20,000 Pounds in the Wind — A Night in Kansas City

I was coming into Kansas City, Missouri to stage for a morning pickup. The customer runs a tight ship — have their empty trailer in the yard and be ready by a specific time, or it counts as a service failure. So the play is simple: bring in the empty, drop it, check in, and park overnight at the customer.

Before I could do any of that, I needed fuel. The truck was running close to empty, so I headed to the Love's.

The sky had been telling a story for a while. Heavy, dark clouds moving fast overhead — the kind that feel like they mean something. I turned on the WX station before I even got to the pumps. A tornado watch was in effect until the early hours of the morning. Not a warning. A watch. Conditions were favorable, the atmosphere was loaded, and they were keeping an eye on it.

It was breezy outside. Not violent, just unsettled. I kept moving and kept the radio on.

I fueled, drove to the customer, dropped the trailer, checked in, and parked. Standard enough. But when I took Honey out for her walk, I could feel the wind starting to build. We kept it short and got back in the truck.

About an hour after I parked, it hit.

Heavy wind gusts. Massive rain. And that 20,000-pound truck — rocking. Not swaying gently. Moving. If you've never sat in a semi during a serious wind event, it's a strange thing to experience. You know the truck is heavy. You trust the weight. And then the wind reminds you it doesn't care.

Honey got spooked when the truck would suddenly lurch to one side. She'd tense up, look at me, and then — once it steadied — settle back down. We did that together for a couple of hours. Watching the storm through the windows and the windshield. Waiting it out.

Eventually the gusts mellowed enough that sleep made sense.

We went to bed still being rocked.

I've learned the difference between a storm that demands your attention and one that means to take you out. That night in Kansas City was the first kind. I knew it. And that knowing made all the difference.

by Renae