Truckin'
OK, I admit it: I love to drive a pickup truck.
I like the rattle and bangs. I like the fact the older ones have a real carburetor and wing windows that actually work
This borrowed one I drive now needs to be slipped a little gas each morning in the carburetor before it will kick. But then it roars into life.
I was without wheels for awhile, as I�ve told you before.
A real good friend gave me use of his son�s pickup truck while said son is on campus at Ball State and not in need of wheels.
It�s an old truck. Rust may be the only thing connecting the body parts.
I love it.
I�ve fed it oil, gas, antifreeze and one new wiper blade. It has twice sputtered out of gas so far. The gauge does not work.
So far, the old truck and I have rolled into two adventures.
As I exited my office one night, closer to midnight than any other hour, the battery was dead. Dead. Dead. Even a jump start from Young An-thony didn�t convince it to resurrect the roar.
So I call Patti and say you have got to come and get me. I knew dead.
She did too, only she was referring to the space where many other men have a brain.
She suggested I walk down to the corner gas station and get them to jump me. I pleasantly asked which decade she was living in , because corner gas stations don�t do that anymore. They have folks behind bulletproof glass taking your gas money. They don�t know jumps from gas pumps.
She came. We had a conversation on the way home.
Next day, I recharged an old battery in my garage, took it work and spent the late morning installing it, which included buying new battery cables because the old battery was a top connector and the newer ones are side mounts.
The very first day it worked, I drove to Bourbon to visit one of the offices there. As I started driving south, next to Bremen, all of a sudden Blammo! the right front tire blows. This convinced the right rear to go out as well.
I did have the company cell phone and I did get to call a tow truck guy who towed me to Bremen to Tony�s garage where Tony simply shook his head, smiled and made the deal for two used tires to get me on the road again.
Hey, I was happy.
The truck didn�t roll, so that means it likes me.
Did I mention there is no radio? The previous owner had some midnight entrepreneur borrow it and he didn�t leave a note.
That�s OK, too. Spartan and trucks seem to go together fine.
I sing and think on my trips. I think better than I sing, but no one else is there anyway. There is something about a drive on a moonlit night in Indiana in the fall that demands a truck as the best mode of transportation, right hand on the wheel, left one hanging out the window or resting on the rear-view mirror
This the best therapy I�ve had in a long while.
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