Tales from the Trails of a Rock ’n’ Roll Bus Driver

by Jerry Fitzpatrick

  When the tour started, the first few days with Greg and his family were smooth sailing. It was exactly how I thought it would be. The only problem was Steve. He wouldn’t leave me alone. He kept thinking I was going to switch to be his driver, and it was causing a rift between him and Greg. I tried to laugh it off, but the hassles kept coming. He agonized his own driver; he wore out Scotty and me and kept acting like a child on and off the stage. During his drunken antics, it seemed he put more effort into that than the energy needed for putting on a good show. Then there was the partying. It seems we went to millions of nightclubs, and all the drivers spent countless hours waiting behind the wheel for the games to end and the tour to roll on. When a driver takes a band to the bar in a bus, it’s usually no fun for the driver. Being the “DD” means no drinking and no partying. From bars, fans are typically brought onto the coach. Big messes are made and when it’s all over and all the drunks go to bed, there is still the drive to make to the next town.

  It was a tour that was filled with needless drama. I just wanted to yell, “For Christ’s sake, do what you’re supposed to do! Entertain the masses and count your money!”

  There’s a lot of talent in Smash Mouth, and there were some good times, but the good times that they offered seemed more like work.

  Chapter 18 Crash

  Every day at my job is another chance to meet new people. When they see a million-dollar bus pull up, however, the questions are nothing new.

  It’s just normal curiosity of the human kind. People can be so gullible when a clown crosses their path, and sometimes I feel like a clown. I can usually tell by the looks on people’s faces if I’m going to tease them a little and give them a story that might stick with them for years. So many people are absorbed in their routines where nothing too much out of the ordinary happens. Then the circus comes to town.

  The question that comes my way the most from people I meet can also be the most sobering.

  “Where are the worst drivers from?”

  My response is always the same. “AMERICA!”

  People drive badly no matter what state they’re from. Those lines are blurred almost immediately. When I first started driving, I had my opinions, but after nearly 30 years behind the wheel with so many people operating vehicles on the road, it’s hard to pinpoint the knuckleheads anymore. I’ve seen bad drivers in Kansas and in Los Angeles, in the streets of Philly and on the back roads and highways through the Heartland.

  Morning rush hour is the same throughout the entire U.S. Everybody gets up at the same time; they go through the same routines to get ready, dry that hair, drink that coffee, and hit the road. And it’s these same assholes who clog up the streets in the same locations at the same time every single day, causing wrecks.

  I’ve seen so many automobile crashes that I’ve become cold to them. It wasn’t always that way, but now I am almost cynical. They are always caused by the same thing – people not paying attention or driving beyond their means. When I drive a few hundred miles a day, I will see at least one crash. Some of them happen right before my eyes. Even though I can be numb to them, I can still remember them, and sometimes they shake me. Then there are those wrecks that cause me and my passengers to be backed up for hours. When I was new to driving for a career, I was programmed to be in this help mode. I wanted to assist anyone I saw in a wreck … very Good Samaritan-like. But I’m hardened, and now I usually don’t care when I see one.

  A Virginia Tech study showed that nearly 6,000 people die in car crashes each year involving an inattentive or distracted driver, and about a half million were injured for the same reason. I’ve driven more than a million safe miles. Every mile that I drive, my risk of being involved in an accident increases, because of some driving fool. Eighty percent of crashes are related to driver inattention, and those distracted drivers who use handheld devices are four times as likely to get into wrecks that will injure them. Let’s just say I am a bit of a hard ass about this. If I had my way, I would ban phones, radios or anything that is a distraction. Radio-controlled speed censors for vehicles traveling in metropolitan areas are not a bad idea to me.

