone who might
rescue us. Remember, this was in the days before not only GPS, but cell phones,
as well. “CB”, (Citizen Band) radios were used instead. Anyone have their ears on? Joe implored. Truckers had their own
language and vernacular that they used to identify one another as “brother
truckers”. Help was usually more forthcoming if it involved a “brother”. Still,
we got no response. Again. Breaker, Breaker 1-9 (hailing CB Channel 19 – the
emergency channel). Is anyone out there?
Silence was, once again, the response. There was nothing else we could do
except keep trying until we either ran out of battery or someone happened to
drive by. Breaker, Breaker 1-9. Amazingly,
no one drove by on that lonely stretch of highway- no one - on either side of
the road. We tried the CB again. Breaker,
Breaker 1-9. Miraculously, the radio finally crackled with a response. It
was a State Trooper who happened to be monitoring Channel 19. Joe explained our
predicament. The trooper replied that he would come by with his cruiser within
the half-hour to see what he could do to help. What a relief that was! At least
we wouldn’t freeze to death in the forest.
When he arrived, it
was decided that the trooper would take Joe back to that little truck
stop/restaurant that we had seen when we first entered The Camel Run. There were no repair shops that the trooper knew of
in that area but, perhaps, one of the truckers at the restaurant might know of
one. I would stay with the truck to guard it and its cargo. Great. I got to
stay behind to guard the truck and its cargo. Guard ? With what? In the
middle of nowhere? In the cold? But there was no alternative. I would do
what I would have to do. I watched Joe and that trooper pull away and back down
that long, dark highway. Man, that was a lonely feeling. The truck stop was
some distance back. It would take Joe some time to get there, find help (if he
could) and then drive back. And, remember, there were no cell phones. There was
no way of communicating to know if he was successful or when he might return. I
prepared myself for what was sure to be a long, cold wait.
I crawled into the sleeping compartment at the back of the
cab. We needed to conserve as much battery power as possible, so I didn’t
listen to the radio. But at least I could wrap myself in some blankets and make
an attempt at least staying warm, if not keep from directly freezing to death. While
I was gathering the blankets, I found a stack of pornographic magazines stashed
away in one of the compartments. They must have been left there by the previous
owner. Joe wasn’t much into that type of stuff. I suppose that, by today’s
standards, they were pretty tame; full -figured, naked women – lots of tits and
asses, but no really graphic sex. Now, one would think that this might provide
a welcome diversion to the cold and the quiet. But what was I going to do with
a dozen girlie magazines – by myself – in the middle of nowhere – in the cold?
One of my least favorite feelings is to be “all revved up with no place to go”!
Still, I suppose something to read is better than nothing to read. I wrapped
myself in a blanket and started thumbing through the first magazine. Well, none
of the magazines rivaled “The New Yorker” but they did help pass the time. But
it was hard to escape the cold. Without being able to run the engine, I had no
source of heat. And, with the temperature now in the upper 20’s, the cold was
becoming problematic. Damn Murphy’s Law
– everything that could go wrong, WAS going wrong! But this is what “adventure”
is all about. It’s about growing through learning to handle the unexpected.
It’s about putting yourself in situations where you had better have your wits
about you or the else the consequences could be dire. It’s about growing by burning first. That’s a term often used by athletes, particularly
bodybuilders, to describe the process of muscle growth know as the pump,
or being pumped. When you exert a
particular muscle to fatigue, blood is rushed to the muscle to aid in its
function. This causes the muscle to swell with blood, causing the pumped effect. And it feels great;
almost euphoric. Some have even described it as orgasmic (it’s basically the same physiological process). It
also means that, with the right nutrition, muscles will grow to compensate for all the exertion.
But it’s painful to get there. You
work the muscle until it’s fatigued and that’s painful. In fact, it produces a burning sensation in the muscle before
you experience the euphoria
of the pump. So, you see, you can’t grow
without burning first. It’s funny because, now, upon reflection, I
can say that. However, at that time, I was not so profound. I really wasn’t
“thinking” about it. I was living it. But, and I believe that this is key, I
never lost faith. Somehow, I knew that Joe would find a way. Failure was not an
option.
