This Overloaded Diesel's Hauling Too Much Freight
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Mareton and Driftfield Truckway
This Overloaded Diesel's Hauling Too Much Freight
Mareton and Driftfield Truckway
Admiral Biscuit
America, land of the free and home of the brave. A place where, it’s rumored, an industrious man can pull himself up by his bootstraps to become a success.
Ponies didn’t have bootstraps, but they did have an industrious nature, a can-do attitude, a creative interpretation of laws, and often easily-granted visa applications.
Too easily granted, perhaps.
Shortly after passing through the portal, Thornycroft sat down in her apartment with a thick stack of legal books, determined to start her own railroad. America was big, and America needed railroads.
After a few weeks of research, she discovered that America already had railroads, that locomotives and land to put tracks on were stupidly expensive, and that nobody was building new railroads anymore.
She had enough money to buy a small used railroad if she really wanted to, but the biggest one in her budget owned only three miles of track and a single superannuated locomotive.
In America, trucks carried freight in short trains. Those were much cheaper, and they could run on roads which had been put everywhere, so she bought a truck and registered her company. It was supposed to be a railway, but modern times required a minor name change.
There were a few legal hoops to jump through after that, and some practical considerations.
First was finding a competent truck driver or two. Luck was with her; she found a married couple. Noriker, the stallion, was a retired draft pony who wanted to learn new skills; Boulonnais, his Prench wife, was a unicorn who had no business in harness but still wanted to one-up her husband. She didn’t have a chance when it came to pulling things, but a truck was a great equalizer. She aced every single CDL test and endorsement, and the two of them were now looking for a way to put their skillset to better use than driving boring box trailers.
Oversized loads paid really, really well.
•••
Oversized loads also called for pilot cars both fore and aft, and Thornycroft quickly discovered that not all pilot car companies were cheap. Nor were they always reliable, and sitting and waiting for the pilot car to arrive melted away bits before they could go to the bank.
That was a simply-solved problem; she bought her own pilot cars and hired her own drivers. Humans first, since most ponies still weren’t comfortable driving cars.
Six months later, she discovered that humans sometimes lied on the loading forms about how much a load weighed, and also discovered how big the fines were for oversized loads, not to mention the downtime at the weight station while they were out of service and waiting for permits for the actual weight of the load.
Technically, Noriker got the fine since he was the one driving, and she could have hung him out to dry, but it was her fault, she hadn’t checked, and she wasn’t going to risk losing her only drivers by making them pay a frankly ludicrous fine for being a few tons overweight.
From that point on, she had the truck weighed as soon as she could, and quickly made the new discovery that the best-paying jobs were the ones where the load weighed more than it was supposed to. People made good offers when they thought that the driver wouldn’t check.
She rejected the overweight loads or ate the cost of the proper permit and seethed every time. Those bits were gone, vanished in the ether, and every load she rejected got picked up by some other company who was willing to take a chance, and if there was only some way to get around it.
•••
On Earth, anything or anyone added to a truck makes it heavier. The same wasn’t true in Equestria, and she had some contacts.
Two weeks later, she traded in both the pilot cars for vans, hired a gaggle of pegasi, and set her plan in motion.
•••
Thornycroft turned her head to the back of the van. “Weigh station’s open, guys. When we slow down on the exit ramp, everypony fly into the semi.”
“Got it.” Fleetwings replied. “Tell the tail crew.”
“I’m on it.” Cellular telephones were a decent way to communicate most anywhere, but a CB was better, and all the trucks in the convoy had them. “Lead to tail, weigh station is open, lightening plan on exit.”
“Ten-four, boss.”
As she slowed for the weigh station ramp—backed up down the freeway, to her advantage—she had a moment of worry. If her plan didn’t work, she’d be spending a lot of time at the weigh station and she’d also be writing a very big check to the state of Missouri.
But her plan would work; they’d tested it out on truck scales already. Everypony knew the drill, and the DOT inspectors wouldn’t know what hit them.
