Cb Radio

I'm interested in mounting a CB radio in the slate when I ...

pauls1150 said: I've been trying to come up with a term that would be the opposite of "the Midas touch"... Back in the most fun days of CB (Citizen Band Radio) I used to fix or straighten out users stations that had been attacked with “The Golden Screwdriver”. OM

.... I have a DELCO BOSE radio, which I will probably use.... It has some weird Cadillac radio with a built in CB radio.

Na CB radio gorąco..ogólnie można wiele mówić o służbach ale w takich sytuacjach ogień..młodzi rekruci niebiescy latają po lasach z obywatelami.. Szacun Polacy niech nas polityka nie dzieli a chęć pomocy Wracaj dziewczyno cała i zdrowa!! Życie przed tobą..

Modern day CB radio

... section as being an improper CB radio or spy item. It clearly... is not an improper CB radio or spy item. It is... possible to have an FM radio working at 450-470MHz work at...

... need to pull out the radio and look there. I was... to be a 35 amp CB. It was rattling so I...

... the average person.The 3-3-3 Radio Plan is an emergency communication...), General Mobile Radio Service (GMRS), or Citizens Band (CB) radios & HAM...

JohnnyEcks: movies made to exploit a trend that was over before they were released. Ah, the CB radio craze! 10-4 good buddy!‘’ Somehow, Solarbabies has to fit in here, too.

... radio doesnt work in 8420 so doing some digging previous owner had a cb... from the back of the radio... the problem is the cb antenna end wont plug into ...to back of the radio. Its too wide because of ...

... ammo types. - Introduce missing radio log messages for new types... fire mission for use in CB should be done via the... through. - Don't show bridging radio buttons in the on-arrival Orders ...

... up! It’s loaded minus the CB or the saddle bags wife... intercom, no problem. Bluetooth streaming radio, good to go. She wants...

Maverick Daddy said: ↑ View attachment 6719712 Click to expand... I bet you he's got a CB radio.... Rubber ducky one, Rubber ducky one, this is Foreskin flicker, c'mon back.

... Delco Electronically Tuned Receiver (ETR) Radio Owner's Manual and FM Stereo... part # is 16014201. Includes CB Operating Aids and "10" signals...

... bad capacitor. (I found this radio in a CB shop close to Weatherford. It ...had been modded to run CB frequencies, probably a MARS mod. ... really want a ham radio sitting on the shelf amongst their CB gear. I'm in...

I like your comment. I did find it good that they included a CB radio.

...you can with a CB radio, a GMRS/FRS radio, and other things but...right license). You can talk radio to radio or over a repeater network. ...Amateur radio also lets you do things... you cannot do with CB/GMRS/FRS: Transmit on high...things people do with amateur radio that you can't do with ...kind of stuff. Use digital radio signals -- radio to radio or partially over the internet...

.... Phillips and improvement on either CB,s Lawal improvement on Rose... Stoke. The recent interview on radio Stoke even Pejic losing it. ...

... hos en av dåtidens äldre CB veteraner som har en sådan... Turner +2 Bordsmic. En sådan radio var ju helt ouppnåelig på... det lika kul att mecka radio som på den tiden? Jo... in i kanalomkopplaren. Schema Denna radio kommer i ett flertal smaker... göra). Just denna från Svensk Radio och och den som är.... De lösa kablarna hör till CB/PA switchen och Robyn schemat...

This was in my cities Mutual Aid, this lady always post Cash App for birthdays. Goes silent when people tell her how to get what she’s requesting for free for her birthday. submitted by /u/SeaOutlandishness485 to r/ChoosingBeggars [link] [comments]

I am going on a road trip and was thinking about getting a radio to listen in but the thing is I don't really know if truckers still use it at all. All of my trucking knowledge comes from Smokey and the Bandit. submitted by /u/spacemanpilot to r/Truckers [link] [comments]

