COLUMN ONE: The vanishing mavericks of the open road

By John M. Glionna, Los Angeles Times, May 21, 1994

PHOTOGRAPH by the Los Angeles Times

There’s something about rock 'n' roll music and the darkened cab of an 18-wheeler lumbering down the highway at night--head-knocking riffs from Aerosmith, Deep Purple and guitar god George Thorogood.

For Norman Thorne, it inspires an urge to play air guitar behind the wheel of his big rig, shouting lyrics into the darkness that mingle with the drawling banter of the CB radio boys and the steady beep of his dashboard radar detector.

It is well past midnight on a stretch of eastbound Interstate 40 in Arizona and Thorne feels bad to the bone. He is master of this frenetic freeway universe--moving the throttle through all 10 gears of a powerful 450-horsepower engine, his cab perched 12 feet above the scattering, insect-like four-wheelers down below.

Owner-operator of the 1984 Peterbilt rig he calls "The Pete," Thorne is a long-distance businessman on the road year-round. His office is a 58-foot-long, 33,500-pound beast of burden that hauls everything from coffee to cosmetics to condoms, coast to cloudy coast, on isolated blue highways and big-city boulevards.

In 14 years as a trucker, Thorne has logged enough miles to drive to the moon and back five times. He has crossed this vast continent more than 1,000 times, wandering through all 48 lower states.

Since the Great Depression, long-distance truckers have been an integral part of the country's heroic folklore--the road's version of the American cowboy.

Once a staple of this country's freight-hauling highways, independent truckers such as Thorne have become an endangered breed. Fewer than 70,000 strong, they represent a fraction of the more than 2.5 million professional truck drivers operating today.

"This truck is Eden to me," he says, lighting another Marlboro. "Being out here on the highway is what I want to do. But there are so many things working against you. Sometimes, the fact you're even moving with a load of cargo on your back, it's a victory in itself."

Indeed, on this journey from Los Angeles to Dallas, not a mile marker goes by that Thorne does not weigh the frustrations of interstate business against the beauty of seeing America through the expansive windshield of the rig he babies like a teen-age motorhead.

At 32, with his blow-dried brown hair and penny loafers, Thorne looks more like a lawyer than he does a long-distance freight mover. His boyish charm is tempered by a rough, unpredictable edge. He is one trucker who loathes country-Western music, sporting the CB handle "Carolina Free Bird," an ode to his favorite Southern rock band, Lynyrd Skynyrd.

He is a ninth-grade dropout who was always curious about the highway life. As a boy in Texas he watched the 18-wheelers pass from the back seat of his father's 1966 Rambler and always wanted to be riding Up There , blowing the big air horn.

Now Thorne can see potholes in his boyhood dream.

He is a typical small-time operator fighting cutthroat competition with the huge trucking monopolies, a dour-faced David complaining about what he calls the government's wrongheaded regulation that threatens to drive his one-man firm out of business.

In the world of long-distance freight hauling, Thorne and other owner-operators are like self-employed taxi drivers: commanders of their own fixer-uppers and their own schedules, paid-by-the-mile opportunists who must hustle free-lance fares without a dispatcher. Most are men, with the occasional woman or husband-wife team.

Theirs is a life of greasy chili dogs, unfiltered cigarettes and strong coffee. They are always breathing into a pay phone trying to score the next load that enables them to constantly crisscross the country. They are nocturnal creatures, driving all night long just to make time.

Unable to compete with huge companies such as Arkansas' J.B. Hunt, with its armies of drivers and sophisticated dispatch systems, independents must nibble away at the edges of the long-distance trade, relying on brokers for their loads--an uneasy relationship that makes many drivers distrustful of the hand that feeds them.

Because when you run your own 18-wheeler, there is no time to "deadhead" down the highway without a load, no money to spare for extras such as laminated road maps and impulsive $50 truck washes. You take showers that come free with diesel fill-ups.

