Jac Winters

Diesel Hymns and Asphalt Grit by Jac Winters The rig’s a beast, a snorting, 425-horsepower mechanical Cat, its heart pounding like a war drum under the hood. The cab vibrates with its pulse, a low, guttural hum that seeps into your bones, makes you part of the machine. You grip the wheel, cracked leather kissing your palms, and the asphalt unrolls ahead like a lover’s promise—endless, seductive, and just a little cruel. The eighteen wheels bite the pavement, slashing through rain-slicked curves and sun-scorched straights, each mile a battle cry, each gear a vow. Then comes the engine brake, that primal roar ripping through 10-inch straight pipes, a sound so deep it rattles the stars loose. It’s not just noise—it’s a howl that drowns out the world, a banshee wail that says you’re alive, you’re moving, you’re free. The train horns blast next, a double-barreled thunderclap that splits the silence of a midnight run, shaking the bones of sleepy towns and waking the ghosts along Route 66. You roll coal, black exhaust billowing like a dragon’s breath, a middle finger to the clean-air crowd, a badge of honor for those who live by diesel and grit. The smell hits you with hard diesel fumes curling through the vents, sharp and acrid, mingling with the tang of hot oil and the faint sweetness of rubber burning off the tires. It’s the perfume of the road, raw and unapologetic, clinging to your skin like a lover who won’t let go. You breathe it in, and it’s not just fuel—it’s freedom, the kind that comes with a price. The kind that demands you keep rolling when your eyelids are lead weights, when your eyeballs feel like they’re dangling off your cheeks, stinging with sweat and the weight of long runs. You fight the yawns, the blur, the way the white lines start dancing like mirages. Coffee’s gone cold in the cup, but you sip it anyway, bitter as regret but twice as loyal. The radio’s your lifeline, crackling through static to deliver the music that keeps your soul from fraying. It’s Hank Williams’ lonesome wail, Waylon’s outlaw snarl, or maybe some long-forgotten trucker anthem from a CB radio bard, singing about lost loves and open roads. The notes curl around you like smoke, wrapping the loneliness in something warm, something alive. You’re alone, but you’re not—you’ve got the hum of the engine, the hiss of the air brakes, the rhythm of the road. They’re your band, your brothers, your confessional booth at 70 miles an hour. The highway’s your mistress, and she’s a jealous one. She gives you sunsets that bleed crimson across the desert, stars so close you could snatch them from the sky, but she’ll turn on you in a heartbeat. A blown tire in the dead of night, a blizzard screaming over the Rockies, or a deer darting across I-80—she tests you, breaks you, loves you back together. You curse her name in the dark, but by dawn, you’re whispering her praises, chasing that next mile like a junkie chasing a high. And the people? They’re fleeting, like shadows in the fog. The waitress at the diner with eyes that know too much, pouring you coffee at 3 a.m. The hitchhiker you didn’t pick up, his silhouette fading in the rearview. The voice on the CB, cracking jokes about lot lizards and speed traps, a friend you’ll never meet. They’re all part of romance, stitching together the endless hours, the relentless miles. You’re a knight in a chrome-plated steed, a poet with a logbook, a warrior who battles time and distance with nothing but a thermos and a dream. This is the thunder and lightning of the road: the Cat motor’s growl, the engine brake’s roar, the horns that scream defiance. It’s the diesel in your veins, the coal you roll, the music that carries you through the dark. It’s the ache in your shoulders, the burn in your eyes, the love that keeps you chasing the horizon. The road doesn’t just take you places—it makes you and every mile, every gear, every bone-rattling blast of the horn is a verse in its wild, untamed song. How’s that for a ride in a Big Rig. Get in-- door is open. End

Elevate, don’t denigrate. That is my goal. -Jac