We drive a wrangler around the Midwest and I was wondering if getting a cb is worth it anymore? I love the CONCEPT of cb radios, I just was never in a cb community so I am not sure if those concepts are realistic. Also: if you could direct me to a good guide, that'd be amazing submitted by /u/spiceypisces to r/cbradio [link] [comments]

If the comms go down how do we speak ? I was using an app to record ch19 CB Radio and ignore dead air when I was asleep that I could listen back to later in the day. I decided I may as well upload for others to hear too. Hope others can make use of it too. https://www.youtube.com/@CBManchester submitted by /u/CB_Manchester to r/whatdoIdo [link] [comments]

submitted by /u/PurpleFlower99 to r/GenerationJones [link] [comments]

What do they usually come with? I'm thinking of buying a CB radio and would like to hear everyone's opinions. submitted by /u/DistributionLanky221 to r/amateurradio [link] [comments]

submitted by /u/Alarming-Water1839 to r/cbradio [link] [comments]

Curious how many drivers still keep one on and what channel you usually listen to. 🎥 Video credit: @melltoofineeee submitted by /u/cdlfirst to r/NewCDLGrads [link] [comments]

submitted by /u/corickle to r/oldschoolcool80s [link] [comments]

In the 70s and 80s, I remember it sounded so much better but today it seems to be a whole other animal..... Is it a fact that many people go over the 4 watt limit and just splatter their signal or something else or are is my memory faded? submitted by /u/bundymania to r/cbradio [link] [comments]

submitted by /u/tapper82 to r/AskReddit [link] [comments]

Just looking on Amazon and seeing a lot of options, don't want to get an overpriced turd. Not afraid of spending a few bucks, just want something good submitted by /u/Cooldude075 to r/Truckers [link] [comments]

Back in the 70s and 80s, every trucker in the world and many many others used CB radios to communicate with one another in the area. submitted by /u/Saturated-Biscuit to r/NoStupidQuestions [link] [comments]

submitted by /u/Combat--Wombat27 to r/aussie [link] [comments]

