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Making Friends on the road

When your life is behind the wheel on the road, driving a truck across the country week after week, you get used to being alone. It’s just you, your vehicle, some music playing in the background and hundreds of miles of highway. But we are also humans; we do miss the experiences of meeting our family every day, meeting friends, and having daily interactions. Once in a while, we do find people, at the most unexpected places, real people, the kind who turn a lonely job into something much warmer.

I’ve made friends in truck stop diners, in line at fuel stations, over CB radio channels, and even during breakdowns on the side of the road. There is something very different about being out here that strips away the small talk part. When you only have 30 minutes before you hit the road again, you skip the fluff. You get honest.

This one time, I struck up a random conversation with a fellow driver from Nebraska over who had the worst load that week. Turns out we were both hauling meat; his was leaking, and mine was running late for delivery. We just shared a laugh, quickly swapped numbers, and have been checking on each other ever since.

Another time, I helped a new driver back into a tight spot at a crowded rest area. He was stressed and sweating bullets. I talked him through it, and later, we shared a midnight breakfast and talked about family, burnout, and the weird joy of catching a good sunset from your cab.

Friendships on the road are different; they are fleeting sometimes; just one random conversation, a cup of coffee, and you’re both going your own ways. Other times they last, I still text a few people I have just once. Though we dont see each other that often, we are on the same map, living parallel lives, just with a different route every time

And it’s just that my friends are only other truckers; I’ve chatted with farms at the gas station, night shift waitresses who work two jobs to support their family, the occasional curious traveller and many of these sorts. The road brings together a strange mix of people you’d never meet in a normal 9-5 job life.

These connections don’t fill the same space as being home with family, but they help. They remind you that you aren’t the only one out there. Even between all the empty roads and alone travel, there is scope for human connection.

So, most of the time, I am alone, but not lonely, not out here on the road.

The Road Is Home: A Trucker’s Life You Don’t See

I drive a truck for my living, and I have hauled everything from frozen chicken to steel beams, coast to coast, in storms and heat waves. You dont see my name in the limelight, and that’s fine; I’m not here for the fame; I’m in this because I know what it means to keep things moving, and I love this job.

Most of my days start even before the sun rises. I wake up in my cab parked behind a love’s or a pilot’s, brush my teeth in a truck stop bathroom, and hit the road with coffee, which tastes very much like burnt hopes. My life runs on DOT clocks, GPS routes, weigh stations, and the constant hum of the engine beneath my seat. Sometimes, I’ll find a decent sandwich and a clean shower before I rack up another 600 miles.

To most folks, I’m just another semi on the road. Maybe even a nuisance. But here’s the truth: nearly everything in your life got to you on a truck. The food you eat, the clothes you wear, and even the smartphone that you are reading this on come from a truck. I might’ve delivered it to a warehouse three states away, and you never saw me, but I am the reason why you had these things in the first place. I’m not trying to brag or act as if I am the only one responsible, but I make things happen by delivering them and taking care of the goods behind my truck is what matters to me on the road.

This job is never easy; you’re alone a lot of times. The road gets quiet, and you miss birthdays, people, being home for dinner, weekends, and so many other essential things. But slowly, the cab becomes home. The highway becomes familiar. You learn to live in motion.

And I carry a lot of pride in it. Pride in knowing that you’re reliable, you showed up on time, and that you didn’t let bad weather or traffic stop you. Out there, nobody hands you anything; you earn every mile.

We talk a lot in this country about essential workers. During COVID, we were called “heroes.” That faded fast, but we’re still here. Still hauling. Still moving goods across thousands of miles while most people sleep.

I am not looking for thanks; I just want people to know we are out here, men and women, young and old, experienced or newbie; we keep the engine of America running, one highway at a time. This is more than a job; it’s a way of life for us.

And for me, it’s still worth everything.

2,000 Miles of Quiet: Life as a Truck Driver in America

You’ve probably passed me on the interstate; maybe I was in the slow lane, or perhaps I was parked at a rest stop with the engine humming; it’s totally fine if you hadn’t noticed me; I’m used to being invisible.

I am a long-haul truck driver, and I’ve been crisscrossing America for the last 17 years; I’m writing this anonymously not because I have secrets but because I can speak for thousands of lives on the road, just out of sight, but not out of mind.

A lot of times, people think my job is just to drive, but it’s more than that. It’s a lifestyle, I sleep in a cab the size of a closet, I shower at random truck stops, I eat more gas station burritos than I want to admit, and my days are measured by miles, not hours. 700, 800 miles, then sleep, then repeat.

There’s peace to it. Out here, you’ve got time to think. I’ve watched the sunrise in Texas and set in Wyoming all on the same day. I’ve driven through blizzards in Colorado, tornado warnings in Kansas, and the kind of silence you only find at 3 a.m. in the Nevada desert.

But it’s not all freedom; it’s hard on the body and harder on the mind. I have missed so many birthdays, weddings, funerals, and many more. My back aches more than it used to be, and my kids have grown up with FaceTime calls during rest areas. The job pays the bills, but it takes a larger toll on our lives.

What gets to me is how little respect we get; people dont see the work put behind the wheels. They dont realize their groceries, amazon orders, or their furniture got them because someone like me put up with 11 hours behind the wheel, dodging traffic and sleep deprivation.

I’m not a hero. I don’t need a parade. But I wish people understood that this country runs on wheels. On diesel. On routes and rest stops and logbooks and lonely highways.

So the next time you see any truck on the road, dont cut it off. Dont get mad while we slow down a little uphill; just remember that we are out here keeping the shelves full, one mile at a time. We are here to help you have all the grocery lists that you’ve ordered.

And for some of us, this road is all we’ve ever known.