Where it all began. (by Bob Dunfee)

I’ve been nuts about cars since before most people have any memories.  I clearly remember my parent’s baby blue ’61 Plymouth and how I thought it was ugly even then.  I have distinct memories of the taillamps and the front grille and headlamps, but not the interior.  When Mom parked it on our steep driveway she would place a “huge” square rock behind the front tire.  I still have that rock now, and it is only about half the size of a concrete block, but I remember that I couldn’t lift it back then.

 My dad stated the Plymouth was cursed.  It got hailed on, an experienced semi-driver backed over the trunk, and other bad things followed it. Mom decided she needed something small to drive around town, like, maybe a Volkswagen.  Joe Pronto’s dad (a salesman at James Motors) said he had just the car for her and would bring it by the house that night.  I was only 27 months old when that claret red metallic ’63 Chrysler showed up in the driveway and Pronto had to drive the ’61 back to work the next morning (more on the red Chrysler later).  A few months after that, the Plymouth was in the newspaper, prominently featured in the photos of a fatality accident.

Mom got the barely used Chrysler and Dad kept driving his thundering red and white ’57 Olds 88 Holiday hardtop.   I always thought the Olds was cool.  I remember cold mornings with the exhaust coming out the bumper ports and the starburst designs woven into the seat covers, but Mom complained it wouldn’t pass a gas station.  They always traded at the Sinclair on the corner of St Patrick St. and Fifth, and I thought it was great fun watching the little amber balls spin around on the side of the gas pump while the Olds took on another 20 some gallons.  Dad commuted to the airport, so my trips with him to the gas station were at least once a week.  To this day the smell of freshly lit match takes me back to riding in the back seat and barreling down a highway.  I could peer over the top of the front seat and see the needle bouncing to the right on the oval chrome speedometer, my dad’s face illuminated by the faint glow of the dash and a freshly lit cigarette. 

I figure I was about 3 1/2 when a teenager picked up the neighbor girl for a date and then smacked into the back of it.  Police cars, a guy with a bloody face, and all sorts of excitement ensued.  Soon after that the Olds was repaired at the Robbinsdale body shop (was that Milo Schindler way back then?) and traded for a ’63 Plymouth.

The Plymouth was a real runner.  It had the same 383 as Mom’s Chrysler, but a four barrel instead of just a two.  More that once I remember my father turning right off of St Patrick Street to head up Elm Street, fishtailing on the smooth asphalt with both the little 14 inch bias plys smoking away.  He was 58 years old, making good money, and didn’t seem to care about the whole ticket thing.

I also remember when he decided to go check out the new Stevens High School.  By this time I suppose he was 60.  He drove over the curb, and then drove around on the sidewalks around the new school to get a better look.  A police officer pulled up in a big Delta 88 cherry top and asked him what the hell he was doing.  “Just checking out what 50 years of paying my taxes has built,” he said.  No citations were issued.

Dad really didn’t respect his cars at all.  He would take them to the Badlands to go rock hunting, and occasionally take the steep trails up to the top of Signal Heights just because he could.  I think he washed them once every Spring.

During this formative time the neighbors’ cars were awesome.  There were really no hot rods, except for the lavendar’37 Chevy Roadster with yellow wire spokes.  But cool luxury cars and muscle cars were everywhere. 

Across the street was a blue ’56 and a white ’63 Imperial.  Next door was a green ’67 Camaro jacked up like a dog in heat.  Salesman Pronto down the street had a black ’66? GTO with a red interior and a vacuum gauge, and a matching black Lemans, along with an always brand new demo.  (One of my favorites was his 1968 Satellite 2 door in B5 blue, just gorgeous).  They had a bunch of boys, and one day the oldest son came out while all us kids were in the yard, and lit that GTO up, leaving two black stripes all the way to Third Street.  Cool.

There was a gold ’57 Chevy two door across the street, Mr. Walsh from the men’s wear store had a Model A stashed in his carport, Bill Potter bought a new avocado green’68 Dodge Charger R/T for his wife Judy, Charlie Whisler had a whore red ’57 Imperial sedan, the interior of a ’67 Thunderbird Landau a couple houses down was incredible, and Kim Morrison’s mom brought home a teal Cougar with sequential tail lamps.  That was a very pretty car.

