A Touch of Class
There is perhaps a great sacrament here, a sharing of communion amongst differing theologies; each necessary in the economic sense of things; each brimming with intimate and passionate parishioners washed in the blood; and each hell bent on reciting the Gospel of Combustion to the heavens above while kneeling at the same altar of purpose:
That of moving tonnage.
They are both revered fixtures from a youth filled with scatterbrained daydreams of everything and everywhere, and certainly anyplace other than the humid and mosquito-riddled confines of Houston.
The cursed blessing of wanderlust was cultivated early, and the preferred methods of reaching those destinations were born of the pages of Lucius Beebe and the machinations of the Sunset Route of the 1960s, and in the sound of tall rubber at speed as it caressed the asphalt late on a summer vacation night, the lonely whine of tires out on the highway drowning out the evening chirpings and dragging a young heart with it as it faded over the darkened citrus groves near Harlingen, heading off to who-knows-where, but wherever that was, I wanted to go.
Here, in the early-summer shadows of a southwestern Kansas evening is a side-by-side congregation, two seasoned veterans, two fashionable icons in their respective fields seem to chat momentarily, perhaps in reminiscing of the Good Ol’ Days rolling The Ford Fast on the Rio Grande, or of Jake brakes screaming as they keep lettuce in check on Cabbage over Oregon way.
Instantly recognizable is the inimitable GP30, 1961’s heir to the throne in the Kingdom of La Grange, their new-carbody answer to a General Electric new kid just released from Erie and nudging in on the turbocharged market share. Number 20 was a long-time in black and Rio Grande Gold as their 3020 before evading the torch and eventually escaping to the Cimarron Valley with whatever its 567 had left to give.
To the dismay of the enthusiasts, the peculiar style did not transmute to the follow-on GP35, and never achieved ‘SD’ status. Only as a product of benchtop backshops did it ever ride on 3-axle Flexicoils and occupy a roster spot on an L-girder benchwork pike, where it performed admirably as it pulled the slack out of Kadee No.5s and lugged a string of Blue Box tonnage to points hither and yon during last Thursday evening’s operating session.
There is always room to dream.
And young men dream well.
Between the high iron and the highway we stood, knee deep in wonder and head spinning, smack dab in the middle of both religions, on one side 567s and 645s and 251s roaring down the rails, vying for our affection and rolling tonnage too fast for us to grab a ladder and a stirrup and hitch a ride.
And then there were the Peterbilts, the throaty rumble of big yellow CAT iron hung between the frame rails, a deep throb that begins somewhere south of the heart and north of the navel, unmistakable in its resonance, a pairing of power and grace in the mechanical realm and rivalling that from which Renée Fleming would cast forth Bellini’s Casta Diva to meld with the lyrics of Merle Haggard and every song Red Sovine ever sung, the whine of turbo impellers a great mimic of viola and pedal steel as hot air was shoved into hungry cylinders and torque coursed out through 18 Roadranger gears.
And to that end, the Peterbilt became THE definition of Class among the Class 8s.
Hands down.
Bar none.
Men young and old were smitten by them---
By quality and style and pretty girls in company calendars posing with the likeness of Models 359 and 352, personifying the slogan “A Touch of Class”---
By cubic inches being compressed and displaced, the rich and un-re-burned diesel exhaust exhaled through twin chrome stacks and inhaled by a wide-eyed youth found its way into a blood stream, and has stayed ever since.
In the vortex of their passing was whispered the names of faraway places that we would go someday.
And then and there, our destiny was cast.
It was inescapable.
We grew up---
And lived it.
Here, at the granary in Satanta, homeport of the CV, the Geep is dead, the Kansas winds moan an epitaph through open hood doors, hinges squeaking in protest as the descendants of that New Kid from Erie have rolled into town with their Dash-8s and their patched-out paint and brought 4-stroke FDLs to the neighborhood, taking over the roster and putting the La Grange boys out of a job.
Perhaps, just for a moment, our Pete pays homage to a fallen competitor, a comrade-in-arms nonetheless whose service to corporate and to commerce deserves much more than the faded blue paint that hides the glory of a youth spent at fabled places such as Moffat and Monarch and Minturn.
Shorn of her 63-inch sleeper, and with the glory of West Coast Turn-Arounds and the joys of Hunts Point market but fond memories, our well-dressed girl enjoys a well-deserved semi-retirement hauling grain and other sundries to places never farther than a short drive home after sundown.
But, like all things, she understands fate and knows that someday hers will include that one final trip out to pasture, her big CAT motor silenced for the last time, keys left dangling in the ignition, prairie grasses sway gentle in the breeze, tickling her undersides as the seasons pass and the elements take their toll.
It was a good run.