Life Through the Windshield: Grin and Bear It, Good Buddy : Hurricane relief: On the road, our intrepid reporter takes the lumps and bumps of riding the big rigs.

I knew something was up when the truckers I was about to ride cross-country with asked if I’d ever been in an 18-wheeler. When I said no, they all shared a hearty and knowing laugh.

By then, of course, it was too late. They were hauling more than 60 tons of relief supplies from a Palmdale Air Force facility to Florida hurricane victims after the military didn’t come through with a cargo plane, and planned to do it in less than 60 hours. Virtually nonstop, in other words.

And I had signed on to ride shotgun.

For the next three interminable nights and days, I squirmed, unsuccessfully trying to get comfortable in the passenger seat. Henry Givens (also known as The Doorman) drove until he could drive no longer, his eyes glazed over and his speech slurred from lack of sleep. Then he’d hop into the bunk in back, and Fancy Pants (his wife and trucking partner, Clarice) would take over. This usually happened while the truck was moving.

Along the way, Fancy Pants and The Doorman explained a lot of things about “runnin’ cross-country.” Such as: “You got to have the seats adjusted to fit your body, or else.”

Before we hit San Bernardino on our 2,700-mile trek on Interstate 10, I learned what the “or else” means.

I also learned, belatedly, not to walk along the passenger side of the truck at night in Texas. “Them rattlesnakes looooove to warm themselves on the shoulder asphalt next to the grass,” The Doorman said, chuckling, “and it’s in your best interest not to scare them.”

On the road, there is much to learn about truckers as well as trucking.

For example, one reason they flout the speed laws, The Doorman explains, is that truck-stop food is exceptionally hard on the constitution, and rest areas that big rigs can pull into are sometimes 100 miles apart. (At about 250 pounds each, he and his wife, admittedly, have grown to love truck-stop fare despite the drawbacks.)

And yes, it is true that truckers do hate “four-wheelers,” those pesky annoyances that always seem to be in the way.

Fellow truckers, one learns quickly, are treated with far more respect. It is the height of rude not to let one pass or to cut one off, and other drivers must be acknowledged with a solemn but friendly “Hey, good buddy.”

Truckers, in fact, go to great lengths to help each other. Whether it’s engine troubles or spending a couple of hours driving their rig for them when they suffer the hypnosis of too many miles and too much coffee and too much country music. Their relationship is the fraternity of the road, with waves and CB chatter for all the members of the club.

Maybe truckers get along so well because they share similar discomforts. As Fancy Pants says in her deep Arkansas drawl: “Truckin’ ain’t as glamorous as everybody thinks it is. You’ve got to have a sense of humor, and patience, and sometimes you got to grin and bear it.”

For instance, don’t expect the bunk in the back to be much of a respite from the rumbling of the front seat. Trying to sleep directly above the rear wheels feels like it might if you were lying on a plastic sheet moving at 70 m.p.h. over speed bumps.

To be sure, there are pluses to taking the roadways, and not the airways, across America.

You see sunsets and sunrises, every last one of them, when viewing life through the windshield. You whizz by, and if you’re lucky, even stop in places like Dragoon, Ariz.; Shakespeare Ghost Town, N.M.; Ozona, Tex., and Yeehaw Junction, Fla.

And you do get to meet some nice people, especially when they consider you one of their own.

As Fancy Pants says: “I’ve seen the sunsets, and I’ve seen the sunrises. I’ve seen the seasons change and I’ve heard the birds singing. If I go deaf and blind, it won’t matter. I’ve seen everything and heard beautiful things on the road that most people never would.”

It may seem like torture crossing the Deep South mile by mile, being reminded of how far you have to go with each passing green sign, Fancy Pants and The Doorman say. But do it awhile, and it grows on you. To the point where you can’t think of life any other way.

After explaining this philosophy for the umpteenth time (time for conversation is never at a premium when traveling by truck), they insist that I forgo the airplane and get back to Los Angeles the way I came. The initial reaction is to run away as fast as possible. But given a few days to recover, maybe the idea isn’t so crazy. Heck, what’s another 2,700 miles?