I recently tried something that I had never done before. It wasn't exactly thrilling, but it was educational. OK, I live a fairly unimportant and boring life outside of my job and this was darned exciting for me.

It was the first time I had left this general area in more than one year. Finally, the truth is out. Welcome to "lifestyles of the poor and unknown," the Alleghany version.

Back to the point, I took a trip to Ohio with a friend of mine who is a truck driver. I rode right up in the front seat like a big dog.

There are many things to know about any profession, all the little nuances and information that you don't even think about when you consider a job - like how do we find a town we've never heard of in the middle of the night?

How many more miles are left in this state? Where are all the department of transportation weigh stations and where are all the troopers sitting? Where do you go to the bathroom when you are rolling along at 70 on the Interstate?

All that information and more was made available to me by my friendly neighborhood trucker friend. Also, anything he didn't know is available from any friendly neighborhood CB radio.

We were cruising up the road, headed north on Interstate 77 when a voice said, "Y'all get out ya colorin' books," in a quintessential southern accent. My friend muttered expletives under his breath.

He thanked the guy on the radio for the info. The CB traffic was in a code of sorts, but things have changed quite a bit, I learned. I never heard "good buddy" once on the radio the whole time we were out. That sort of put a damper on my CB lingo, mostly learned from watching episodes of B.J. and the Bear. I just figured that arcane phrases like "10-4" and "Do you got your ears on" were also passe these days, so I steered clear of making a rear end of myself on the radio.

As for the term "coloring books," this brought to mind pictures of big smiling animals and simple text like, "Mr. Bear gets a haircut." That was not at all the case.

It turns out that a coloring book is actually a log book that tells the Department of Transportation officials where you have been and how long you have been going where ever you are going and so forth. For those of you who are laymen in the world of truck driving as I was, the driver uses a pencil and a ruler to draw lines on a chart that shows time and mileage. The ensuing little graph helps the DOT people figure out if drivers are going too long without rest or breaking the speed limits.

On the other hand, the drivers seem to think that the whole thing is utterly ridiculous and childish - therefore comes the "coloring book" misnomer. Personally, I was just along for the ride, but at least I was trying to fit in with my temporary lifestyle. I must admit I found myself sadly lacking.

Let me explain. First of all, my friend knew I wasn't a truck driver when I got into the truck with a duffel bag, sweatshirt, leather jacket, pencil and paper, beef jerky smothered in hot sauce, one-litre bottled water and 16-ounce Pepsi. My friend had a flannel shirt on over a worn-out T-shirt and was carrying nothing but a 12-ounce container of juice.

I soon learned why you don't want to carry a one-liter bottle of water and a 16-ounce Pepsi into the truck with you. These guys drive for eight hours or more straight through. They don't eat and they don't take bathroom breaks.

So, about halfway into the trip, I was considering the ramifications of climbing out on the side gas tank to relieve myself. My friend assured me that the wind shear would rip me off the little steel steps, even if I could hold on and still get everything else finished. He also suggested that an indecent exposure charge might not bode well for my police record.

So I did what any other grown man would do, I squirmed. "How far is that next bathroom?"

"Don't we need gas already?"

"GAS?" He intoned incredulously. "We don't use gas." (I learned not to call diesel fuel gas under any circumstances. It would seem that gas is for lower forms of life, like those who don't drive trucks). Diesel fuel is for real men. Alrighty then, I'm glad we got that out of the way.

By now, I was getting desperate. I had taken off the sweatshirt, under which I was wearing a white T-shirt. I tried munching on my hot-sauce inundated beef jerky as a distraction, but soon found that I had dropped a large piece on my shirt. It came to rest right on my chest and left a nice little stain trail, like a barbecue snail trail.

After another 15 grueling minutes, divine sovereignty kicked in and a loud hissing noise started somewhere outside the cab.

"What is it?" I asked worriedly.

"We're losing air pressure," he said calmly.

Thinking of the worst possible scenario, I asked, "Don't the brakes work on air pressure?" He didn't answer me, instead staring at the myriad of gauges in front of him.

However, despite his intense gaze, I still felt a good bit of insecurity.

On the flip side, we took the next exit and pulled into a giant Petro station. I looked upon those neon lights with all the tear-struck love I am sure Moses felt as he gazed across the promised land. The truck was still rolling when I jumped out the door and bounded into the brightly-lighted interior of the building to find the nearest restroom.

I bought a pack of gum at the truck stop. I didnt buy any more drinks of any kind, I can tell you that much. I would rather die of thirst than explode. The clerk commented on my barbecue sauce stain. I told her that I was saving a little snack for later.

At any rate, I walked back out and my friend was walking around the truck to try and hear where the hissing sound was coming from. With the typical click-clack rumble sound of a big diesel engine to deal with, it wasn't easy to hear anything.

However, I was getting ready to hop back into the cab when I heard the noise very distinctly. I got down and peered under the cab and found two black lines of about one-inch diameter that seemed to be the source of the noise.

I grabbed one and moved my hand around and felt air coming out on my hand. I was so proud, I called to my friend and said rather casually, "Yup, I think I got her over here."

He strolls around as I point to the black lines and laughs as he asks me to get out of the way. "Those are gas lines," he said with a smirk. "These things don't use gas," I quickly corrected him.

"OK, fuel lines," he said abstractly as he bent over to reconnect the air line that was apparently just below the fuel line. As I had run my hand over it, I had been hitting the little nozzle with my arm.

We then went to the blah-blah apple juice factory to unload and ended up waiting for several hours. Hurry up and wait. My friend took a nap while I watched nothing happen in the yard of the plant.

I slept most of the way back (if you could call it that). Every bump in the road would cause my head to hit the side of the truck. I have a new respect for truck drivers. I was dead tired. He was going on three hours sleep and acted like he felt great.

We were about 15 minutes from home when a call came in on his cell phone. He was nodding and talking. Then he hung up and asked me, "You want to ride to Birmingham?"

"Just let me out right here," I said without even the slightest pause.

Get more tongue in cheek commentary this week's issue of the Alleghany News!

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