So all those car memories happened before I was 5 years old.  I started cutting pictures of cars out of the newspaper and magazines, and my grandmother helped me with a scrapbook and labeling all of them.  Unfortunately this somehow disappeared from Mom’s house when I lived in California, I imagine my sister helped out by throwing them away.  

Dad helped me out by testing my knowledge going down the road.  I had to correctly name the make and model, and then try for the year.  I was no good at anything before about 1955 (which he could always get, or at least make up something that sounded good) but it was still a lot more fun than counting horses. 

So anyway, my favorite cars were Chrysler Imperials and British sports cars.  120 cars later I’ve still never owned an Imperial and only one MG and three Jags.  Why?  Simple.  Muscle cars were cheap in 1977, and I had discovered horsepower.

Remember that ’63 Chrysler?  It became one of my mother’s favorite cars.  She had gotten a new car every two years, and when they went to trade it in on teal ’65 Newport, she changed her mind.  She looked at Oldsmobiles, Plymouths, and an awesome Buick Wildcat coupe.  But the Chrysler remained.  And with good reason.

Legend has it that my dad was in Denver with one of his younger FAA employees, finishing up some mandatory training.  He was Governor of the Moose Lodge in ’65, and needed to get back for a 7:00 p.m. meeting.  It was a little before 3:00 when he called from the Denver FAA office.  It was before 7 when he walked into the Rapid City Moose Lodge.  He had turned the wheel over to his young staff member, with one simple directive: Rapid City, 7:00.  One gas stop on the way.

That Chrysler was a road car, and Mom kept it ready for action with lots of new tires and aftermarket seat belts in the back for my sister and I.  The Interstates were still under construction, and I remember her saying that she didn’t really like to drive much over 100.  She said it ran real nice at 87.  I have no idea where I got my tendency to want to go fast…

Anyway, as the Chrysler came up on 100,000 miles she finally relented and got a ’70 Plymouth Fury III with just a 318.  However, she kept the Chrysler for a spare.  The Plymouth lasted about a year and a half, she blew the engine on a high speed interstate run somewhere between Presho and Midland.  I guess it just didn’t have the long legs of the Chrysler.  A rock solid ’72 Impala followed, and she still kept the Chrysler.

I started driving at 14, just after the family took a cruise to Bear Butte and back in the ’63 to watch the odometer turn over 100,000 miles.  To commemorate this, Dad took the Chrysler in for a top engine job.  A week after that he had the transmission re-built.  Then this was assigned to me since it was the oldest car in the driveway.  Mother was not thrilled.

You know how adolescents don’t have a grasp of the consequences of their actions?  You know how big Chrysler V-8’s seem kind of doggy off the line…that whole torque versus horsepower thing with highway gears?  You know how a 383 wakes up with a little bit of a cam and dual exhausts, especially above 75 mph when those highway gears start to make sense?  You know how crazy it is to have bias ply snow tires and have the goal of dropping the needle past 120?  I guess it’s probably good that Mopars had notorious speedometer error or I probably would have never lived to be 16.  In any case, the Chrysler was quite a machine, especially with shag carpet, an under dash 8 track, and speakers on the rear deck.  I took off the hubcaps, painted the wheels red candy over bright white, and added trim rings, chrome lug nut covers, and center caps.  This is also when I learned about old Mopars and the meaning of L or R stamped into the wheel lug top.  Damn, I could not get those to budge until my mother came out and schooled me a bit.

A classmate, Pat Jones (former principal or RC Central) got a new blue and white Chevy truck with a 400.   We went up on Hwy 16 and lined up.  The old Chrysler would barely turn over a tire if you launched easy, and Pat’s new 400 c.i. truck was holding the lead until about halfway through 2^nd gear.  At 70 the old Chrysler edged past and started to walk away, when that final upshift from 2^nd to 3^rd happened at 88 mph the car lengths stretched out between us like a semi truck.  I shut down at about 115, with my right leg jumping all over the place from the adrenalin rush.  That was fun…if I catch my boys doing it on the public highways they are grounded for life.