The irony of the situation was not lost on me and if anyone
would have been observing the situation, they would have been aware of it, too.
In my efforts to stay warm, I had covered myself in a mountain of blankets while
all along thumbing through a bunch of magazines filled with naked women –
alone! I’m not sure exactly how long I spent shivering in the back of that cab,
distracted only by cheap girlie magazines. I do know that, despite the cold, I
dozed off for a bit. It surely felt like a long time but I know that in
situations like that, time becomes distorted. So, I’m sure that it may have
been a couple of hours but it was probably not longer. Be that as it may, Joe
did return – and with help! I heard the sound of that diesel before I saw it. I
jumped out of the little nest of blankets I had created to see them pull up.
Joe was in the passenger seat of an old, beat-up Mac truck. I mean this truck
(and apparently its driver, too) had been around. It was hard to find a part of
the truck that didn’t have a dent in it. The windshield had a huge crack down
its entire length. About the only thing that wasn’t dented or scratched was the
gleaming hood ornament and the symbol for Mac
trucks; a defiant bulldog! And she was running – running strong!!
It appeared that its driver was as well worn as the rig
he piloted. Buddy was a local; born
and bred in Charleston. He was of average size and build. I guess that he must
have been in his forties. He was socializing at that little truck stop when Joe
came in with our tale of woe. As it turned out, Buddy was very social! Joe
would later tell me that Buddy did not hesitate to help a brother trucker in
need and offered his rig and his service immediately. So, they piled into
Buddy’s old Mac to rescue me and our
rig. The plan was to hook us up to Buddy’s with a sturdy chain. Buddy would
then pull us to a parking lot he knew of that was not too far away. The trailer
would be safe there and Joe and Buddy could work on our engine problems. And
those problems would turn out to be more severe than we could have known. It
seems that running a large diesel engine like ours out of fuel is a lot more
serious than if would have happened in a normal gasoline engine. The fuel
injectors used in the diesel engine can be damaged, as ours would turn out to
be.
We found this out, and more, from our host and savior,
Buddy. He turned out to be a wealth of knowledge, not only about trucking and
trucks, but about life itself. As we drove along, safe, with our rig in tow,
Buddy told us (with a wry smile) why they called this stretch of road “The
Camel Run”. He explained to us how difficult it might be to repair the damage
we probably caused to the fuel injectors. And he offered to help us in any way
that he could for as long as he could. He turned out to be remarkable in so
many ways.
On initial
impression, Buddy looked right out of Central Casting: send us a Southern
redneck! Of course, he wore the prerequisite filthy baseball cap. He had a
long, barely visible scar on one of his cheeks. He later explained to me that
he received it in a knife fight with the jealous boyfriend of one of his
flirtations. And he couldn’t bring himself to call The War Between The States, the
Civil War. This flew in the face of
Buddy’s American history. Instead, he insisted on calling it what he believed
to be a more accurate title: The War of
Northern Aggression! But this was all superficial. Buddy was no dummy. And
he was no narrow-minded redneck either. He was educated as an engineer at The
Citadel. He would gladly debate you as to why he called the Civil War “The War
of Northern Aggression”. And he could argue his points effectively. He was also kind, caring, and open minded. He
invited us to stay at his home (a house trailer, of course LOL!) where he lived
on the outskirts of Charleston with his girlfriend (originally from Long
Island) while we got the truck straightened out. He kept surprising us with his
selfless generosity. At one point, he even brought us to a grove of bamboo
where he cut a length of it to make a “bong” for us! He told us in his thick as
molasses Southern drawl to, fill that
bamboo with some cool wine, the bowl
with some good smoke, and draw it through that wine and hold it deep in your
lungs for a few seconds. He closed his eyes for a moment and held his
breath. Then he exhaled and opened his eyes, exclaiming, man, that’s gooood! Buddy was certainly NOT the “good ol’ boy,
Southern redneck” we were told we should fear if we traveled to the South. And
he showed us the wonderful city of Charleston as only a native could. I think
he got as much of kick out of The New
Yawkas (as he called us, trying to mimic our accents) as we did out of him.
