The Truck, Again (From Sally Marshall, author of "Are You Still Hip?")
My truck is approaching its 20th birthday and is still hanging in there. The body has the usual issues of old age so, I now refer to it as the “Parts Missing” model, as it will periodically jettison pieces of rusted metal while the prevailing rust continues to work its way through the finish creating unusual “art forms”. The interesting benefit from this phenomenon is that I am actually getting better gas mileage these days, which I attribute to the fact that the body is now slightly lighter in weight than when it was new.
I still use Gorilla tape to patch up the fenders (or what used to be the fenders). It is a losing battle with the rest of the body. The tailgate is rusted through, as well as the front bumpers, and the panel under the doors is simply missing. I’ve noticed lately that there are large patches of discoloration on the hood and other areas where the finish is displaying odd behaviors. When I wash my truck, I make a mental note of where the rusted parts look ready to fall off; then, I’ll remove those parts with my tools – it’s better than watching a large piece of metal fly off and tumble to the side of the road while I’m driving – kind of embarrassing.
The good news is that my truck is still running like new – amazing! When I take it in for an oil change and maintenance check, I always have the mechanic examine the undercarriage carefully for any signs of the frame rusting out – good idea. My truck’s “technical control center” has the usual odd quirks of old age, such as the warning lights on the dashboard coming on randomly. It still insists I should “Service Engine Soon”, and the brake warning lights will come on occasionally. This only means my anti-lock system is resting for a while – nothing to worry about. Last year, I noticed my air conditioning system appeared to need an occasional rest, too; and this year it decided not to work at all. So, I just open the windows for a breeze – just like in the old days before air conditioning.
My friends will periodically suggest it’s time to get rid of it, but I remind them that you don’t dismiss something just because it’s old. After all, we are old, too, and we are still hanging in there. Most importantly, I still enjoy driving it. I love to shift the gears and hear that whine of the transmission while downshifting into a lower gear; and I love the fact that very few people even know how to operate a five-speed manual transmission any more so, I don’t worry about someone trying to steal it. My friends remind me that, if someone actually stole it, they would probably bring it right back – very funny. I also don’t worry about it getting dented or scratched by some careless motorist; and people still give me a wide berth on the road for some reason.
My truck is primarily used to haul my kayak to boat landings. I just drop it into the back, tie on a few lines, and we are off to an adventure on one of the beautiful rivers in our area. My paddling friends and I decided to do a trip on the Kickapoo River the end of July (after a major heat wave passed), so I packed up my paddling gear, put the boat in the back of the truck, and set off for the Kickapoo. The section of the river we planned on paddling was roughly an hour and a half drive north, so I made sure to leave early enough to have a comfortable margin to get me there on time. I’m a stickler for being on time.
So, my truck and I are happily cruising down the road, the boat nested in the back with the little red flag attached to the end (this is a required attachment when anything sticks out of the back more than three feet), enjoying the scenery and driving with the windows down to catch a breeze. Life was good. I was about one-half hour into my trip when something caught my eye in my side-view mirror. It was a county Sheriff with its lights flashing, so I pulled over to let it pass. It did not pass. It pulled in right behind me. The first thought that entered my mind was some piece of metal flew off the truck in view of the Sheriff; the second thought was perhaps the little red flag had gotten detached; the third thought was that one of my lights was not working. None of the above.
The county Sheriff spent a bit of time in his vehicle while I rested alongside the road, a bit irritated that I might be late getting to the boat landing. After doing whatever Sheriffs do in there, he finally emerged from his patrol car and started approaching my vehicle while I watched him from my side-view mirror. As he got closer he paused a moment, looking at my truck and the little green kayak sticking out of the back and I realized at that moment what an unusual sight my truck probably was to him, with the Gorilla tape fenders, those conspicuous parts missing that may have seemed important to the uninitiated, and a little green kayak with a large patch on the keel. I imagined him saying something like, “Miss, do you really feel this truck is safe to drive?” That’s not what he said. First, he asked me if I knew why he had stopped me (is that a trick question?). I said no. He said “You were speeding”. Speeding?!!
I did not think my truck could speed. We are always being passed by other vehicles, and my friends know I am the slowest driver in the county. As I sat there, incredulous, absently staring at the hood of my truck, I could swear for a moment I saw its finish brighten and shimmer in the sunlight. The truck was gloating. I couldn’t have been more proud. It made me feel a bit like a rebel – we were speeding! The Sheriff was very kind, probably taking pity on me for having to drive this old relic, and only gave me a warning to slow down.
After giving the Sheriff many thanks for not ticketing me, I pulled out onto the road, now very cognizant of my speedometer, and taking a little pride in my new status as a rebellious senior. I actually got to the boat landing on time, and with a story to tell which I embellished with a bit of dramatic color, of course.
The rest of the day was perfect. The Kickapoo River was beautiful, the day sunny and warm, as we paddled our kayaks on the quiet waters of a river graced with ancient rock outcroppings; and enjoyed natures’ gifts, free of charge.
On the drive home, I took the same route, occasionally focusing my gaze on clusters of roadside trees or secluded backroads where Sheriff patrol cars could be covertly hidden waiting for their prey. I noticed that my truck seemed to be taking the bumps in the road a bit heavy at times, but I had a scheduled appointment the next day for the usual oil change and maintenance, and would make sure they checked the undercarriage. So, the next day I dropped off my truck at the service garage and walked home. When I got home there was a phone message waiting for me. It was my service technician, with an “update” on my truck (?). I called him back immediately. The news was not good. When they put the truck on the hoist and began lifting, a large chunk of the frame fell off.
One of the mechanics bought my truck to salvage all the parts that were still good. That was such a sad day for me. Our last trip together was the truck’s last hurrah; and I’ll always remember that little gleam on the hood when we got pulled over for speeding – way to go, old girl!
