You know that feeling when the shift runs long and the road is calling. You tell yourself it is just an hour, maybe two, and you want your own bed. You roll the window down, crank the radio, and swear you will be fine. Ten miles later your eyes do that slow close, and you do not remember the last sign you passed.

That is not toughness. That is luck, and luck runs out.

Fatigue is a liar. It tells you you are good when you are not. It tells you coffee is a plan. It tells you the next curve will wake you up. It never says you are about to drift a tire over the white line while a tanker is coming the other way. I have buried enough friends and been to enough funerals to say this plain. Do not press your luck on the road.

You can feel it coming. The blink that takes too long. The head bob. The way the lane starts to feel narrow. That is your body telling you the truth your pride will not. Pull off. Not tomorrow. Now. Gravel lot. Pumpjack pad. Truck stop. Put the seat back and set a timer. Twenty minutes with your eyes closed beats a lifetime of someone else explaining why you did not make it.

Plan before the tired hits. Fuel on the way to the site, not when you are crawling home. Pack water and real food, not just sugar. Stash a clean rag and a spare shirt. You will be surprised what a quick wash at a sink and a dry shirt will do for your head. Call home before you start the engine. Say you are on the way or say you are staying put. They would rather hear your voice late than not hear it at all.

The long drive is where small choices matter. If you are nodding off in the lot, sleep. If the weather is ugly, stay. If the truck sounds wrong, do not try to coax it across a county in the dark. Your name is worth more than a stubborn story about how you white knuckled your way through a storm after a twelve.

I know the pull of home. Kids that miss you. A partner that has been carrying the load. A couch that remembers your shape. Going safe is not disrespect. It is love. It is choosing to show up tomorrow alive, not to prove something to nobody on a highway that does not care.

There is a clean way to handle the crew too. Tell the pusher before shift end if you are too gassed to make a long run. No drama. Just the truth. “I am cooked. I am going to crash an hour and roll at first light.” Good bosses will back that. If they do not, they will still respect that you told them and did not put the company name on the news.

If you must drive, set rules and keep them. No phone in the hand. No “just one” beer after shift. Seatbelt before the key. Cruise at a pace that gives you room to fix someone else’s mistake. Windows down and music up is not a plan. A body that slept is a plan.

Some of the best lessons I learned were from old hands who would not let me be dumb on the road. They made me crash on a cot, drink water, and call home. I did not like it at twenty two. I love them for it now. That is leadership. Quiet and stubborn about the things that keep people alive.

You are built for hard work. You prove it every hitch. You do not need to prove it to a dark highway. The weld will wait. The rig will wait. Your family will not. Give yourself the chance to walk through the door with your gear and your smile instead of your name on a story everyone wishes they did not have to tell.

Play it smart. Close your eyes when your body says so. Stay where you need to stay. Text the foreman and your people and let them know the plan. Wake up, stretch, and roll when you are sharp. The job will feel better and the day will not own you before it starts.

You do not get extra points for gambling with the drive. You get points for showing up safe and steady. Choose that. Every time.

Respect.