My New Old Truck

I’ve been on the hunt for an old truck.

It’s on my list.

#6 says “Drive a restored classic pick-up.

I had an idea for something like this.

Or even this:

But instead, I got this:

when my husband came in the other day and said, “Hey babe, I got good news for you.”

Of course my interest was piqued right then and there.

“My buddy, Ol’ Earl is going to give you a pick-up.” 

Give is the operative word here.  At this point, I should have come to my vehicular senses and realized that a truck that is going to be given away probably didn’t win first prize at the Car Show last weekend. 

J-Dub says it’s nice, as he draw the word out for emphasis.  There isn’t a tear in the seat, it’s clean.  It’s niiiiiiiiiiiice.

We go to pick it up.  Rather, we attempt to pick it up.  J-Dub grabs a can of starter fluid ’cause Ol’ Earl says it’s a cold natured bleepity bleep.

I crawl behind the wheel.

The problem with these old trucks and me is even with the seat pushed all the way forward, I can barely get the clutch all the way to the floorboard.  I’m going to have to put a pillow behind my back or something.

J-Dub gives it a squirt of starter fluid.  I pump the gas and turn the crank. 

It rr-rrrr-rrr-r–rrrrr-r-r–rrrrrr-‘s for a while. 

But nothing.

So J-Dub gives it some more squirts.  I pump the foot feed some more and crank it over.

Rrrrrr–rrrrr-rrrrr-r-r-rrrr-rr-rr–r-r–r-r-r.

But nothing.

So J-Dub gives it some more squirts.  I pump the gas and  turn the key, and pump the gas some more.

And then we catch it on fire.

I mean literally.

Not that it fired up, but now I think I know how that term originated, but it caught on fire. 

We (I mean Jason) put out the fire with a couple bleepity bleeps as I rushed for my camera.

We don’t give up easy however.  A measly old fire isn’t going to deter the two of us.  We tried some more, with no success, and then gave up.

Within the next few days, Ol’ Earl changed the fuel filter.  He’s niiiiiiiiiice.  So tonight we went out for Picking up the Truck:  Take Two.

It had been sitting on a battery charger, so my hopes were high.

After hunting for the key for a good 10 minutes, and a few more bleepity bleeps out of Jason, a few more pumps on the gas, a few more turns of the key, a few more rrrrrrr—r-rrrrrrr–r-r-rrrrrrrrrrr–r-rrrrrrrrrr’s and it fired right up.

Then died.

Then a few more pumps of the foot feed, a few more turns of the key, a few more rrrrr-r-rrrr-r-r-r-rrr-r-r–r’s and it fired up again.

And died.

Third time is always the charm.

So now I’ve got a truck.

It’s not restored.

It’s not classic.

Heck, it’s not even legal.

But check out the stereo system in this thing.

Now that’s what I’m talking about.