The high cost of fuel cuts Thorne's $150,000 gross annual income in half. That and other costs make him ask the operators for refund checks of 75 cents when pay phones fail him. At restaurants and motels, he argues for the trucker's rate: "I can't believe that's as low as the price goes. All the other chains do it. Why don't you check again? Or do I need to speak to the manager?"

And, at all costs, he avoids the uniformed men at the state truck scales. He sees them as itchy-fingered civil servants ready to write him up on a pricey violation.

Indeed, out here in the middle of the night, The Man looms ahead:

A weigh station is just over the New Mexico line in Gallup, a roadside trap ready to be sprung, one into which Thorne cannot afford to fall. At the scales, the steely eyed Department of Transportation cops would surely notice his missing mud flap and the fact that he's driving on only 17 wheels, thanks to a recent blowout.

They would slap him with a $68 state fuel tax for big rigs and notice that his logbook--the hour and mileage diary truckers call "the comic book"--was hopelessly out of date. And for all he knows, agents might confiscate the $300 Radio Shack radar detector--his main defense against the Highway Patrol officers who lurk in the blackness.

So Thorne takes a detour. A mile shy of the border, he swerves onto a gravel back road, heading north toward the tiny town of Window Rock, Ariz. All the while, he is banging on the dashboard, resorting to his emergency flashers after his headlights momentarily flicker and die--another minor glitch Thorne has meant to fix.

With Alice Cooper's "Under My Wheels" blaring on the compact disc player, he heads to U.S. 666 and on into Gallup. An interstate scofflaw slipping past the dreaded scales, he continues his journey toward the diamond-necklace lights of Albuquerque and its dramatic high desert sunrise.

With a wink, he knows he has broken several state laws--trucker-style: "I don't mind paying my fair share but the trucking industry is supporting this country's entire freeway system.

"It's wrong. And I just won't stand for it."

The image of the wildcat driver has been on America's mind for half a century--since Humphrey Bogart played an independent trucker in "They Drive by Night," a 1940 cult film.

Back then, there were no interstates--it was Route 66 or bust. Long-distance trucks were rough-riding rubber-and-iron coffins that lurched along, each bump taking a toll on their drivers.

For generations, 18-wheelers have done America's back-breaking labor--today moving more than 82% of its freight.

"There's a saying," said Todd Spencer, executive vice president of the Owner-Operator Independent Driver's Assn. "If you own it, a truck delivered it to you."

But 18-wheelers have changed since Bogart played luckless Paul Fabrini. Today's models are high-stepping limousines with air-ride suspensions as comfortable as most cars.

The business is different, too. Competition peaked after the industry underwent deregulation in 1980. The resulting rate cuts saw truckers' salaries plummet. The wildcatters--red-eyed loners whose only goal was to put miles beneath their wheels--began to fall by the wayside.

Independent truckers are no longer just drivers. They have become businessmen--attuned to what they consider the specter of government over-regulation.

Each year, more than 2 million full-scale truck inspections are conducted, in which drivers are cited for anything from a broken headlight to maintaining an incomplete logbook. Last year, the average long-distance trucker paid more than $350 in fines.

The way Thorne sees it, the government's newest bit of red tape--a federal ban on radar detectors that took effect in January--hurts independents in particular.

The ruling, which bans the use of radar detectors in long-distance trucks and in buses over 10,000 pounds, was designed to slow down freeway traffic and save lives, according to Department of Transportation officials.

Thorne and other drivers claim the ban is more about dollars--a thinly veiled attempt to increase fines and confiscate what truckers consider a critical tool of the road.

Truckers nationwide have ignored the radar ban, taking their chances at the weigh stations instead of giving up their "fuzzbusters."

When the long-haulers talk about the Department of Transportation, their faces contort like a belch from a bad bowl of truck stop chili. "I've got to break 15 laws just to stay alive out here," Thorne said. "The way I see it, if they want me, they're gonna have to come get me."

