Simple Things/ Lang Kenneth Haynes
Shifting gears
The words, "Downshift you asshole, downshift" rang out from the back of the truck and all my cool went out the window in the middle of
the hill in the middle of the night. The order to downshift was given by a fellow named Yuke who was one the passengers in the back of
the truck I was driving. It was the summer of 1967. Looking cool doesn't mean much if you don't know how to downshift. Not if you're the
camp truck driver, anyway. I was wearing the lining of an old coat. The lining was wool plaid and it looked like the ponchos that were
popular at the time. Nina Simone wore one on one of her album covers. To complete the look, I wore sandals with long straps. They
were in style at the time. We called them Sampson Sandals. And to be extra cool I had my sandals custom made in the East Village,
New York before there was officially an East Village. I was suave, no doubt about it, but my suaveness did not help me to shift gears
any better. I talked my way into the job of being the camp truck driver that summer.
I had a driver's license but I had never driven a truck before. In response to the urgent order to downshift, I looked at the huge gear
lever on the floor in the cab of the truck. I wasn't sure which way to move the gear shift lever. The lever was clearly marked 1,2,3,4, R
and N. The markings were of no help to me since the only gear I knew was 3rd and I'd been driving in 3rd all day with an empty truck. I
learned that I could get the big truck rolling in that gear. I could drive to the nearest town of Liberty in 3rd gear if I went slow enough,
and I could even whip around the corner on my return trip and drive up the steep and long camp driveway in 3rd gear before coming to
rest in front of the camp administration building.
The problem was that I learned that trucks handle completely differently when loaded with cargo and that night the cargo was 12
drunken camp counselors. Part of my job description was to transport counselors to and from the town of Liberty on their respective
nights off. In response to Yuke's order, the growing desperation I was experiencing in the cab of the truck, and the dying sounds of the
truck engine at the steepest part of the driveway — I looked at the gear shift lever again, depressed the clutch and pulled the lever
down into 4th gear. The truck, of course, lurched to a halt right at the crest of the hill. I later learned what it meant to downshift. The
definition of the concept usually did not involve unloading passengers and asking them to stagger the rest of the way on foot. But this
evening that is precisely what I asked my passengers to do. My formerly cool-looking poncho-like garment was reduced to a coat of
shame. No one seemed to care that my sandals were special-made. All they did was complain about walking up the hill and how cold it
was. All I could do was to look down at the ground. Ironically, or not ironically, it was Yuke who put his hand on my shoulder and
consoled me, and it was Yuke who spent the entire next day teaching me how to drive the truck we affectionately called the Blue Ox.
My choices were very plain that night. I could abandon my fantasy of being the camp truck driver and return to my cabin and begin
packing, or I could stand up to the embarrassment and learn to drive the truck. I chose the latter. I did not choose to remain at camp for
noble reasons. It was likely my stubbornness that made me stay.
I learned a few very important things the night the Blue Ox appropriately refused to negotiate the crest of the hill of the driveway: 1)
There is a certain satisfaction that comes with confronting a fear. The beauty is that there is no way to lose the battle. Just showing up
and looking the feared thing in the face means victory. 2) We can't drive around in 3rd gear all our lives. It's impractical and boring. The
vessels we carry around on our backs through life are loaded with different things at different times. What worked on Monday is not
guaranteed to work on Tuesday. An empty truck may have been able to travel to the top of a hill in 3rd gear, while a truck filled with
people can't. There might be some truth in the saying that the things that don't kill us make us stronger. It is my hope that the things that
don't kill us make us a little bit smarter too.
It is my experience that shifting gears is not only a handy thing to know how to do, but something that is required. Things and people that
were once young are now old. You've come to learn that things you assumed were built on bedrock were actually built on sand. Land
masses that were once continuous are now divided by bodies of water. Things change. Life moves whether we chose to observe the
movement from the sidelines or from what we consider to be the vortex of activity at the time.
It's fine and wonderful to be neutral. It's fine and wonderful to appear to dive head first into every issue under the sun. In my humble
opinion, it's folly to invest time and energy in trying to figure out why a person reacts to a problem in a particular way, especially if the
manner in which they chose to deal with the situation is different from the way we would handle it.
