I’m a kolokoy trucker rolling across North America, a madman with a wheel in my hands and a highway stretched out like an endless riddle. My mornings don’t start with alarms — they start with the roar of a diesel engine coughing awake, the smell of burnt coffee from a truck stop, and the weight of another load strapped tight behind me. Out here, life is measured in miles, not hours. Every sunrise is a checkpoint, every sunset is just another reminder that the road doesn’t care if I’m tired or hungry. Some days I’m a machine, chewing up asphalt like it owes me money; some nights I’m just a man trying not to fall asleep with white lines blurring into ghosts.
My cab? That’s my castle, my kitchen, my bedroom, my office — four walls of steel and glass where I laugh, curse, and sometimes even pray. I’ve got fast food wrappers for trophies, a worn-out seat that knows my back better than any chiropractor, and a radio that’s half busted but still loud enough to argue with me when I’m bored. People think truckers are just drivers, but they don’t see the art in it — the way you dance with gears, the way you keep eighteen wheels steady when the wind’s howling and the trailer’s swaying like a drunk. They don’t see the fight it takes to keep your eyes open at 3 a.m., when the world’s asleep and all you’ve got is the glow of your dashboard and the hum of rubber against the road.
I’ve hauled everything — steel beams, lumber, frozen food, fuel, even loads I didn’t bother asking about, as long as they paid. Doesn’t matter what it is; once it’s on the trailer, it’s my responsibility, my burden, my badge of honor. The world runs on trucks, though most folks never think about it. Their shelves stay stocked, their gas tanks stay full, their packages arrive on time — and behind all of that is someone like me, wide-eyed, worn down, and still rolling. We’re ghosts of the highway, giants on the blacktop, but invisible to the people we keep fed and fueled.
And yet, I wouldn’t trade it. I’ve seen sunrises paint mountains gold, lightning storms split the sky wide open, and deserts stretch so far they feel like forever. I’ve rolled through cities so bright they make you forget what darkness is, and towns so small that if you blink, you’ll miss them. I’ve seen America and Canada from the ground up, one truck stop at a time. Sometimes it’s lonely — hell, most of the time it’s lonely — but loneliness is just part of the uniform. Out here, you learn to laugh at yourself, to find comfort in bad diner food and gas station coffee, to tell jokes to your own reflection in the side mirror. That’s kolokoy trucker life: part grit, part madness, and a whole lot of stubborn pride.
We don’t get mansions, suits, or fancy titles. What we get is a paycheck, a rig that feels like family, and the knowledge that we keep the world moving while everyone else sleeps. My hands are calloused, my back is sore, and my eyes are always burning — but I’ve got miles to go and steel to haul. This life ain’t polished, it ain’t pretty, and it sure as hell ain’t easy. But it’s honest. It’s raw. It’s real. And if you ask me why I do it, I’ll just laugh and tell you: because I’m a kolokoy trucker — half crazy, fully committed, and always rolling.
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