The reason we had time for these things was that the truck
was proving more difficult to repair than we could have even imagined and we
were stuck in Charleston. Buddy and Joe spent hours trying to re-prime the fuel
injectors so that the engine would fire again. Of course, as I mentioned
previously, we were broke and, so, with Buddy’s help, we were trying to
accomplish our task without the costly assistance of a real diesel mechanic. But it was proving to be too difficult. Hours
turned into days and still the truck was not running. I had to find a way to
get back. Joe could stay with the truck until it was fixed but my teaching
assignment was set to begin in a couple of days. So, a course of action was decided (based on
our limited finances, of course): Buddy and Joe would drive me to the nearest
gas station where I would try to hook up with someone driving north. They would stay with me while I waited for a
car to pull up to the pumps. If the car had NY or NY license plates, I would
approach them and ask for a ride back to NJ. Business at the pumps was not
exactly brisk and, as it had been from the beginning of this trip, my luck
remained lousy. The few cars that did stop with the right plates were all going
in the wrong direction! This went on for
a couple of hours. Finally, I told Buddy and Joe that it was OK for them to
leave. They really couldn’t help me at that point. It was just a matter of luck
and persistence before I would inevitably catch a ride. I told them it’s part of the adventure. I just
wished that I meant it a bit more – I was sorry to see them leave. I wished Joe
luck, thanked Buddy from the bottom of my heart, we hugged, and off they went. I was alone once again.
I continued my “gas pump ritual” for the entire night
–again, with no luck. It was cold, dark, and lonely. Yes, sometimes, adventures
can get pretty miserable. And this one was getting there. Damn, it was cold! Hey, folks, I noticed your plates. If you’re heading back home, I could
sure use a ride. Sorry, dude. We’re heading to Florida for semester break
was the usual response. In fact, it was so frequent that I actually
contemplated changing my plans and heading SOUTH! But, being the responsible
idiot that I am, I decided to stick with the original plan and hope for a ride
north. Finally, just before dawn, I noticed a 1957 black Chevy van with
Pennsylvania plates pull up for gas. The two passengers in the van looked like
“yuppie” college kids. But the driver was older, had long hair, and was missing
a tooth. In other words, he was my kinda’ guy! And, besides, Pennsylvania may
not be NY or NJ but it sure is a hell of a lot closer to home than South Carolina
is. What could I lose? Hey, buddy, would
you be heading north, I pleaded. I
am, was his simple reply. Got room for one more? Sure. Hop in. I
thought that my face might crack from the smile that broke over it. After he
finished fueling up, I hopped in the back of that van so fast I’m sure that I
created some type of vacuum!
My host turned out to be a signal engineer for the
Pennsylvania Railroad and the back of his van reflected that profession. It was
filled with the tools of his trade. But it also had a mattress on the floor to
rest on and, damn, it was warm! He had been in Florida on vacation and had
picked up two college kids on their way back to school to help him with the
driving. It turns out they were from Tenafly, NJ but were heading back to
school in Pa. My host seemed not to be too crazy about them and, so, used them
to do virtually all of the driving. I rode with him in the back of the van with
him while the two college kids split time at the wheel. I remember that at one
point, the sunrise was breaking and a golden beam shown through the back
windows of the van, illuminating us in bright light and warming the whole compartment.
My host then produced a joint and a guitar. He lit the joint, passed it to me and
began a tune on his guitar: Old man, take a look at my life. I’m a lot
like you were, he sang. I don’t think that I ever heard a sweeter sound
in my life. The sun mixed with the smoke from the joint, filing the van with a
feeling of well being that I had not experienced for days. In fact, I have
seldom had that same sense of peace before or since. It was a seminal moment.
And even though I have forgotten my host’s name, I will never forget his face,
his kindness, or that moment. Whenever I hear Neil Young sing that song, I am
transported instantly to that time and place.