The center of a flame is not hot enough to ignite a match. The big N on the gearshift of a truck is a good place to be while you decide
what gear is next. As life swirls about us, it is important to find that place within us that is unchanging, stronger than any storm and
more powerful than any locomotive. The center is the place from which action springs forth. It is essentially a waste of time to try to
escape change because change will happen. It always has and it always will. I became a pretty good truck driver by the end of the
summer of 1967. I just hope that some of the skills and lessons learned are transferable.
the hill in the middle of the night. The order to downshift was given by a fellow named Yuke who was one the passengers in the back of
the truck I was driving. It was the summer of 1967. Looking cool doesn't mean much if you don't know how to downshift. Not if you're the
camp truck driver, anyway. I was wearing the lining of an old coat. The lining was wool plaid and it looked like the ponchos that were
popular at the time. Nina Simone wore one on one of her album covers. To complete the look, I wore sandals with long straps. They
were in style at the time. We called them Sampson Sandals. And to be extra cool I had my sandals custom made in the East Village,
New York before there was officially an East Village. I was suave, no doubt about it, but my suaveness did not help me to shift gears
any better. I talked my way into the job of being the camp truck driver that summer.
I had a driver's license but I had never driven a truck before. In response to the urgent order to downshift, I looked at the huge gear
lever on the floor in the cab of the truck. I wasn't sure which way to move the gear shift lever. The lever was clearly marked 1,2,3,4, R
and N. The markings were of no help to me since the only gear I knew was 3rd and I'd been driving in 3rd all day with an empty truck. I
learned that I could get the big truck rolling in that gear. I could drive to the nearest town of Liberty in 3rd gear if I went slow enough,
and I could even whip around the corner on my return trip and drive up the steep and long camp driveway in 3rd gear before coming to
rest in front of the camp administration building.
The problem was that I learned that trucks handle completely differently when loaded with cargo and that night the cargo was 12
drunken camp counselors. Part of my job description was to transport counselors to and from the town of Liberty on their respective
nights off. In response to Yuke's order, the growing desperation I was experiencing in the cab of the truck, and the dying sounds of the
truck engine at the steepest part of the driveway — I looked at the gear shift lever again, depressed the clutch and pulled the lever
down into 4th gear. The truck, of course, lurched to a halt right at the crest of the hill. I later learned what it meant to downshift. The
definition of the concept usually did not involve unloading passengers and asking them to stagger the rest of the way on foot. But this
evening that is precisely what I asked my passengers to do. My formerly cool-looking poncho-like garment was reduced to a coat of
shame. No one seemed to care that my sandals were special-made. All they did was complain about walking up the hill and how cold it
was. All I could do was to look down at the ground. Ironically, or not ironically, it was Yuke who put his hand on my shoulder and
consoled me, and it was Yuke who spent the entire next day teaching me how to drive the truck we affectionately called the Blue Ox.
My choices were very plain that night. I could abandon my fantasy of being the camp truck driver and return to my cabin and begin
packing, or I could stand up to the embarrassment and learn to drive the truck. I chose the latter. I did not choose to remain at camp for
noble reasons. It was likely my stubbornness that made me stay.
I learned a few very important things the night the Blue Ox appropriately refused to negotiate the crest of the hill of the driveway: 1)
There is a certain satisfaction that comes with confronting a fear. The beauty is that there is no way to lose the battle. Just showing up
and looking the feared thing in the face means victory. 2) We can't drive around in 3rd gear all our lives. It's impractical and boring. The
vessels we carry around on our backs through life are loaded with different things at different times. What worked on Monday is not
guaranteed to work on Tuesday. An empty truck may have been able to travel to the top of a hill in 3rd gear, while a truck filled with
people can't. There might be some truth in the saying that the things that don't kill us make us stronger. It is my hope that the things that
don't kill us make us a little bit smarter too.
It is my experience that shifting gears is not only a handy thing to know how to do, but something that is required. Things and people that
were once young are now old. You've come to learn that things you assumed were built on bedrock were actually built on sand. Land
masses that were once continuous are now divided by bodies of water. Things change. Life moves whether we chose to observe the
movement from the sidelines or from what we consider to be the vortex of activity at the time.
It's fine and wonderful to be neutral. It's fine and wonderful to appear to dive head first into every issue under the sun. In my humble
opinion, it's folly to invest time and energy in trying to figure out why a person reacts to a problem in a particular way, especially if the
manner in which they chose to deal with the situation is different from the way we would handle it.
The center of a flame is not hot enough to ignite a match. The big N on the gearshift of a truck is a good place to be while you decide
what gear is next. As life swirls about us, it is important to find that place within us that is unchanging, stronger than any storm and
more powerful than any locomotive. The center is the place from which action springs forth. It is essentially a waste of time to try to
escape change because change will happen. It always has and it always will. I became a pretty good truck driver by the end of the
summer of 1967. I just hope that some of the skills and lessons learned are transferable.