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Mile Markers and Long Thoughts

Most people only notice trucks when we slow them down. On the road, I’m an obstacle. Off the road, I’m invisible. That’s fine. Truck driving gives you a lot of time to think, and thinking doesn’t need an audience.

My days begin before sunrise, when the highways are quiet and the sky feels wide open. Coffee in a thermos, logbook checked, mirrors adjusted. Once I merge onto the interstate, life simplifies. Stay in your lane. Watch your speed. Respect the weight you’re carrying. A loaded trailer teaches responsibility better than any lecture ever could.

I’ve driven through deserts that feel endless and towns that blink by in seconds. I’ve seen America wake up one rest stop at a time. Diners at 3 a.m. have a special honesty to them. Nobody’s pretending. You eat, you nod, you move on. There’s comfort in that rhythm.

Loneliness is part of the job, but it’s not always a bad thing. When you spend days alone, you get honest with yourself. You replay old conversations. You think about people you haven’t called enough. You learn that silence isn’t empty—it’s spacious. The road doesn’t rush you. It just keeps going.

There are hard days too. Traffic that won’t move. Weather that doesn’t care about your schedule. Cars cutting in like forty tons can stop on a dime. You learn patience, not because you want to, but because you have to. Anger doesn’t move freight any faster.

What keeps me going isn’t just the paycheck. It’s the quiet pride of knowing things arrive because I showed up. Grocery shelves don’t fill themselves. Construction doesn’t happen without steel. Somewhere, someone is waiting on what’s behind my cab.

At night, parked at a rest area, I watch the lights of other trucks click off one by one. We don’t talk much, but there’s a shared understanding. Different routes, same responsibility.

I don’t chase destinations anymore. I measure life in miles covered safely. And every time I roll past another mile marker, I remind myself: progress doesn’t always look fast. Sometimes it just looks steady—and that’s enough.

The Night I Drove Through a Storm—and Found a Strange Kind of Peace

Most people think trucking in the U.S. is just highways, gas stations, and country music on the radio. And yeah, there’s some of that. But what nobody tells you is how quiet the road feels at 2:00 AM, when every town is asleep and the only sound is diesel humming under your feet.

Last month, I was hauling a load from Oklahoma to Colorado when the weather turned fast. One minute the sky was clear, next minute it looked like someone dimmed the whole country. Lightning flashed behind me like headlights chasing me, and all I could think was: well, this isn’t gonna be fun.

I pulled over for a bit, checked the radar, and had that internal argument every trucker knows—wait it out, or push ahead? My delivery window wasn’t forgiving and I knew the company wouldn’t want excuses. So I eased back onto the road, hands tighter on the wheel than I want to admit.

Somewhere around Amarillo, visibility went down to almost nothing. Just darkness and rain hammering the windshield like nails. I slowed down, stayed focused, and kept moving. And weirdly enough, that’s when something shifted inside me. My world shrank to three things: the road, the wheel, and my heartbeat.

I realized trucking teaches you something most people never learn—patience with things you can’t control. Weather happens. Delays happen. Life throws storms at you when you least expect them. And you just keep going, one mile at a time.

By sunrise, I made it through. The sky opened up pink and golden, the rain stepped aside, and suddenly the world felt clean again. I parked at a diner, got some eggs and coffee, and honestly—I felt grateful. Grateful for the storm, grateful for the quiet, grateful for this strange life that’s mostly asphalt and sky.

People think truckers are lonely. Maybe sometimes. But there’s a freedom in this life—a kind of peace you only find on empty roads before dawn.

Sometimes the hardest miles are the ones that teach you the most.