So I wasn’t 15 yet when my friends (the twins) bought a ’69 Chevelle Malibu.  Their dad found this good little Chevy with about 36,000 miles.  It was factory red with silver sills, had a 350, Muncie four speed, and factory posi-trac, all sitting on some Magnum 500 wheels with dual white stripe tires.  A black pinstripe ran down the side of the body.  There was no power steering, no power brakes, no air conditioning, and a bench seat.  It did have a factory rear seat speaker to go with the AM radio.  Weird options, yes.  Damn cool, double yes.  I will swear on a stack of Hot Rod magazines that this was the quickest stock small block car I have ever driven or ridden in, and quicker than a lot of built small blocks and most any stock big block we ran against.  Of course, it topped out at about 105.  You can still see her, forlornly sitting beside his house at the Chapel Lane Y.  We were old enough to know better, probably 18, when she got put into a nice flat spin coming out of the first corner going up highway 16.  Just a little over 90 mph but it was spitting rain. This episode had something to do with girls.  Stupid, lived through it, beat the crap out of the car hitting some posts, and yes, my sons would be grounded for life. 

Anyway, the Chevelle was my introduction into TORQUE and numerically high gears.  I hated jocks, hated Mustangs, and was crazy for speed. But I was working in Keystone so I bought a Honda N600 sedan from Rapid Motors for $495.  Got a loan from the credit union for $44.38 per month.  After getting run off the road and almost killed by a Michigan tourist, my belief in seatbelts was reinforced.  READ THIS:  I WOULD BE DEAD AT 15 if I had not had my seatbelt on...it was bad enough with it.  So, I went looking for something else cheap to drive...of course a Toyota ‘cause gas was up to 55 cents a gallon.   I customized my HiLux truck by shaving the bed hooks, filling the side markers, adding Western Cyclone 1 wheels, a black and gold crushed velvet interior, and priming the whole thing.  I cut the front springs and put on some Thrush side pipes.  Kenny’s body shop laid on the 1977 Chrysler Sunfire Metallic black paint (still a great color) for $120 including materials.  I spelled out “SPEED THRILLS” with vinyl letters on the back glass, but had to really rev her up and dump the clutch to light ‘em up at McDonalds.  Obviously, I needed more cubic inches.

I had long hair and a bad attitude, I figured I needed a bad attitude car.  Looked at a bunch of ’68-’70 Chargers, but they wanted so much for them….usually between $800 and $1400, and you could usually find some rust.  Damn near bought a 383 four speed combo but gee, that driver’s seat cover needs some work.  Looked for a ‘Cuda and couldn’t fine one.  Looked at a ’71 Chevelle 402 but everyone had a Chevelle, big whoop.  Looked at ’63 Triumph Spitfire, red with a white top and non-synchromesh transmission.  Well, OK I just had to check it out.

Then I got serious.  I needed a four speed, and I needed to be able to drop in a built 350.  Old cars were cool.  I needed a ’57 Chevy and Carl Satterlee had one for sale.  So I called RC Cycle and went to see him.  This was September or October of 1978.  He had a metallic blue ’57 Hardtop with a 327, a four speed with a too short shift handle, and a black diamond pleat interior.  $1600 and looks good and sounds good.  I had $1500.  One paycheck later and he had sold it to someone else.

So I saw a black ’57 in the paper and went to check it out.  Drove to Hot Springs with Mom and Dad to look at it and it was super nice.  Fresh black 2 door sedan, 283, four speed.  Offered him $1500, he said $1600, so drove home to sleep on it…after all it was not a hardtop.  Called back the next day to meet his price, and get, “My girlfriend really likes it and doesn’t want me to sell it.”  What a pussy. 

So finally in December I see an ad for a ’56 hardtop Bel-Air 400c.i. for $2200  Call the guy up and find out that Kelly Lane (who had once been my Scoutmaster) has it for sale on behalf of his brother, Tim Lane, who owned Granny’s Speed Shop in Lead/Deadwood.  Apparently Tim had the 400c.i. small block professionally built by local renowned race motor builder (you know who) and went through a number of 12 bolt posi and 10 bolt rear ends, usually when leaving the bar. 

Had to go look at it, and it was cold as hell.  The battery was in the trunk so we had to jump start it to get it to turn over.  She was rough.  Typical car from Lead, both headlamp hoods rusted out, caved in driver’s door, bumper hitch in the back that had severely modified the bumper, ripped up carpet, radical 400 small block with two big air filter elements stacked up, different sized mufflers with no cross over, 8 inch Corvette rallye wheels all around with bald tires on front, old black GTO seats, and 3 coats of faded copper and white paint.  Door locks didn’t work, air shocks leaked and rubbed the back tires, it wouldn’t start, the speedometer didn’t work, the shifter hole had been hacked and left a gaping void between the seats.   Good god, I was in love.  I had to have it.  The “Ka Boompity Boompity” of the cam sounded like a pair of Harley Davidson’s on their honeymoon. 

