Route 45, Sack Lunches, and Almost Home

Back when I was ten years old, sliding across that wide vinyl seat to ride shotgun in Dad’s rig felt like stepping into another universe. Being that small meant the dashboard towered up like a wall, and keeping my chin above the window ledge took a conscious stretch just to watch the Illinois asphalt roll by. But whenever Dad cut the engine or climbed down, I was right there behind him—hopping down the heavy steps, hitting the gravel, and feeling every bit as much of a trucker as anyone else on the road.

Most days started before dawn with a paper sack lunch packed tight in the kitchen—usually a couple of sandwiches, a thermos of black coffee for Dad, and a cold soda for me. We’d eat it right there on the tailgate at a job site or parked off the shoulder wherever there was enough room to stretch the big rig's legs. Those lunches tasted better out on the road than anything back at the kitchen table ever could.

By late afternoon, after hours of hauling aggregate and fighting the traffic, that familiar stretch around Route 45 and Route 60 always signaled the home stretch. Pulling into the local diesel station at that intersection to top off the tanks was the sweetest sound in the world. As soon as the diesel nozzle clicked off and Dad stowed the hose, we both knew we were only minutes away from home.

As we rolled down the highway, the CB radio crackled alive. A familiar voice broke through the static—"Big Bear" calling out a quick warning about a backup further north near the split, followed by "Music Man" coming back with a laugh and a quick hello. Dad keyed the mic, gave a quick wave of two fingers off the steering wheel, and kept the big conventional Ford tracking true down the center of the lane.

Looking back, those miles weren't just about hauling loads or hitting deadlines. They were about the rhythm of the gears, the camaraderie over channel 19, and riding high alongside a driver who knew every inch of the road.