During the early 70s, I ran into an old gal pal I used to hang out with in my late teens. Actually, I didn’t just run into her casually. I had learned that she needed help and if anyone could do it, it would be me, she said. She had been involved in a very abusive relationship and was trapped in Brownsville, Texas, of all places. Upon hitching a ride with the folks to Northern Texas, I hitched another ride to Brownsville and connected with her and her two sons. She met me at a local convenience store in town. Once I got in her old Ford Fairlaine, we drove to California in less than 24 hours. We had $55.00 between the two of us. Our mission was to outfox her boyfriend, the local Sheriff of Brownsville. We made it to California without any difficulties other than a real scary tornado was riding on our tail end.
Once we got to California, she decided that she wanted to get her California Class I driving license. She had experience driving in Texas and had her Texas Class A license to drive yet it didn’t mean anything according to the Department of Motor Vehicles in California. Together, we entered truck driving school out of Whittier, CA. and were the only females enrolled. We graduated after six weeks of training and partying with the instructors after school. We also graduated at the top of the class.
This occurred during the era of Women’s Lib. We both got our licenses and were certified by California’s Department of Transportation and drove eighteen wheelers for about a year. We had no problems getting work, either. Plus that, we had a blast. Needless to say, while on the road, talk had it that we were either labeled lesbians or hookers and neither label fit the bill. The talk came from men who felt intimidated because we were truck drivers. We were friends but we weren’t that good of friends. We were both divorcees and needed an income, plain and simple. When driving, we were truck drivers. Away from the truck, we were ladies. We expected our cigarettes to be lit as well as expected doors held open for us. We had a marvelous time whenever we were laid over. Dining and dancing became a lifestyle for us both and we were never without dates. We also kept a Hibachi in the truck for times when we wanted to have a picnic somewhere off the highway.
I left the industry to start the transit system in Southern California. She went on to raise both of her sons and own her own fleet of trucks out of Folsom, California. I lost contact with her during the early 80s yet I’m sure that she continued doing whatever she had to do in order to be one of the best in the industry. We both have some humorous stories to tell while on the road. Moreover, if I had it to do over again, I certainly would and certainly encourage other single women to do the same just for the challenge of living life on the road.
By the way, we both learned to shift through 10 and 13 speed transmissions with a plumber’s helper. We practiced and practiced until we learned how to shift well enough that we didn’t even have to use a clutch. I still practice that habit in my personal vehicle. Professional drivers don’t use a clutch except for first gear and reverse. It’s the same gear, just in case you aren’t aware.
To be continued
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