He wanted more for this car than any other I had looked at.  Said he might take $2000 but I didn’t have it.  Went home with a head full of dreams.  About a month later Kelly calls me up and says Tim really needs to sell it.  I think the price he shot me was $1800.  For some reason I was short a couple hundred bucks, still paying for the Toyota and all.  I hang up the phone and my Dad asks who it was.  I tell him what’s goin’ on and he says, “Well let’s drive over there and get it.”  I couldn’t believe it.  This was the ONLY time he had given me any cash, even fifty cents, since I was 14 years old and had a job.  I was thrilled, and hope I thanked him enough before he died.  

Every bit of money I made went into the Chevy, and when I finally sold the Toyota pickup I was able to get serious about fixing it.  First thing was traction bars.  She would hop like a trout in the bottom of a boat if you even tried to lay into it in first or second gear.  I adjusted the snubbers up against the springs and it was a whole new world.  Then I got the biggest battery I could find back then, a whopping 660 Amp one.  I found some High Speed Pursuit G78-15 bias plys on clearance for the front end, and replaced the air shocks.  I also went ahead and added 3 more bolts to mount the seat, since the previous single mounting bolt engineering job caused it to swivel at the wrong moment.

However, I left the super fast homemade clutch linkage.  The clutch pedal was off the floor only as far as the power brake pedal when it was engaged, and it would start to catch about half an inch off the floor.  It was awesome!  Gave me an excuse to wear those big hiking boots, and caused permanent damage to my left foot.  (This is when I reinforced my knowledge about fulcrums and levers.)

The ‘56 was running like crap, too rich and would cut out.  An ignition tune up, a rebuild of the Holley carb, and I was ready for the Mustangs.  The first time I laid into it after the major tune up and with the traction bars was at least as much fun in the front seat as I’d had in the backseat of the Chrysler. 

I got a couple of good front fenders with the car, and a nice door.  I set to work stripping the body with chemical stripper, a scraper, and a DA sander.  The three coats of old paint were probably an eighth of an inch thick.  I eventually took it to Joe’s Sandblasting and he blew off the panel edges and such.  I removed the bumpers and found a decent used rear in Belle Fourche.  (I often ran without a front bumper for about four years, going for that gasser look I guess.) 

I finished up after a couple more weeks with the DA sander.  Sometime in here I had removed the interior and left door, plus everything off the front clip except the radiator support and inner fenders.  I decided to blast up Hwy 16 one time, and I think she was just about airborne….Kids, grounded for life, all that.

Denny Scholl worked at Thomas Auto Body, but took on the project in his dad’s shop.  Chose a brilliant white for the upper body and ‘77 Cadillac saffron metallic for the hood and lower body, so it was kind of a stock look but with a lot more flash.  He put in a small quarter panel patch, blocked it out, and shot it with Acrylic Lacquer which came out extremely deep and shiny.  This job was supposed to cost me $750 but I think he dinged me for an extra $100, which took me a while to pay.  I ran the car over to French’s, and for $620 they did carpet, seats, doors, kick panels, and the parcel shelf with white naugahyde pleats and copper piping.  Sorry, couldn’t afford Slim’s Auto Trim.  The car was finally finished at the end of September.  I was a Senior and ready to hunt Mustangs.

On the night after the big Cobbler/Raider football game I got pulled over on 8^th Street, headed South, just before St. Pat.  Everyone I had ever known drove by.  It took that cop at least 45 minutes to write me a fix-it ticket for a burned out second element on my left taillamp.  At least the starter had time to cool off so it cranked over when he finally turned me loose. 

I did some horribly dangerous things that year.  I hit the dip in front of Kmart at about 70 mph and skidded out into Campbell Street.  I think I eluded officers three times, but not really sure if it counts when they don’t get close enough to you to see your license plate.  I used to take her sideways through the median going up Hwy 16 just to scare people. I pulled the front end up once when I hit 2^nd gear and scared myself.  I beat up on every Mustang I could.  I got beat after second gear by Wylezik’s 427 c.i. ’57, really surprised me as I’d never seen taillights like that before.   I got into a short race with the current principal of North Middle School when she drove a ’68 Chevelle SS.

