By Keith May(Originally appeared in Cycle World magazine)
My Dad’s a truck driver and so was his Dad. And a few uncles, too. I'm not a truck driver, but I do enjoy haulin’ ass across the country.
As a child, I naively pictured the adventures Pop might be having on the road. Like B.J. and The Bear or Smokey and The Bandit. Infinite convoys of grizzled drivers, dropping freight and moving on. A brotherhood of mesh-capped warriors, communicating over the C.B., warning of traffic and county-mounties. Bucketing along the interstate, occasionally stealing a nap in the sleeper-cab, a big diesel purring steadily underneath.
Occasionally, Pop would take me along on local runs and I was in heaven, reading comic books, watching the world go by below us. Pop talking on the C.B. as though he knew everyone, exchanging colorful handles and “Ten-Four, Good Buddies.”
This was the rural South. The highway carving infinite swaths through Georgia’s blue-green mountains and red clay hillsides. Unchecked kudzu clinging to everything in sight. Boiled peanuts promised at every exit. Stuckey’s for pecan logs and moon-pies. Eventually, lunch at a quiet truck stop, conversation limited to weather (more rain) and the Atlanta Braves (this could be the year). Politics off-limits and religion never questioned. The bible-belt. The old South before it was new.
Twenty years later, it was again my destination. But this time, on a faithful silver Harley.
Call (714) 403-3581 or email keithterrillmay@gmail.com
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