Truckers 1👉 Дальнобойщики - Америка из окна фуры. Доро...
Truckers 2👉 Дальнобойщики ДВА! Из Сиэтла через все Шта...

"Rrrrrrrrrr." The engine's sound spread like radiation through the space, crawling into every crack, taking over the entire space. "Rrrrrrrrrr." We'd been falling asleep and waking up with this roar for two weeks now. It blended with everything we listened to, watched, and talked about. At gas stations, the roar of our truck blended into the chorus of others just like it. And even while washing in the communal shower or locked in the restroom, you not only heard it, but felt it through the walls. "Rrrrrrrrrr."

These vibrations were transmitted to us, too. Little by little at first: more irritable morning conversations, before I'd even washed up or downed a mug of coffee, sharper responses, more tense pauses in conversation, where "Rrrrrrrrrr" filled everything. Little by little, we didn't even notice how the situation was spiraling out of control.

"Put your camera away, we don't have time for it now," Oleg waved his hand at me, and it was clear he was struggling to contain himself.
I wouldn't have been any better off if I'd continued filming even more, even taking out a second camera.

The occasional flicker of oncoming headlights flickered outside the window, but otherwise it was pitch-dark. We were crossing the desert somewhere south of Utah, and there wasn't a single settlement for tens, maybe hundreds of miles.

"Put it away, I said! We're already late, and now you're asking questions."
And I'm not.
The "Rrrrrrrr" grew louder, building to a crescendo. It seemed the thickened air could explode at any spark.

I've seen this happen more than once in these past two weeks. A minor clumsiness at a gas station could escalate into a row or even a fight – over spilled coffee, over a carelessly parked truck, over anything. The road tautens your nerves like a bowstring. The longer you drive, the more you're ready to shoot.

I put the camera away and climbed onto the bunk bed to catch my breath. The "Rrrrrrrr" seemed to begin to fade. And then it seemed to vanish altogether. The moment instantly plunged into complete silence and slowed down so much that I could just make out Oleg's mouth opening wide, as if he were shouting something, only I couldn't hear it. The headlights outside the window began bobbing up and down. I'm flying through the car toward the windshield, but I can just make out slippers on the floor, gadgets flying off their seats, the refrigerator door swinging open, bottles of water flying out. Oleg again—in slow motion, turning the enormous steering wheel. Bam!

I'm on the floor. We're no longer moving. The roaring has died down. Oleg sits there, stunned.

"I think we almost died just now," he finally says hoarsely, striking a lighter.

Welcome to the final episode about the lives of truck drivers in the USA!

Oleg Efremov, my friend, with whom I'm traveling around the USA - Instagram: olegvol

Donate for the trip:
https://www.donationalerts.com/r/pogn...
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VK community: https://vk.com/pognaliofficial

#usa #truckers #let's go #natanzon

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