My host planned to take I-95 until Fredericksburg, Va. and
then head from there to Harrisburg, his ultimate destination. I figured that my
chances would be better getting to NY/NJ if I stayed along the I-95 corridor.
So, I asked him for one more kindness and to drop me off at a truck stop in
Fredericksburg. From there I hoped to
offer my service loading or unloading a truck in exchange for a ride back to
NYC. He obliged, I thanked him, and I never saw him again. It was dusk now and
I started doing my “thing”. There seemed to be plenty of trucks around, so, I
hoped, it wouldn’t be too difficult to hitch a ride. Well, as it had been for
the whole damned trip, if I didn’t have bad luck, I’d have NO luck. It seemed
that virtually all the trucks were heading south! I couldn’t buy a break. I
must have approached a dozen trucks. Nothing. One redneck (yes, despite Buddy,
some Southerners do fit that description!) even had the balls to respond to my
question about heading north with, no,
I’m not and I wouldn’t take your kind anyway.
WTF?! I suppose that he was referring to my long hair when he said “your kind”.
I told him that he could drive with anyone
he wanted, but he could spare me his bullshit!
After trying unsuccessfully for nearly an hour, I determined
that I was not going to spend the greater part of another night begging for another
ride! I had reached my breaking point and I was anxious to finally get home. I
had some money left. If I remember correctly, it was about $30. I found out
that there was a bus station about a mile from where I was and that there was a
bus that could take from there to D.C. From D.C., if my estimates were correct,
I would have just enough money left to take a Trailways bus to NY. I started
walking to the bus station. Checking the time, I knew that I had to hustle if I
was going to make that bus. Walking became running. Breathless, I just made it
in time to catch the last bus. At last, I
could finally sit for the trip from Fredericksburg to D.C. and then, hopefully
– finally – home.
By the time I had reached D.C. it was already dark and I had
miles to go before I could really sleep. The ride to NYC would take about 4
hours, meaning that I would arrive in NY sometime well after midnight. Then, I
would still have to get from NY to my apartment in NJ. And I didn’t think that
I would have enough money to take a bus home much less a taxi. I would have
just about enough to make one last phone call (remember, no cell phones!) and I
would use that to call in a favor from a friend. So, I bought my ticket and
boarded the bus for the long ride up I-95. It was pitch dark and I couldn’t see
much from the window of the bus but that was OK. I was exhausted and I had seen
plenty already. What should have been a 3 day trip turned into nearly a week.
And I still wasn’t home yet! I drifted in and out of a light sleep, reflecting
on all that I had experienced. I wondered what Joe was doing with Buddy and
what they would do in the morning to finally get that truck running. I thought
about the ‘57 black Chevy van and the wonderful moments I had in its belly. I
considered how many miles I had come and how many more I had to go. I had met
every challenge, was enriched by the experience of it and by the people I met
along the way. I had done my “job”.
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| The GWB |
I arrived at the uptown Port Authority Bus Terminal sometime
around 1 a.m. I used my last bit of change to call a friend who owed me a favor
(I know sounds a little like “The Godfather”) for a ride. In the first bit of
good fortune I had in a week, my friend was home, answered the phone, and
(reluctantly) agreed to return the favor and pick me up at the bus terminal. By
the time he collected me up and deposited me at my apartment it was about 3
o’clock in the morning. I had been on the road, literally, for over 36 hours. I melted into my bed and slept the entire next
day.
Joe and Buddy managed to get the truck running after I made
it home and Joe joined me shortly thereafter. We kept in touch with Buddy and
his girlfriend for a few years but then we lost touch. Neither one of us have
heard from him in a long, long time. I never knew what happened to the railroad
man in that ’57 Chevy. Joe made a go of it with that Big Truck for a few more
years and we had many more (mis?) adventures together. But the care, storage,
and maintenance of the truck just got to be too much and Joe had to sell her.
He still drives trucks, but those of a large food company now. No, the “Pete’s”
gone, too. They are all gone, but not forgotten. They, like The Camel Run, now live in my memory.
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