I used to drive taxi. Not the NYC Yellow’s. But the Long Island Service Taxis. I moonlit because I couldn’t stand the traffic during the day and the night lent itself to stranger happenings that I could experience. (Such as the seventeen year old who propositioned me or the lactating prostitute, but those are other stories and off the main topic.) The longest I ever drove was nineteen and a half hours (pretty much straight). The brain turns to mush. And I’m operating on sheer experience.
I used to deprive myself of sleep during my college years; times of setting the cruise-control while asking my passenger to “hey, hold the wheel, I’m gonna close my eyes for a few” remain [in great numbers] in my history. I remember driving off the road only once, luckily without a passenger in the car. I woke up to my car shaking as the highway shoulder transitioned to grass. I swerved in time to avoid plunging front-end first onto the paved road of the underpass. After then, I decided never to deprive myself of sleep in that way ever again.
But a decade later, I found myself doing rushed kamikaze runs to JFK and LGA to the early rising sun because of low attendance during a particular morning shift. I was working since one in the afternoon the previous day and was the only driver to be suckered into an overnight shift with the promise of an airport drop off at four in the morning. Little did I know that I would be coerced into doing four more runs.
You can’t refuse a run. You could; but then the dispatcher would remember that one time that you screwed him. Dispatchers have amazing memories; especially for drivers that refuse fares.
So here’s the point! I’m amazed that the NYC TLC has not mandated a clock of some kind that readily displays how many hours a particular cabbie has been in that particular cab. Would you get into a car if you knew the driver was going on nineteen hours straight? I know drivers that go for twenty-four and have even heard of legendary stories of thirty-plus.
I drove across the country, approximately 2800 miles, in fifty hours, with a few hours’ rest in Oklahoma on the side of the road amongst the truckers. But I didn’t have a passenger and my only responsibility was my own life.
But for the times that I had passengers in the car, those were interesting moments. It’s hard to hide exhaustion: red eyes are a dead give away. So it’s either exhaustion or the passengers figure I’m stoned. Either way, it’s no good. It’s the deadness that’s the problem. Closing the eyes briefly doesn’t work. I snap them open spastically drawing more attention to myself than need be at seven o’clock on a Monday morning.
“Are you just starting or ending your shift?” the passengers ask.
“Ending.” I say while sipping my lukewarm coffee.
“How long you been driving for?” they ask.
“I’ve been with the company for two years.” I reply. I know what they are asking. But is it my fault they are not being specific.
“That’s not what I meant,” they correct themselves, “How long have you been driving on your shift?”
“Oh!” I gape wide open as if a great lightning bolt of self-relization hits me. I have to fake it. I can’t tell them nineteen hours. They’ll ask me to pull over immediately. They’ll complain. And who needs that? “Coming up on fourteen hours.” I lie, sipping my coffee again. The rising sun starts to shine onto my eyes. The perfect excuse to put on my sunglasses.
“So much?” the woman asks. It’s usually a woman that expresses that concern. I’m not being sexist. Just relaying the percentages.
“Well, you’re my last fare.” I reassure them. This is where a good tip may come into play.
“Well, I hope they let you go home after,” they try and reassure me.
“I hope so too.” I sip my coffee and gulp it down to avoid further conversation. The dispatcher comes on the horn and asks me how much longer until I drop off at the airport. I tell him. And he relays a barrage of information regarding an airport pickup as soon as I drop-off. “Check check.” I acknowledge and click off the short-band-radio. My passengers now take mercy. This is where a better tip may come into play.
I drop off the passengers and find a place to park and nap. I know that sooner than later the squawk of the CB will break my peace. I’ll need to wipe my eyes, shake my head, slap my face, pickup my arriving passengers and get them to their destination without getting them killed.
I used to deprive myself of sleep during my college years; times of setting the cruise-control while asking my passenger to “hey, hold the wheel, I’m gonna close my eyes for a few” remain [in great numbers] in my history. I remember driving off the road only once, luckily without a passenger in the car. I woke up to my car shaking as the highway shoulder transitioned to grass. I swerved in time to avoid plunging front-end first onto the paved road of the underpass. After then, I decided never to deprive myself of sleep in that way ever again.
But a decade later, I found myself doing rushed kamikaze runs to JFK and LGA to the early rising sun because of low attendance during a particular morning shift. I was working since one in the afternoon the previous day and was the only driver to be suckered into an overnight shift with the promise of an airport drop off at four in the morning. Little did I know that I would be coerced into doing four more runs.
You can’t refuse a run. You could; but then the dispatcher would remember that one time that you screwed him. Dispatchers have amazing memories; especially for drivers that refuse fares.
So here’s the point! I’m amazed that the NYC TLC has not mandated a clock of some kind that readily displays how many hours a particular cabbie has been in that particular cab. Would you get into a car if you knew the driver was going on nineteen hours straight? I know drivers that go for twenty-four and have even heard of legendary stories of thirty-plus.
I drove across the country, approximately 2800 miles, in fifty hours, with a few hours’ rest in Oklahoma on the side of the road amongst the truckers. But I didn’t have a passenger and my only responsibility was my own life.
But for the times that I had passengers in the car, those were interesting moments. It’s hard to hide exhaustion: red eyes are a dead give away. So it’s either exhaustion or the passengers figure I’m stoned. Either way, it’s no good. It’s the deadness that’s the problem. Closing the eyes briefly doesn’t work. I snap them open spastically drawing more attention to myself than need be at seven o’clock on a Monday morning.
“Are you just starting or ending your shift?” the passengers ask.
“Ending.” I say while sipping my lukewarm coffee.
“How long you been driving for?” they ask.
“I’ve been with the company for two years.” I reply. I know what they are asking. But is it my fault they are not being specific.
“That’s not what I meant,” they correct themselves, “How long have you been driving on your shift?”
“Oh!” I gape wide open as if a great lightning bolt of self-relization hits me. I have to fake it. I can’t tell them nineteen hours. They’ll ask me to pull over immediately. They’ll complain. And who needs that? “Coming up on fourteen hours.” I lie, sipping my coffee again. The rising sun starts to shine onto my eyes. The perfect excuse to put on my sunglasses.
“So much?” the woman asks. It’s usually a woman that expresses that concern. I’m not being sexist. Just relaying the percentages.
“Well, you’re my last fare.” I reassure them. This is where a good tip may come into play.
“Well, I hope they let you go home after,” they try and reassure me.
“I hope so too.” I sip my coffee and gulp it down to avoid further conversation. The dispatcher comes on the horn and asks me how much longer until I drop off at the airport. I tell him. And he relays a barrage of information regarding an airport pickup as soon as I drop-off. “Check check.” I acknowledge and click off the short-band-radio. My passengers now take mercy. This is where a better tip may come into play.
I drop off the passengers and find a place to park and nap. I know that sooner than later the squawk of the CB will break my peace. I’ll need to wipe my eyes, shake my head, slap my face, pickup my arriving passengers and get them to their destination without getting them killed.
So what’s the better option? French researchers decided to find out, testing the driving performance of two dozen sleep-deprived motorists. Participants first drove a two-mile course on the highway between 6 p.m. and 7:30 p.m., to measure their driving skill on a normal amount of sleep. the effect of coffee and napping varied by age For middle-aged drivers, aged 40 to 50, coffee was a far better choice. But among younger drivers, a nap was almost as effective as caffeine.
the better choice is to get off the road entirely and get a full night’s sleep
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