The young man waited outside my truck window, eyes wide with respect, not pity. That made a difference.
“Is it true?” he asked again. “You used to haul without GPS?”
I cracked the window, took a sip from my thermos, and gave him a slow nod.
“Map books. Paper logs. CB radio. And a whole lotta gut instinct.”
He grinned like I’d just told him I fought in a war.
To me, I had.
We sat there for a while, him standing in the Texas dust, me still behind the wheel. I asked what made him want to drive.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess… I wanted to feel like I was doing something real. My dad worked in a warehouse. He always said the drivers were the backbone of the place.”
That hit me right in the ribs. Not because it was sweet — but because I remembered when that was true.
I used to stop at a receiver and get a handshake. A hot cup of coffee. Sometimes, even a joke or a story.
Now it’s a QR code on a gate and a motion-sensor screen that doesn’t say a damn thing.
Everything’s faster. Everything’s smarter. Everything’s colder.
But looking at this kid — nervous, eager, probably born the same year I got my first Kenworth — I realized something.
He wasn’t chasing money.
He was chasing meaning.
I invited him into the cab, just for a minute. Let him feel the worn leather on the seat, the hum of the engine under his boots. Showed him the old CB, my handwritten log sheets, the Polaroid of Josh tucked into the dash.
“Damn,” he whispered. “This feels like… history.”
I nodded. “It is. But it’s not dead yet.”
He asked me what I’d do if the trucks drove themselves one day.
I laughed. “Hell, maybe I’ll just ride in the back and nap.”
But the truth is, I don’t think they’ll ever fully replace us. Not really.
Because no machine can feel the weight of a load and know it’s a casket. Or slow down for a dog crossing a country road in the rain. Or roll down the window to wave at a child in the back seat of a minivan — the way I always used to do for Josh.
I told him stories. Not the kind they teach in training manuals.
Stories about frozen brakes in Montana, wildfires in Oregon, sleeping in the cab while semis howled past on icy roads. About Christmas mornings spent parked behind a Walmart, listening to my son open presents on the phone.
I told him how it felt to crest a hill at dawn, the whole desert lit up gold, the hum of the rig like a heartbeat.
He listened. Really listened.
Not once did he check his phone.
Not once did he call me “ma’am” like I was fragile.
He just said, “I hope I can be like you someday.”
After he left, I sat still for a long time.
I looked out at the highway, same as I’d done for decades. But something was different.
I didn’t feel invisible.
Later that night, I called Josh.
Told him about the kid. About the notebook. About the way he looked at the truck like it was something sacred.
Josh chuckled. “You are sacred, Mom. You just forget sometimes.”
Maybe he’s right.
Maybe we’re not dinosaurs.
Maybe we’re more like oak trees — still standing while the world rushes past, growing rings no one sees.
I know the world is changing. I know automation’s coming. But so long as there are kids looking for meaning, and roads that stretch past the horizon, there will always be drivers.
Real ones.
I’m not naïve.
I know the aches in my bones aren’t going away. I know the companies won’t start paying more tomorrow. I know the days of jukebox diners and hand-written manifests are fading fast.
But I also know this:
As long as one driver still pulls over to help a stranger…
As long as one mother still sings to her child over the roar of the engine…
As long as there’s someone who still believes that working with your hands is worth something…
We’re not finished.
So yeah, maybe I’m not the future.
But I’m still the road.
And there’s still a damn good story in that.
🛣️ SHARE if you believe America still needs her truckers.
Because some of us never stopped driving — even when no one was watching.