I drive a truck for a living. I’m not one of those guys with a tricked-out rig and a proud handle. I’m just a guy with a CDL and a mountain of debt, hauling cheap furniture from one soulless warehouse to another. My life is a series of lonely highways, greasy diner coffee, and the constant, hypnotic drone of a diesel engine. I’ve seen every corner of this country through the bug-spattered glass of my windshield. I thought I’d seen it all. I was wrong. This happened last night, on that notoriously desolate stretch of I-80 that cuts through the salt flats of the state. It’s a place that feels like the surface of the moon. Flat, white, and empty for a hundred miles in every direction. It’s 3 AM. The road is a straight, black ribbon unwinding into a void, the only light coming from my own high beams and a brilliant, star-dusted sky. I’d been driving for ten hours straight, pushing to make a deadline in Salt Lake City. My eyes were burning, my brain was a fuzzy, caffeine-addled mess. That’s when I saw the flicker of movement. It was in the scrub desert to my right, at the very edge of my headlight’s reach. My first thought was a coyote, or maybe a deer that had wandered too far from anything green. I kept my eyes on the road, but I was aware of it now. Then I saw it again. It was a tall, loping shape, moving with a terrifying, unnatural grace. It was keeping pace with my rig. I was doing a steady 65 miles per hour. My blood ran cold. I took my foot off the accelerator, the truck slowing to 60. The shape in the darkness slowed with me, its long, spindly legs pumping with an effortless, fluid motion. My heart started to hammer against my ribs. I pushed the accelerator down, the engine groaning as the truck climbed back to 70. It sped up, too, staying perfectly parallel to my cab, a silent, dark greyhound in the night. I couldn’t make out any details. Just its silhouette. It was vaguely humanoid, but too tall, too thin. Its arms were too long, its stride impossibly wide. It ran with a smooth, gliding motion, its feet seeming to barely touch the ground. This went on for five miles. An eternity. Just the roar of my engine and the silent, impossible runner in the dark. My logical mind was scrambling for an explanation. An optical illusion? A strange reflection in my side window? But it was too consistent, too real. My hand, slick with a cold sweat, reached for the CB radio. It was an old habit, a holdover from a time before cell phones. Most of the time, the channels were just a hissing, static-filled void. But out here, in the dead of night, sometimes you could find another lonely soul to talk to. I keyed the mic, my voice a shaky, hoarse whisper. “Uh… breaker one-nine… anyone got a copy out on I-80, eastbound, about a hundred miles west of the lake?” The static hissed back at me. I was about to give up when a voice crackled through the speaker. It was an old, weary voice, gravelly from a lifetime of cigarettes and truck stop coffee. “You got a copy, driver. What’s your twenty?” “I… I don’t know,” I stammered. “I think I’m seeing something out here. Something… running. Alongside me.” There was a long, heavy pause on the other end of the line. The static hissed and popped. When the old-timer’s voice came back, all the weariness was gone, replaced by a cold, sharp urgency. “Son, you listen to me,” he said, his voice low and serious. “You listen to me and you do exactly what I say. You see a tall, fast runner out there in the dark?” “Yeah,” I whispered. “Okay. You’ve got a Pacer. We call ‘em Pacers. Now, you’re gonna follow a few simple rules. You got that? Simple, but you don’t break ‘em. Not for anything.” “What… what are the rules?” “Rule number one,” the voice crackled. “You do not take your eyes off the road to stare at it. You see it in your peripheral vision, you keep it there. You do not give it your full attention. You understand? ” “Okay,” I said, my eyes glued to the white lines on the asphalt in front of me, even as my brain was screaming at me to look to my right. “Rule number two. You do not acknowledge it in any way. You don’t flash your lights, you don’t honk your horn, you don’t talk to it. As far as you’re concerned, it’s not there. It’s just a shadow, a trick of the light. You give it nothing.” “Got it,” I breathed. “And rule number three,” the old-timer said, his voice dropping even lower, “and this is the most important one. Whatever you do, son, you do not stop your vehicle. Not for anything. Not for a flat tire, not for a flashing light, not if the damn engine catches on fire. You keep that truck rolling until the sun comes up. You hear me?” “But what is it?” I pleaded. “What does it want?” There was another long, heavy sigh from the other side of the radio. “kid. It’s an escort. The problem is, you don’t want to go where it’s taking you. You just keep driving. You keep your eyes on the road, and you drive east. Pray you got enough fuel to make it to dawn.” The radio went silent. He was gone. And I was alone again, with the silent runner and his three, terrible rules. I tried to focus. Eyes on the road. Don’t acknowledge it. Don’t stop. It sounded simple enough. But the presence of it, a constant, loping shadow in the corner of my vision, was a screaming distraction. I glanced down at my GPS, hoping the familiar, comforting sight of the digital map would ground me. But the screen was wrong. The little icon that represented my truck was no longer on the clean, straight line of I-80. It was on a thin, grey road that wasn’t on the map, a road that was veering off into a vast, blank, unlabeled spot on the screen. The GPS was still tracking my speed, my