Many motorists and road agents see things differently. To them, truckers are often arrogant road hogs who place commerce over a much more important concern: Safety.

"We hope that none of our rules are enforced just to make money--we see them all as safety-enhancing," said Stan Hamilton, spokesman for the Federal Highway Administration.

Each year, large trucks are involved in 4,500 fatal crashes and 86,000 that cause injuries. The ban could reduce these numbers, officials say.

Truckers counter that accident rates have dropped over the last decade while the number of driven miles has risen. Many have turned to a radar industry political action group--the Radio Assn. Defending Airwave Rights (RADAR), to represent them on radar violations.

But in a move that angered drivers, the American Trucking Assns., which represent about 35,000 freight-hauling companies, pressed for the radar ban.

"This is not to increase the bureaucratic burden on truckers," said group spokesman John Doyle. "You don't want accidents. You don't want truckers avoiding roadside inspections because they refuse to buy new tires or mud flaps in a timely fashion.

"Drivers say they can't afford the regulations. We say: 'You can't afford not to have them. Or maybe you shouldn't be in business.' "

Welcome to the two worst days in the life of Norman Thorne.

On a steamy Tuesday in Tucson, after driving all night from Los Angeles, Thorne arrives 90 minutes late for a 7 a.m. appointment to deliver a load of coffee and creamer to a Price Club.

The sun has already summoned a pungent sweat to his face, making the truck cab smell musky, like a crowded airport men's room. At the loading dock, Thorne is scolded by a scrawny woman in tight denim jeans who points to half a dozen other trucks that must be unloaded before anyone touches his 13 pallets.

The holdup will jam his schedule and make him late for his second Tucson delivery. Now he must drive overnight to make a Wednesday delivery in Albuquerque.

Thorne tries to explain that his truck was loaded six hours behind schedule the previous night, but the woman cuts him off: "You're late," she snaps. "That means only one thing. You wait."

For long-haulers, it's a rule of the road: There are no smiles at shipping and receiving docks.

A day earlier, his eyes glued to an electronic broker board at the Union 76 truck stop in Ontario, Thorne had seen a listing for a coffee load with three stops in Arizona and New Mexico. With a telltale beep, the listing had popped onto the gray TV screen, ending a frustrating four-day wait in which Thorne had cooled his heels like an anxious merchant marine looking for a ship.

He had to move quickly: Competition for loads is so fierce that a listing can disappear in the time it takes to make a phone call.

This time, Thorne had been lucky. He had reached the broker: He would deliver the 41,378-pound load for $1,075--or $1.10 per mile, minus fuel. One third of the money would be paid up front.

At the broker's office, he signed a contract--in effect, buying the entire 42-pallet load, valued at more than $85,000. If anything happened en route, he would be responsible--so he carries a $100,000 insurance policy.

Over the years, Thorne has signed for loads from furniture and cotton to hazardous materials, Christmas trees, chemicals for cat litter, dog food and hot sauce.

And coffee. At the Nestle warehouse in Mira Loma, however, trouble had struck: A forklift driver told Thorne his truck could not be loaded without wooden stacking pallets--a fact the broker had failed to mention.

A call to the broker had brought a promise that the pallets would be delivered soon. They arrived six hours later.

Instead of leaving Los Angeles with ample time to make Tucson, Thorne drives 70 m.p.h. across the California desert and ignores a law that says he can work only 10 hours a day.

"The brokers subtly ask you to run illegal," he said. "If I get the load there on time, I'm a road hero. But if I obey the laws and get there late, they'll remember the next time I call for a load. They'll say I didn't take care of them. What that means is that I didn't run illegal."

If long-distance trucking is a schizophrenic business of hurry up and wait, this is the waiting part--frustrating delays that put drivers hopelessly behind schedule. The resulting flip side is the one the public often sees: Impatient truckers willing to do anything--tailgating, changing lanes, driving sleepy--to make up for lost time.

