One of life’s complicated situations is dealing with the “what ifs.” For writer Keith Uhlig of Wausau, a “what if” lingering in the back of his mind involved his career. So when he was able to pivot professionally, he tells “Wisconsin Life,” he finally gave truck driving a shot.
Even though he warned me not to do it, I’m going to blame this whole mess of me being a trucking-school dropout on my dad.
When I was a boy, we lived 6 miles east of Colby, and my dad, Delbert “Toby” Uhlig, was a big-rig truck driver. He had a career spanning decades without a major crash. He didn’t play catch with me, or take me fishing or hunting. He took me out on the road.
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I rode with him as a small boy in the summers as he hauled gasoline between the Twin Cities and Green Bay.
I loved watching his precise, coordinated movements as he ran through the gears, turned corners or backed the trailer into tight spaces. He drove with smooth, jaunty elan, and I wanted nothing more than to be just like him.
So I never gave much thought to what I was going to do when I grew up. I was gonna drive a truck.
Dad surprised me when I was 13. “You’re not going to be a trucker,” he said. He didn’t explain why; I just assumed it was because the job was hard.
Not knowing what else to do, I went to college and ended up being a newspaper reporter for about 30 years. It was a great job, but the idea of trucking lurked in the background.
I never thought I would have a chance to even try it. But when Dad’s health declined, I started taking him to his Trucker’s Breakfast Club, a Friday morning gathering at a truck stop in Curtis.
I listened to the stories of that crew, and grew enthralled again at getting behind the wheel of a semi.
A couple years ago, one of those drivers suggested I try Roehl Transport, a company based in Marshfield. It pays drivers while training them to get a commercial drivers license.
After filling out an online form to find out more information about the program, I got a call from a Roehl recruiter. “When can you start?” she asked. I wasn’t ready yet, I said. “Call us when you are,” she said.
After Dad passed away and my newspaper offered a buyout program, I decided to commit. I reported for work at the Roehl Terminal in Marshfield one October morning, eager to start my journey.
Things moved fast right away. On Day 2 I was behind the wheel of an actual, real-life semi, driving around a gravel practice course. Top speed: 12 mph. Next I was pulling a trailer. I was thrilled, but also concerned. I hit a pylon while making a round. What if that was a kid? Worry welled up in my stomach.
Not long after that we left the safe confines of the training course and onto the real streets of Marshfield, with cars and trucks and cyclists and pedestrians.
When you’re driving a semi-truck there are so many things you need to be aware of: Your speed, the size of the vehicle, the traffic all around you, where the trailer is behind you.
Dad did this all without thinking. But my mind had trouble with that high-level multitasking. Training at Roehl emphasizes safety and focus, and I learned that one small error could lead to some very bad results.
My anxiety and worry snowballed. Sometimes my mind locked up. Other times it felt as if I were looking through a tunnel of fog.
On Monday of the second week, I reported for work with a sense of dread and fear. My hands shook from nerves and stress.
I knew that driving in my agitated state put myself and others at risk.
I thought about Dad’s “no trucking” rule. What if he knew me better than I know myself? I decided to pull out of the program.
I owe Roehl $7,000 for the training, part of a contract I willingly signed.
And I may not have gotten my CDL, but I have a newfound, deep respect for what Dad did at the highest level for so many years. I learned a ton about driving, the trucking industry and myself.
No regrets. Not one little bit.
Editor’s note: A longer version of this story — plus more of his adventures in trucking and retirement — can be found on Keith Uhlig’s Substack.
“Wisconsin Life” is a co-production of Wisconsin Public Radio and PBS Wisconsin. The project celebrates what makes the state unique through the diverse stories of its people, places, history and culture.