  You might have the same thoughts if you’ve seen horrible collisions like the ones I’ve witnessed. The memory of one of the first crashes I encountered still lives in my mind today. It was early in the morning, and I was traveling east on I-40 in New Mexico. Heading up a hill that curved to the left, I saw a Kenworth Conventional truck that had crashed in the median, on his side of the road. This particular area had a stretch that was all downhill, and toward the bottom of the descent, the highway turned to the right. The truck didn’t turn. He kept going straight. The truck was pulling a loaded trailer, and as it crashed into the median, the trailer swerved over toward the driver’s side. The driver was thrown from the vehicle. The truck then slid over him, and half his body was trapped under the sleeper part of the truck. It was like a scene from The Exorcist. His chest was facing up, but his head was turned completely around, buried in the dirt. It was not family viewing. I drove by slowly, almost stopping, as there was no traffic during sunrise that morning. I saw the police approaching. I knew I couldn’t help. I pulled off the highway when I reached the top of the upgrade and caught my breath. I said a prayer. I sent some good thoughts. God bless that man. He rides with me even today.

  Another time, I was in Jessup, Maryland, just outside of Washington D.C. enjoying a day off. I had come into the area to fuel up, wash the bus, get some supplies and get back to the D.C. hotel for a relaxing evening. I can remember so many details on this day, but damned if I can’t remember what band I was driving at the time.

  I was sitting in the turn lane at the intersection of Waterloo and Washington Road just east of I-95 in Maryland. Across the intersection was a moving company truck sitting in the left turn lane waiting to head the opposite direction from me. Traffic was light, and both of us sat waiting for the light to change. The trucker had an impatient driver behind him in a big ol’ Buick Roadmaster. He wasn’t happy that he couldn’t get going and obviously fearful that once the light did change, this truck would casually saunter into the intersection and leave him to sit through another series of lights. When he had enough of waiting, he accelerated around the right side of the truck. Watching him I already knew what was about to happen. Instead of driving through, he pulled into the intersection and cut a hard left in front of the truck. The Buick tilted, and one of his hubcaps came off, he turned so sharply.

  The light was still green for thru traffic on my side. A cement truck traveling west was going toward the intersection at speed. Since my bus was just as big as his truck, there was no way of seeing that Roadmaster pull out into traffic until the last second. All he saw was a green light, and he was continuing on through the intersection.

  The cement truck driver saw the car just as he was passing me. His back axles were going by my entrance door on the right when the car pulled out in front of him. He locked his brakes as he was swerving to the right to avoid this nut in the car with no patience. The cargo in the truck – wet cement – shifted and as he crashed into the car, the truck tipped over and slid on its side toward the light poles just stopping short. No other traffic was around. A lazy Saturday afternoon, peaceful one second, chaos the next.

  Glass and car parts flew everywhere, like a bomb had been dropped on the intersection. Then all was still. Both the other trucker and I, who sat there and witnessed the entire thing, locked our brakes and jumped out of our vehicles. Running for the car and the overturned truck, it was a crazy sight from my end. The mess missed me only by several feet. The other trucker just missed being a part of the accident by a foot or two. The car was hissing out of every crack. Smoke was filling the air. The man in the car, an older black man, was still sitting upright in his seat, his head tilted back. He was losing fluids. He was dying. Actually, he was dead. What a waste.

  The cement truck driver was climbing out of the blue cab screaming and cursing the entire time. Someone shouted t
o him that the other driver was dead. He quieted down after that. I got back into the bus and cleared the intersection, heading south on Highway 1 so I wouldn’t be caught at the scene for hours. I told my story to the police and was on my way. I still had things to do, but watching a man die in front of my eyes... that made the rest of the day and the rest of the tour seem surreal.

  One night I was driving down I-95 from Baltimore, heading to the Carolinas for another show. It was about 1 a.m., and as you leave downtown Baltimore, you travel through various suburbs and towns and burghs between there and D.C. Then you jump on the Capital Beltway and travel around the nation’s capital. It’s anywhere from four to six lanes wide. Depending on the time of day, the traffic can move real slowly. That’s why I like hitting these places in the middle of the night. It’s amazing how the freeway works when no one is on it. One of the strangest sights on this trek is the Wilson Bridge, which employs an actual drawbridge on it, a weird sight on a freeway. Just south of Alexandria, Virginia, the freeway splits turning west and back north, while I-95 continues on south. In those years, the freeway interchanges were rated at 30 miles per hour.