The van had automatic side doors but the buttons to control them didn’t work when the van was moving, so Fleetwings had to open it by hoof, and then there was a rush of air blasting in, hot, humid air unfortunately. She’d gotten a little too used to air conditioning.
Fleetwings reached the semi tractor before the last pegasus left the van. Lightwing, appropriately named, a little wisp of nothing who had obscenely strong pegasus magic.
And the one flaw in her plan, there was nopony to close the door after the pegasi had departed. Thornycroft unbuckled her seatbelt, climbed between the seats, and slid the door shut.
•••
Officer Hake had seen ponies driving trucks before, so he wasn’t completely unprepared as Noriker rolled down the cab window and stuck his muzzle out. He still hadn’t figured out exactly how they managed it with hooves, but as long as all the paperwork was in order and the truck passed inspection, it was honestly above his pay grade.
What did give him pause was the sheer number of ponies crammed in the back of the truck. Most truckers had two or maybe three people in the cab, total; on a few occasions it was a whole family. He didn’t count but estimated that there were at least a dozen ponies all milling about in the back of the cab.
Being a generally suspicious human—as the job required—he instantly decided that a level 1 inspection was in order, even if the truck failed on the scales, which it certainly appeared likely to. The size of the load versus the load manifest he’d seen felt fishy to him.
To his surprise, it passed the weight portion of its exam with flying colors. The tractor was the lightest Peterbilt he could recall, enough so that he almost asked them to come around again just to see the numbers a second time.
But he didn’t have to, the scale happily spit out a weigh ticket. The axle weights were weird but permissible, and he mentally justified it with the idea that of course the truck had been modified so ponies could drive it, ignoring the nagging voice at the back of his head that suggested that any such modifications would make the truck heavier, not lighter.
“Pull ahead,” Officer Hake ordered, pointing to a spot. “And have your logbook, medical card, manifest, and . . . does sh—uh, do you have a co-driver?”
Noriker nodded, and tilted his head over at Boulonnais. “I take turns with my wife.”
“Very good, I’ll need to see her documents as well. Do any of the ponies in the back drive the truck?”
“No. They don’t know how.”
“I see. Are they family?”
“No.”
Officer Hake processed that. As far as he knew, there were no laws against riders in trucks, but he was going to check on that. Something was going on.
•••
Noriker and Boulonnais’ paperwork passed inspection. Due to the nature of their loads and the limited drive times available to them, neither even came close to maxing out their hours of service. Their medical cards were valid and current, and even tested for things that no human driver ever had: Noriker had a resting thaum rate of 3.4, higher than his wife’s 2.8. TK field was 3E and 5U respectively, and Boulonnais had the additional note of ‘2F avg. <1 doz. max,’ whatever that meant. ‘Aura passed’ was ticked in both cases.
Both also had current dourine vaccines.
Likewise, the truck passed its inspection. The mechanical systems were all safe and well-maintained; the cargo was properly secured, the loading manifest was in full compliance.
His sergeant had reported back that there was no law against passengers riding in the sleeper. It was unusual, but not illegal.
“You’re good,” Officer Hake muttered, barely hiding the amazement in his voice. “Paperwork checks out, truck looks good, and . . .” He really, really wanted to ask what all the pegasi crowded in the back were doing, but ponies were weird and he still hadn’t figured out how one passed an aura exam or what dourine was and whether or not he should also be vaccinated against it.
“Thank you.” Noriker took a moment to start sticking the paperwork back where it belonged before Boulonnais took it in her aura and rapid-sorted it into place.
He forgot to anticipate just how quickly it would accelerate with a dozen or so pegasi lightening the load. Officer Hake didn’t notice how he throttled back to keep the rig from launching from the inspection lane like a racehorse.
“You can relax,” Boulonnais said. “They’re not gonna weigh us again.”
“Not until we hit Arkansas, anyway.”
“How far is that?” Fleetwings asked.
“Not even an hour.” Noriker glanced in his mirror and pulled into traffic, the Peterbelt belching black clouds of smoke as it accelerated. “Might as well get comfortable, if you can.”
