For Stranded Freeway Motorists, a Knight in a Shining Tow Truck

This is one of the easy days--a rare day when the temperamental tide of the Ventura Freeway forgoes its usual tantrums and flows as smoothly as in one of those washed-out driver’s training films.

“It means we’re doing our jobs,” says Mike Dizacomo as he edges his tow truck into the noisy current of metal and rubber, scanning for breaks between the cars and looking for trouble.

Rush hour on the Freeway Service Patrol.

As a tow truck operator in the taxpayer-supported patrol, Dizacomo spends the morning and afternoon rush hours trying to keep Southern California’s automotive arteries clear of the clogs that knock commuters’ blood pressures off the scale. Dizacomo’s mission--and the that of other tow truck operators in the Freeway Service Patrol--is to repair flat tires, recharge dead batteries and cool overheated radiators.

He has even patched a broken accelerator with a piece of baling wire.

All for free.

Funded by Proposition C and state highway funds, the patrol is an effective tool in combatting freeway congestion. The California Department of Transportation--which operates the program with the Metropolitan Transportation Authority and the California Highway Patrol--estimates that the tow trucks cut freeway delays 10%.

More than 140 trucks contracted to the 2-year-old program cover 44 stretches of Los Angeles County freeways from Long Beach to Calabasas, more than 400 miles in all.

Each driver covers a specific beat. Dizacomo’s stretches 10 miles along the Ventura Freeway between Reseda Boulevard and Las Virgenes Road--a 20-mile loop he will patrol 12 to 14 times a day.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

That sort of coverage means that more than half of the 1,250 motorists assisted each day are reached within five minutes--sometimes before they walk up to an emergency call box.

“Basically, I will not leave you until you are either on your way or off the freeway,” says Dizacomo, whose job demands him to alternately play the roles of a MacGyver, a Job and a Freud.

*

If you are stopped at the shoulder, the freeway is a different place than it seems from behind the wheel at 65. It is bigger. And much louder. It is downright scary. Blurred 18-wheelers rumble and groan just inches away.

The solid, white line seems thin and not quite so solid.

This is the freeway Dizacomo knows. “It’s a dangerous situation to be stuck out here when everyone else is zipping by you at 65 miles per hour,” he says.

And he knows. Tow truck operators have been killed by the protruding side mirrors of cars and the handles of garbage trucks. Dizacomo has had close calls, such as the time he was nearly squashed by a skidding pickup.

He never turns his back on traffic.

“After a while, you learn to jump,” he says.

The danger comes not only from the cars and the trucks coursing past, but also from the people who drive them. Dizacomo recalls an eerie, pre-dawn moment in October when he came across a small pickup abandoned in the middle of the just-opened Century Freeway.

“There was a puddle of blood and this drip, drip, drip,” Dizacomo says. “And the engine was still running, so that was strike two.” Flashing his light into the cab, Dizacomo discovered a man lying face down behind the seat.

He had been shot in the back of the head.

And he was lying on top of another man whose life had been snuffed in the same way.

Only minutes before, Dizacomo had passed the spot and the pickup had not been there. “Somebody had just put the truck there,” he said. “If I had seen him, what would he have done to me?”

For the most part, motorists are glad to see Dizacomo’s bulky frame approaching in their rear-view mirrors. On a recent morning, Dizacomo gave directions to a lost motorist, provided water for a broken radiator and directed traffic after a tractor-trailer’s brakes locked up and blocked traffic.

It was a slow day. He towed no one. On an average morning, he may help seven or eight motorists.

He will pull his truck behind anyone stopped at the side of the freeway--whether or not they have called for help. He has urged drivers pausing for a catnap to find a safer spot. He has stumbled onto mothers nursing their babies.

“And some people can’t wait to go to the bathroom,” he says, relating the tale of a woman who was caught literally and proverbially with her pants down. “I said, ‘Oops,’ and threw it in reverse.”

*

In 12 years of towing, Dizacomo has learned that the little things can make all the difference. He has plugged motorcycle tires with a patch of duct tape and can change a tire in less than five minutes.

He is relentlessly friendly, even to the woman who once insisted on lighting up in the cab of Dizacomo’s truck, which is decorated with magnets thanking you for not smoking.

Even as the morning traffic on the Ventura Freeway zips past, Dizacomo keeps his truck steady in the slow lane at 55 m.p.h. “Most people are in a hurry to get to work,” he said. “I’m already at work.”

Most do not even know he is there. Until they need him. Then they often suspect he is a freeway predator offering a tow for a hefty fee. Except for small decals on his truck and a patch on his tidy, blue coveralls, there is is nothing indicating that he is working for the taxpayers. So often he laughs and explains that it is all free. No, really. It’s free.

“Those are the magic words: ‘It’s free.’ ”

He is not allowed to accept tips. Sometimes, grateful motorists will insist and insist, despite his refusals. In those cases, the money is turned over to the CHP and donated to charity.

Once, a woman gave him a hug.

“I asked, ‘Do I have to turn this in?’ I sure don’t want to hug those guys back at the garage.”