  The curves on that area are sharp, so I was taking the junction slowly and carefully. I took one curve when a dark green minivan zipped around the corner so fast, he overcompensated for his error and almost slammed into me. He was trying to slingshot around me on the outside corner, and then in an instant he was drawn to the bus like a magnet. Of course I hit the brakes and swerved to the left shoulder, just trying to avoid a collision. Man, did it piss me off that this idiot was driving like this in the middle of the night. I could see that the van was overloaded with people and luggage. The guy couldn’t even see outside his rearview mirror. And since most of his cargo was in the back, it pushed the headlight beams up, seeming brighter. I did my usual bit of cursing at him, and he corrected himself, got into the passing lane and gassed it into the night. New York plates. This asshole had to have been taking the family south to Disney World or something. Wish he would take better care of his cargo.

  I put it out of my mind, got the bus back on cruise control, and continued my drive south. Inattentive drivers do this kind of crap every day. They feel as if they are in control, they understand their autos and can handle them in any situation. The general public averages between 12,000 and 15,000 miles a year just from driving from home to work, taking the kids to school or to Grandma’s and maybe a vacation. They just don’t understand the danger they are in when they are driving. Once you put that car in gear, your biggest fear shouldn’t be the drug dealer, the robber or the murderer. Your biggest fear should be the soccer mom talking on her cell phone while putting on her makeup because she is running late with screaming kids in the back. Fear the idiot who thinks driving fast and swerving between the traffic is going to get them ahead of some imaginary line. Everyone wants to be the leader.

  As I-95 heads south past the Quantico Marine Corps base, it strides past a couple of rivers, and on past Fredericksburg, Virginia, and the terrain begins to level out. I was in the middle lane, just about 60 miles south of the Beltway Junction, when I saw brake lights come on in front of me. I started moving over to the left lane as cars from all around were stopping in their spots. Dust and smoke filled the air, and I figured out in a moment that an accident had just happened. I came to a stop in the passing lane.

  In my lane, sitting overturned, was a baby seat with a child still in it. There were other children scattered on the freeway along with a couple of adults. Every car had stopped, and people were rushing out of their cars to help in any way they could. But for a second, I didn’t. I was just looking ahead at the child seat. I will never forget the sight. I couldn’t see the baby, but I could see the blood.

  I could see over to the right that the minivan was the one that had crashed, the same one that cut me off earlier. It had flipped over several times, throwing its passengers out onto the freeway, and came to rest lying on its side in the middle of the freeway. Traffic was backing up, and now everyone was outside the cars. The emergency vehicles snaked their way through. There was a crowd gathered around the baby seat. I saw that someone started to move it, trying to turn it over, but someone stopped him. The child was dead. A cover was placed over the seat as well as a few other bodies, and everyone else tried to help the living. Dead bodies in the road always stick in my mind. I never forget them. Seeing a dead child in the road because someone was driving carelessly fills me with rage.

  Auto accidents are not accidents at all, in my opinion.

  In 1984, I was traveling north on I-75 between Cincinnati and Dayton, Ohio. I was en route to the Nutter Center with a load of production equipment for a Barbara Mandrell show. There are three traffic lanes heading north from Cincinnati. I was about to pass a semi-truck that had parked on the shoulder of the road with its hazard lights on. It appeared the trucker had stopped behind the line on the shoulder of the road for an emergency. I moved over to the middle lane when I saw a car zooming up on the right side headed straight toward the truck. It slammed into the rear of the trailer. It was so loud I could hear the collision from the cab of my truck. I saw the entire crash and immediately pulled over. I was just a few miles from my exit, seven hours early before my load-in time.