heading… but it was showing me on a road that didn’t exist. My heart seized. I looked up. And up ahead, in the distance, I saw them. Faint, flickering lights. The lights of a town. It was impossible. I knew this stretch of road like the back of my hand. There was nothing out here. No towns, no truck stops, no civilization for at least another fifty miles. But the lights were there, a warm, inviting glow in the oppressive darkness. And the Pacer, still running alongside my truck, subtly, gracefully, lifted one of its long, thin arms, and then just… gestured. A slow, deliberate point towards an off-ramp that was now materializing out of the darkness ahead. An off-ramp that I knew, with an absolute certainty, was not supposed to be there. The off-ramp led directly towards the ghost town. It was a silent, undeniable command. A polite, but firm, invitation to a place I did not want to go. Rule number three. Do not stop. But what about turning? The old-timer hadn’t said anything about turning. My hands were slick on the steering wheel. The pull to turn, to follow the lights, to follow the Pacer’s silent instruction, was a physical thing. A magnetic urge. But the old man’s terrified voice was a louder sound in my head. You don’t want to go where it’s taking you. I kept the wheel straight. I kept my eyes on the road ahead, on the true, real, lonely ribbon of I-80. I ignored the phantom off-ramp. I ignored the silent, pointing arm in my periphery. The moment I passed the off-ramp, the atmosphere in the cab changed. The air grew cold, heavy. And the Pacer… it was no longer loping gracefully. The smooth, fluid motion was gone, replaced by a jerky, angry, frantic pumping of its limbs. It was still keeping pace, but it was a movement of rage, of frustrated energy. I had disobeyed. Up ahead, I saw flashing lights. My first thought was a police car, a state trooper. A wave of relief washed over me. But as I got closer, I saw it was just a car, pulled over on the shoulder, its hazard lights blinking in a steady, lonely rhythm. The driver’s side door was wide open. And standing perfectly still beside the car, silhouetted in the flashing orange light, was another Pacer. It wasn't moving. It was just standing there, as still as a statue, its head turned towards my approaching truck. It was waiting. Its partner had failed to guide me off the road. So now, it had a roadblock. Rule number one. Don’t stare at it. Rule number three. Do not stop. My foot trembled on the accelerator. Every instinct in my body was screaming at me to slow down, to swerve. But I could hear the old man’s voice. I kept the wheel straight. I focused on the space between the stopped car and the white line, a gap that was barely wide enough for my rig to fit through. As I drew level with the car, I couldn’t help but glance. For a split second, my eyes met the Pacer’s. It had no face. Just a smooth, grey, featureless expanse of skin where its eyes and mouth should have been. And as my high beams washed over it, that blank face turned, its head tracking my cab as I passed, a silent, damning accusation. I shot past the stopped car, my truck’s side mirror missing its open door by inches. In my rearview mirror, I saw the Pacer, still standing there, a silent, faceless sentinel in the flashing lights. And then, it started to move, loping after me, joining its partner in the angry, frantic chase. There were two of them now. The next few hours were the purest, most distilled form of terror I have ever known. Two loping, silent shapes in the darkness, one on either side of my truck. The road in front of me seemed to warp and twist, the white lines writhing like snakes. The ghost town lights appeared and disappeared on the horizon, a siren’s call I had to constantly, actively resist. My GPS was useless, the screen a chaotic mess of non-existent roads and impossible topography. I was alone, in the dark, in a place that was no longer following the rules of the world I knew. My only compass was the memory of the old trucker’s voice. My only hope was the faint, grey promise of dawn on the eastern horizon. I drove. I kept my eyes on the road. I didn’t acknowledge them. I didn’t stop. And as the first, tentative rays of sunlight finally, blessedly, began to pierce the darkness, they were gone. They didn’t run off. They didn’t fade away. They were just… not there anymore. The world outside my windshield was once again the familiar, empty, beautiful Utah desert. My GPS chimed, and the screen returned to normal, showing my little truck icon sitting perfectly on the solid, reassuring line of I-80. I drove until I reached town, the real one. I delivered my load. I quit my job. I’m in a cheap motel room now, a thousand miles from that stretch of road. But I know I’m not safe. Because last night, I broke rule number one. I stared. I let it see me see it. And I have the terrible, unshakable feeling that the next time I’m on a lonely road late at night, a Pacer will be there again until it makes me follow it. submitted by /u/gamalfrank to r/stories [link] [comments]

submitted by /u/SirJasper6969 to r/FuckImOld [link] [comments]

Remember how cool CB radios were? Having a sexy handle may be the equivalent of having a clever username now. submitted by /u/FoundObjects4 to r/GenX [link] [comments]

submitted by /u/Napunsak_Neutron to r/interestingasfuck [link] [comments]

submitted by /u/Edm_vanhalen1981 to r/FuckImOld [link] [comments]

submitted by /u/pbjelly345 to r/LifeProTips [link] [comments]

submitted by /u/Riptidecharger to r/todayilearned [link] [comments]

submitted by /u/elle0331 to r/todayilearned [link] [comments]