The Real Cost of Trucks: Broken Seals, Empty Wallets, and Balding Heads
Farming Full-Time #57
Farm Trucks.
They’re the backbone of the operation and probably why I’m going bald.
Not only do they cost more than my first house, but they’re also temperamental bastards that break down at the worst possible moment.
I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve stood at the edge of a field, crop ready to haul, only to find the truck leaking oil, refusing to start, or—my favorite—half its lights flickering like it’s auditioning for some low-budget horror flick.
Some sneaky ground wire, tucked deep in the machine's guts, confusing guys like me who never grasped the language of amps and currents.
And here’s the kicker for many—trucks waste space nine to ten months out of the year. For most of the season, they sit there hogging precious shed space while their wheel seals dry up and rot, just biding their time until you hop back in the cab and spot another oil leak staining the floor.
You fix that leak, and guess what?
The other seals are sitting there, laughing, knowing they’re next in line to cash in on their retirement. Fix one problem; two more are waiting to remind you that this rig is nothing but a money pit on wheels.
But hey, we’re not done yet. After you’ve patched up the seals, you’ll find yourself hunting for that pesky air leak somewhere in the maze of pipes or dealing with the mysterious new rattle in the dash.
It’s always something.
I’ve resorted to shoving wads of paper towels into the seams to stop the constant rattling, which does nothing but invite more mice to nest in the cab. Now the whole damn truck stinks, and the little bastards are just another headache piled onto the mountain of frustrations that come with owning one of these things.
Truck shopping is like drawing straws or cracking a pinata. You never know what you’ll get, but one thing’s certain—you’ll be underneath it soon enough, wrench in hand, cursing the day you brought it home.
A couple-thirteen-fourteen years ago, I was boogying down Interstate 80 near Brookville, Pennsylvania, when two wheels and brake drums decided to make a break for it, launching themselves off my trailer and into the hills. Luckily, those things didn’t take out a family minivan bound for the Poconos.
And sure, the $3,000 repair bill was a swift kick, but the stress? That’s the killer.
It wasn’t just the breakdown that had me seeing red—it was trusting my rig to teenage stoner mechanics. These kids looked like they’d crawled out of a Pink Floyd laser show, eyes glazed and grinning like they were in on a joke I wasn’t. And there I was, $3,000 lighter, handing money to a crew about as reliable as the clowns who forgot to tighten the damn wheels in the first place.
As if the constant repairs and breakdowns weren’t enough, you’d think I’d learned my lesson about trucks by now. But no—when you’re in this game long enough, you develop a sort of masochistic loyalty to these creatures, which is probably why John and I spent the week searching Southern Minnesota’s backroads for another rig to occupy shed space.
Yep, gluttons for punishment, the both of us.
Two good ol’ boys out in the wild, chasing unicorns—a mythical rig that runs like it’s supposed to and won’t blow up your retirement fund the second you sign the title transfer.
But here’s the ugly truth: nothing—and I mean nothing—gets done without these pig rat bastard trucks. They’re the lifeblood of the whole damn operation.
So, instead of forking over a doctor’s salary to some truck-flipping dealer with a bucket of rust disguised under a shiny coat of paint, John and I decided to go straight to the source—a mythical realm deep in the bowels of truck purgatory. The kind of place where hope and despair waltz awkwardly around each other while you try to convince yourself that the rattle under the hood is just “character”… and not your inner peace vanishing.
We ended up at what can only be described as the River Nile of truck misery—an off-the-grid auction yard in Bumnuts, Minnesota, where broken dreams go to die, and big-rig demons lie in wait for their next hapless victim. If you’re looking for a twisted trailer riddled with holes, this is your place.
Thankfully, we bailed before some slimeball truck salesman could fleece us out of our wallets and whatever dignity we had left.
But make no mistake, this isn’t for the faint of heart—or the shallow of pocket. You’d better dust off your communion money if you want a truck and trailer that won’t crumble at the first pothole. Trying to be Cheap Fuck Charlie? That buys you a one-way ticket to Headache City, and there ain’t no first-class seats on this bus ride to hell.
To play the trucking game, you’ve gotta pay.
Even then, shelling out for a shiny Peterbilt doesn’t guarantee the engine won’t puke halfway home, leaving you with either a $30,000 repair bill or a glorified lawn ornament.