  I ran back to the accident. The trucker was heading back to the car as well. A woman was still in her car, moaning and bleeding everywhere. No airbags, not in this car, not in ’84. Also no cell phones. The other driver and I didn’t know what to do. The woman was bleeding and injured badly. Another car had stopped, and the driver was going to head to the nearest pay phone to call the police. All we could do was keep her comfortable. The ambulance arrived and carted her away. I got her name and checked on her a day later. She was in bad shape, but I spoke to her family and left an autographed picture and T-shirt of Barbara Mandrell. I hoped she would recover enough to see them.

  If I think about it hard enough, I can still hear that crash, I can still see it. I see them all. I may not feel the same way I did when I started, but they always stay with me. So it keeps me thinking, “Pay attention, you fucking idiots!”

  I see a need in the near future for speed sensors and computer equipment that won’t allow you to speed in certain areas. I imagine a device that alerts the police when you are actually doing it so you can be identified. I’ve wished for that invention many times. Let’s just install it when we buy a new car. I know people would complain about their freedoms being violated, but having seen what I’ve seen, I know that bad apples can rot the entire bunch, so let’s get ’em out of the barrel.

  Traffic is just another line in our lives. People don’t cut you off in the grocery or movie lines. You’re not going to swoop in and steal someone’s seats in church. In a restaurant, everyone waits their turn, and we have survived based on common courtesies. But you put these same people behind the wheel of a car in control of thousands of pounds of steel, and they become society’s nightmare.

  Chapter 19 Flashing Before My Eyes

  Ann and Nancy Wilson are the sisters that fronted the fabulous rock group, Heart, and in the late 1990s, I got to drive them as a duo instead of as a band. The girls were on an acoustic tour, Nancy playing guitar and both of them singing. They both rode the bus with Ann’s children and nanny. A real family atmosphere. We had many long runs on that journey, and the girls were real riders. I beat them up pretty badly on the East Coast where rough roads and short buses can make for a bumpy ride. But the three months we were together was an honor. I got to circle America with the Wilson sisters!

  One of the perks of this tour was listening to Nancy’s other work while she was touring. Nancy’s husband, at the time, is film director Cameron Crowe, the man who wrote the immortal words, “Show me the money!” While Nancy was touring the country, Cameron was filming Almost Famous, a great flick about a rock band touring the country. Nancy was scoring the movie for her husband, so, throughout the tour, she would get to play dailies from the movie on the television i
n the bus. As I drove, I heard these actors who I couldn’t see say their lines over and over while Nancy figured out where to place the music. Never got to see a frame of the dailies, but when the movie came out, I figured I knew every line and every scene.

  On the West Coast, we were headed from San Diego up to a resort in Northern California. Konocti Harbor on Clear Lake is absolutely beautiful, and quite a getaway, but it’s treacherous to get to. You leave the comfort of I-5, cruise control and head west on Highway 20. That road curves through the mountains where buses and show trucks are not recommended. If you can make it there unscathed, the amenities are second to none, and a family can have a blast there. With a stage on the water, a summer concert at Konocti Harbor can be a great experience. I was able to hear the show from my cabin. I shuffled down to the stage for the last part of the show and to get the bus ready for our trip to Las Vegas. The duo was playing a show at The Joint in the Hard Rock Hotel the next night. It would take an hour just to get back over to the interstate and make tracks across the Sierras.

  After driving out of California on I-80, I headed south on Highway 95 at Fernley, Nevada, toward Las Vegas. It was creeping toward daylight, and I had made a stop for fuel and a snack and then got back to the grind. In 1999, Highway 95 didn’t have a lot of the modern upgrades it has today. There were no passing lanes for this particular stretch of road.

  I rounded a curve to the left, and I headed down a steady decline for the next few miles. As I came around that curve, I saw what every driver would dread – a semi in my lane heading right toward me. The asshole had decided to pass a slower truck as they headed up the hill. The semi he was passing had nothing but mountain on his right. He couldn’t get over anymore without clipping a few rocks. Then there was the road with his truck, the passing truck and my bus, three of us on a two-lane highway. On my right was the rest of the mountain with a steep drop down. In other words, I was driving next to the side of a cliff. The drop off was absolutely terrifying.