As a child, the term “Mack truck” struck terror in my heart. I didn’t know the differences between types of trucks (and still don’t), but that one sounded especially menacing. It just sounds like something that would run right over you, kind of like a Big Mac does to your stomach.
I’ve always hating driving behind big trucks on the road, and not because of the rocks and other material that often flies toward the windshield, but because of the inherent danger in something big being driven down the highway at 75 mph. These dangers include the trailer disengaging from the cab and
a) turning into a runaway box on wheels weighing like 20,000 tons or whatever (I’m a terrible estimator) that slams into everything in its path, including those pesky deer, or
b) suddenly stops dead in its tracks and causes the car I’m riding in to collide with it and become an indistinguishable piece of gray metal found in the middle of the twisted ball of debris.
Another possibility, and the one that occurs to me most often, is that the truck will not clear the overpass. The top of the truck will be sheared off, only to fall directly on top of me. And with my luck, I will have the sunroof open and the truck roof will immediately aim for decapitation. I don’t care for decapitation. I lose my mind just thinking about it. Also, I imagine fragments from the overpass will collapse on me, and I don’t like that either.
I think the only solution here is to never drive behind a big truck. No matter what the speed a truck is traveling, I must pass it. And if two trucks get together and block up traffic like they tend to do, I will need to learn to drive on the shoulder. Or another thought: I could get my own big truck. You can never be too safe.
The Fretful Mother's Blog 
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