All night, Thorne had driven like a man possessed: rubbing his eyes, resisting stops, checking his watch.

Near the Arizona line, he had tailgated a four-wheeler hogging the hammer lane: "If you're a car in the fast lane doing 60 m.p.h., I'm gonna get on your butt. Cars don't realize that I've got 80,000 pounds and 60 feet of truck here and I can't stop on a dime. So I'm gonna bear down on you. Then you're gonna get the hell out of my way so I can do my job."

So Thorne arrives late at the Tucson Price Club, its back lot already full of semis. The manager says he must wait to be unloaded. Thorne curls his upper lip. The product is his to do with as he pleases, he says. And, unless attitudes change, the coffee stays on the truck.

Attitudes do not change. He and his rig lurch away from the loading dock.

Thorne spends the next 24 hours at a motel, drinking one 32-ounce Coke after another, making anxious calls to brokers and other middlemen. Finally, another deal is made:

He will drop the load at a paper recycling yard in the bowels of industrial Tucson, where it will be picked up by another driver.

Thorne is paid for the entire trip to Albuquerque--no questions asked. And so he heads north, bound for a truck stop in nearby Casa Grande, to look for another load headed east. Or south. Or north. Even back west.

He will never again do business with Price Club or the broker.

"I'm a truck driver, not a slave," he said, slipping a Tom Petty disc into the player. "And I will not be treated like one."

By the hundreds, the big rigs roll through the parking lot of the Casa Grande truck stop with the attitude of runway queens on parade.

To truckers, semis are indeed things of beauty--to be pampered with multi-thousand-dollar interiors, snazzy paint jobs and chrome "sitting lady" mud flaps polished to blind the eye.

Like pet bowsers, the cabs come in long snouts and the flat-faced variety like Thorne's. Their trailers are a mixture of low flatbeds, dry vans and the refrigerated variety, known as "reefers."

Most truckers give their rigs pet names such as "Turtle Swamp," "Alligator Eater," "Bucket of Bolts" and "Mobile Studmobile." Thorne usually refers to the Pete as "Darlin" or just "Sweetie."

Suddenly, his eyes widen with envy as he passes the latest model Peterbilt, being spit-shined by a wiry 20-year-old with a ponytail. His own truck--the battered war horse that cost him $37,900 a decade ago--is a decided 4.5 on a beauty scale of 10--its dull white, unwashed Freuhauf trailer stained by a wide swath of diesel and dust.

In this lot, parking spaces are 60 feet long to handle their oblong occupants. Day and night you can hear the hissing release of air brakes and the rumble of truck engines always left running.

With names like Flying J's, Petro and Giant, the nation's 250,000 truck stops are a long-hauler's sole haven from the dirt and indignity of the road and the narrow gaze of the Highway Patrol officer.

Inside, there are truckers-only counters, tables and showers. There are telephones at every other restaurant seat to cater to the driver's need to be on the line--to his wife or his broker.

Wall clocks tell the time in Amarillo and Baton Rouge. There are shoeshine booths, a hair salon, video game room and a general store selling overpriced biker T-shirts, quarts of oil, chrome wheel covers and cigarette lighters in the shape of 18-wheelers.

Waitresses are saucy veterans. They absorb the rudest joke with a smile, or appreciate the fact that sometimes you just want to eat his eggs in peace.

At truck stops, under a smog-like cloud of cigarette smoke, the rule is simple: Anything goes.

Maybe it's because there is something lawless-looking about these customers, their quiet independence and blatant look of rebellion--dirty Wrangler jeans, handlebar mustaches, unruly beards, tattooed bellies that hang shamelessly over large metal belt buckles, and hats that read "Don't Mess With Texas" and "The Four Saddest Words Ever Composed: The Bar Is Closed."

But despite some uncomfortable silences between drivers from competing companies, there is rarely trouble here--unless you count the occasional parking lot assault or vice squad arrest of prostitutes known as "lot lizards."

