Nine years old behind the wheel. Farm rules.
Didn’t need a permit when your nearest neighbor was a mile away.
1987 F-150 XLT—extended cab, two-tone gray. EFI 5.0 with an AOD. Just rear-wheel.
Back then, it was the Cadillac model. Hell, it even had door pockets.
It was my grandpa Mack’s.
Pretty sure he paid two grand for it in 2002—secondhand, of course.
He taught me how to work on things.
More like how to fix them with duct tape and baling wire.
That’s what you do when you live in the middle of nowhere.
My dad showed me how to fix things the right way—usually.
Mack died at 83.
Grandma kept the truck going a while—woods runs, trash hauls.
Couple of summers I went down to fix things.
Rattle-canned the hood primer gray.
(Yeah, what a great fix. Thanks, teenage me.)
After a few years, it fell into disrepair.
Sat in the gravel driveway for at least seven.
Then one day, Grandma called me.
“I’m gonna give it to that nice high school boy. He keeps asking about it at church.”
Um—no the fuck you aren’t.
I went down there that day.
Grandma told me how the boy was polite. Handy.
I didn’t answer.
Didn’t have to.
Brought all the usual bullshit things Fords need: fuel pump.
Always the goddamn fuel pump.
Every time with these 8th gens and their stupid fuel system.
Fuck those tank switchers. I bypass their ass every time.
Fuel pump in. Fires right up. Horribly.
I mean, barely running—like a cartoon.
Struck up a deal with a local hotshot hauler.
Managed to barely get it on the trailer under its own power.
She just waved, small.
Like she was letting go of something heavy.
I cried.
Didn’t plan to. Didn’t try not to.
Got it home to my place the next day, and the project began.
First, Heineken, and a Camel.
Old man would be proud.
Or wonder why it was only 9 a.m.
Everything Wrong with an Abandoned Truck
It was bad:
Immediately take Senator Sawzall to the muffler (fuck yeah).
Feel better.
Fuel pump. All three.
Fuel filter.
Remove rear tank—fucked.
Replace front tank.
Rewire fuel pump connections.
Have a third fuel pump I can’t do anything with. FUCK.
Water pump.
Timing chain—still had the OG plastic gear one. So much sludge it almost started playing Pantera.
Break the timing chain cover someone (Mack) had Heli coiled.
New timing cover—pain in the ass on a 302.
Power steering pump and pulley.
New tires (the old ones looked like an Arizona parking lot).
Oil changed three times.
Three oil filters.
Weld in Flow master 10, run duals out behind the tires—cowboy cut, baby.
First Drive
Interior smelled like Caney Creek mud and Mack’s Kents.
Perfect.
Radio worked: Dire Straits–Money for Nothing.
Cigarette lighter worked: Click. Pop. Another one of God’s cigarettes burned to the butt.
Key in. Click. Classic Ford starter sound.
5.0 caught, roared a mighty song—releasing years of pent-up bald eagles in a fury that would hunt down small animals without mercy.
We had to make a trip.
Slip into drive.
Right after the most badass guitar riff of all time and the drums kick in with bass so hard it’ll make your head spin.
Full throttle.
Full brake.
Full burnout.
Rear end posi still works. Beautiful.
Smoke coming in the cab.
Neighbors mad as fuck.
Children screaming.
5.0 screaming louder.
Feeling like the baddest motherfucker in town.
BOOM.
Karma.
U-joint let go and joined Voyager II in orbit.
Spent the rest of the afternoon with Heinekens and pressing in new U-joints.
Real First Drive
This was the kind of drive it was built for.
I needed more oil.
Okay—I needed more beer.
But I also got some extra oil while I was there.
Notice anything wrong with that list?
Yeah. No mention of looking at the brakes.
On the drive home, I hear scraping.
Turn up the radio. “Nutshell” by Alice in Chains. DJ’s trying to kill me today.
Now the scraping’s louder than the radio.
Pull over.
Front passenger wheel smoking. Grease catches fire. FUCK.
No fire extinguisher.
Case of beer.
Sigh.
Lit a cigarette off the burning wheel. Didn’t say a word.
Reluctantly throw a beer into the wheel well.
Finally get the wreck home. Four beers short.
Still runs.
Brakes work now.
Mostly.
– Dedicated to Mack