Here’s the unvarnished truth about owning trucks: at some point, you will get the shaft. Death, taxes, and SOURCE are the only things more guaranteed in life.
The truck game is a crapshoot, and the stakes couldn’t be higher—because you’re buying a headache no matter what—a half-million-mile animal with more skeletons rattling in its engine block than a teenager’s diary.
John and I came back empty-handed this time—battered and bruised prisoners of the highway—but it wasn’t a total loss. We learned what’s worth seeing and what’s worth sprinting away from. Most importantly, we never lost hope.
Halfway through day three, it hit John like a slice of bologna to the face.
“We don’t even have to look for it. The right one will find us.”
Somewhere out there, that unicorn truck is patiently waiting to ruin our lives.
I’ve never seen John so at peace with the world.
As my uncle always says, that’s truckin’.
The Final Push: Corn, Soybeans, and a Beet Crop That’s Gonna Kill Me
Just when I think nothing could be worse than trucks, reality slaps me in the face. The crops—beets, corn, and beans—are just as unforgiving, and it's time for the final push.
The soybeans are turning faster than a politician’s promises, and somehow—by the grace of the farm gods—the corn squeezed out just enough heat to hit maturity before the frost. No small miracle up here, I can tell you that.
Yields? Decent. Maybe even respectable—dare I say it.
Just like the trucks, the crops don’t give you a break. One problem ends and another begins.
But the real headline-grabber this year? The sugar beets. This crop is a beast, an absolute juggernaut of root vegetables. We’ll be trucking until the cows come home just to yank these monsters out of the ground before winter slaps us in the face.
Funny thing about farming: every year I tell myself, Maybe this is the one. The year we catch a break. But farming doesn’t work like that. It’s a duel between optimism and experience.
You pray for the best, but you’ve been kicked in the teeth enough times to know better.
And crops like these? They don’t come easy. They bring a special kind of stress—the kind that leaves you waiting for the curveball, the gut punch where Mother Nature reminds you who's boss.
Right on cue, the rain shows up. Not the gentle kind. No, this stuff turns fields into Olympic mud pits. Suddenly, every job takes five times as long. At this point, you’re not farming—you’re in the trenches, literally. Mud piles up on the header like some twisted prank, and every five minutes, you’re out there with a putty knife, scraping it off like you’re defrosting a windshield in January.
After enough years, you learn to live with the grind, but it doesn’t mean it gets easier. There’s always that nagging thought: What if this season breaks us? It’s not just the crops—it’s the months of planning, the endless hoping you can make ends meet, and the pride in knowing you did everything right, only to watch it get ripped apart by a season gone sideways.
And sugar beets? When the fields turn to soup, you’re not harvesting—you’re in survival mode. Each pass feels like the equipment’s holding on by a thread. It’s the kind of frustration that makes you want to punch a hole through the cab window just to feel something.
But, like always, we’ll push through because that’s farming—just like trucking.
One minute, you’re king of the world, and the next, you’re knee-deep in muck, questioning why you signed up for this ride.
Mark Manson says struggles in life are inevitable, but we do get to choose which ones we embrace. And after everything I’ve seen, there’s no struggle I’d rather choose than farming, trucks, and all the glorious bullshit that comes with it.
A Wild Ride Ahead
Before I forget—I’ve got something brewing, and it’s a beast of a project.
Introducing Jackknifed: A Gonzo Trucker’s Journey.
Yeah, I know. You just spent six minutes wading through my truck rant, but stick with me.
Turns out, I’ve got a lot of trucking baggage to unpack, and maybe this is my way of working through it—like therapy with an 18-wheeler.
If you’re into highway chaos, life on the edge, and trucks that seem hell-bent on torturing their drivers, buckle up. We’re diving headfirst into the world of trucking madness, and trust me—it’s going to be one hell of a ride.
Stay tuned.
Thanks for reading! If this gave you a laugh (or a little sanity), do me a favor and pass it along to someone who could use a break from the grind—or appreciates a good truck rant.
And hey, spread the word… or don’t be surprised when your 10mm socket mysteriously vanishes.
Catch you on the flip-flop: Ten-ten, trucker friend.