Mostly, truckers mind their own business, maneuvering their rigs through the parking lot with delicate precision.

For Thorne, the truck stop is a respite where he can shower off the road grime, change a headlight and finally slump his body over the steering wheel for a few hours' nap--forsaking the comfortable sleeper cab that would send him into a deep slumber that would put him behind schedule.

Two hours later, he will awaken with a stiff neck and shake his head like a jowly cartoon character to ward off any lingering fatigue.

Then it's time to rejoin the road.

In addition to the spot inspections and flash of some Smokey's redtop lights, what Norman Thorne dreads most about the road is something invisible: The wind.

Traveling empty on the highway, wicked gusts up to 100 m.p.h. can topple your rig like a Tonka toy. "The wind has no preferences, no hate, no scores to settle," he said, hurtling across the Texas Panhandle at night.

"Compared to the wind, everything else is predictable. It makes you wonder if you've got any common sense at all. You say to yourself: 'This is crazy. You're risking your life.' But you keep driving."

Norman Thorne knows. Seven years ago, trudging slowly along a Rocky Mountain highway, the wind blew his empty rig over a cliff--ripping his trailer in half and filling his cab with soft dirt as he slid down a steep canyon.

Trapped in his truck for more than 14 hours, Thorne dreamed of being dead, his organs auctioned off at some funky combination hospital and discount store.

The accident has taken its toll. Injuries took him off the highway for more than 14 months.

Now, almost daily, Thorne is overcome by pain. He takes pills for the arthritis in his upper shoulders and the throb in his joints.

The accident has made him feel his mortality. His trips last six weeks or more. The only contact with his family are his wife's daily updates on how one of the 4-year-old twins came home covered with ants--stories that make him realize the road is making him a stranger to his children.

Back in Jarreau, La., a little bayou town not far from Baton Rouge, Debbie Thorne is philosophical about the time her husband spends away: "Some marriages function better that way. Sometimes it's frustrating when something happens. Something breaks, the kids get hurt or I get hurt. Then I get mad. I cry. I yell. 'Norman, you're not here. You're never here!'

"I don't think our marriage would have lasted this long if we were an 8-to-5, dinner-together-every-night couple," Debbie Thorne said. "We're too stubborn, too headstrong. Some trucker's wives are very bitter about their situation. Not me."

Still, it is when he is alone in his rig that Thorne feels most in control of his life. He relishes the beauty of the road, the frozen winter wheat fields and frosty morning breaths of the cattle wandering the yards outside Amarillo.

He loves to watch lightning storms hit the desert at night. Driving past rainbows that end in the mouths of rivers, he wonders if there is any gold under those waters.

He likes to roll the dice at the Indian trading store near Gallup, where six of a kind gives him a free carton of cigarettes. And he loves the fraternity of truckers doing their jobs, the comforting flash of headlights that lets him know it's OK to return to his lane after passing another big rig.

Mostly, he revels in the thought of driving the abandoned 3 a.m. freeways of Houston, the big Texas curves banking him this way and that as he cranks up Led Zeppelin's "Stairway to Heaven."

All of it outweighs the loneliness of long-distance trucking, the hard decisions of paying for that electricity bill or that new truck tire.

Talking in spurts, he says he wants to forget the image of the frustrated long-hauler sweating at some truck stop telephone, fighting with his wife: "What do you want from me? Do you want me to quit? Do you want a divorce?"

Two days later, he will finally touch home for a few hours of sleep and visit with his family before the road again calls to him.

But now, all he knows is this desolate stretch of highway, a place where his reasons for driving a long-distance truck are as clear as the Texas night.

He swings down from the wheel, walks into the middle of the road and stares at a sky chock-full of celestial bodies.

"Look at the stars," he whispers. "God, it's so beautiful, I wish I had my camera. Want to know why I'm a trucker? Look over your head. There's your answer."