Make Way for Trucks Back to Bike Stories // Back to the Weeville Home Page
The Herald Friday, August 2, 1991
On the morning of my second day
homeward from the North Carolina coast, I rolled out of Dunn, N.C., and
immediately entered a 5-mile construction project.
I hate traffic and I especially hate big dump trucks. I'm convinced they are
all driven by convicted serial killers, somehow out on work release.
The traffic got worse for the next 16 miles. As I sipped on a milkshake outside
Lillington, N.C., I studied the map trying to figure why I was now hung out on a
freeway. Aaah. This one-mile stretch was shared by two U.S. and two state
highways. The object of everyone's attention was the bridge across the Cape
Fear River.
This is my worst-case scenario, a bridge packed with traffic. A bridge removes
a cyclist's avenue of escape--the road's shoulder.
I battled traffic toward the bridge and called on all the powers that be. On
the final approach I looked in the mirror and was astonished to see only asphalt
and stripes. This was a weird break, but I made it across seconds before the
next storming herd of vehicles came by.
------------------------------------------------------------------
I turned onto N.C. 27 in Lillington and cruised into some long-awaited
countryside. This road was a narrow two-lane, but traffic was sparse. After
several miles I met a dump truck head-on. He was running empty, his bucket
rattling and clanging as he roared past. Uh-oh. That means he or his buddies
will be coming from behind with a load on. My rear view mirror went back on red
alert.
Ten minutes later it happened. I was climbing a short, steep hill in a sharp
curve--a blind spot for traffic. That's when I heard that dump truck coming
from behind. It was still a ways back, but its engine was moaning under the
load at high speed. If I could only finish this hill, the dumper would see me
in time to move over for the pass. I stood up and hustled to the top.
I crested the hill to see an ominous sight. A truck was chugging toward me
pulling a huge mobile home. The thing covered the road, all but maybe five feet
of my lane. The dump truck was roaring down in the valley, its throttle wide
open to jump the hill. It would arrive on the scene in about five seconds, and
its driver couldn't yet see me or the house trailer.
I instantly calculated a number of things. First the dump truck can't stop at
the speed he's gong. Second, if I pull off right now, the dump truck will have
to miss me, hitting the house trailer head-on. If I keep riding, we will all
three arrive at the same spot at the same time.
From deep down inside I got a shock that I have never before felt: DEATH
IMMINENT.
I looked to my left and there was a driveway culvert. A miracle, since there
was not a house or a building; just an old culvert with a little gravel and some
weeds. It was probably the only one for miles around. I swerved in front of
the house trailer and dived into it. Now I had a great seat for a wreck Peter
Jennings might mention at 7 o'clock.
Sure enough, the dump truck driver started to react when he passed by me at 60
mph. He had to put his entire rig off into the grass to miss the house
trailer. He went through the spot where I would have been, had I stayed out
there.
The dump truck recovered and thundered on. The man pulling the mobile home gave
me a nod and a big thumbs-up as he chugged past.
Back to Bike Stories // Back to the Weeville Home Page