By April of my senior year the 400 had to go, trouble was starting to follow me.  I paid $600 for an almost new 305 out of a Monte Carlo and tucked it in.  We put the 400 in a ’69 Firebird my friend had, and still has.  Last August he called me up and said to come down and pick up the motor.  He'd trade for a steak dinner.  So, unbelivably I just got back that mighty mouse engine after 28 years. 

Sometime after my Junior year, and before I sold the Toyota, he and I had bought a ’54 Cadillac hearse for $175.  We brought it home behind the Toyota from its resting place up in Carriage Hills.  At the corner of West Boulevard and Kansas City I fried the Toyota tires trying to get it rolling.  As we pulled it across Mt. Rushmore Road the left front tire finally blew out.  Then we started the interior on fire with some bad fuel pump wiring.  In any case we pulled the top off the engine and Johnson Machine boiled out the heads for us and didn’t charge a thing, probably felt sorry for us when they found a little crack.  We put it back together and it ran a whole lot better anyway.  Drove it to Denver and back, used it as a camper all summer, and “really impressed” the chicks during the homecoming parade and up on Skyline.  Wanted to paint “Meatwagon Express” on the sides, but the neighbors were already complaining about it being parked out on the street.   Idiots would always come up and say, “Nice Hurst, Dunfee” and I’d say, “Yeah, that Competition Plus shifter in my Chevy is sweet.”

Right after graduation I had a Tuesday night off and ran into the Counts at Family’s Sub Shop on 8^th Street.  Neuzil set me up with an application and Satterlee sponsored me, so a month later I became a Count.  I remember going for a ride in Carl’s low rider turtle back T that first night, and someone passing a bottle of Mad Dog to us from another car while we rolled down the street.  Times have changed a bit.

Remember the ’63 Chrysler?  It was finally traded in June of 1980 on a used, very rare 1975 Buick Century Pace Car that my sister gradually destroyed.  Some reservation residents bought the Mopar Missle off the back row at Brekhus Buick and it was seen a couple of days later pulled over by Halley Park, steam pouring out from under the raised hood.  I suppose that was the end of her.

All pause now for a moment of silence to hail the great and mighty ’63 Chrysler.  I’m thinking she committed hari kari right there on Main Street.  Rest in Peace, oh car of my youth.

About a year later I’d finished a lot of work on the ’56.  New transmission, new wiring harness (except for the headlamps), new front bumper, new tires, and a wiper motor that actually worked.  Headed for the Scottsbluff rod run with only 2^nd and 4^th gear because we hadn’t had time to adjust the shifter.  Then the driveshaft fell off south of Chadron.  Got a ride, got a joint (the spicer kind), and got back to the car.  A rattlesnake had crawled underneath to stay out of the sun.  Made it to Scottsbluff.  Went on the poker run and then stopped in town.  Drank at the bar.  Headed back to the campground and the headlamp wiring caught fire.  Pulled over at a gas station.  They were closing but said I could leave it inside if we got it to stop smoking.  Did that.  Pulled into their bay.  Looked for hissing sound.  Observed back tire going flat.  Danny Gorman was on a motorcycle with only one helmet, so he said he’d have someone come pick me up.  Waited outside the station.  Proved to cop that we had money so didn’t get arrested for vagrancy.  Waited for our ride.  Started to feel sober.  Visited with cop again.  Couple of hours later Art Herder showed up in his new Trans Am.  Climb in the tiny back seat and headed back to the campground.  Missed the awards ceremony and the Hard Luck trophy because I was stuck by the road.  They saved it for me and I got it with breakfast.  Good times, awesome fun.

In 1982 I got the opportunity to buy a ‘70 Cyclone Spoiler 429 SCJ.  I’d been after this particular car for a while and picked it up with only 50,000 miles on the odometer.  Come to find out a lot of this accumulated mileage was from the Orange County Dragstrip, and from 1973 forward it had mostly been a bracket car.  Don Hauer and I had a lot of fun doing a smokey Go-Whoa event that summer.  We had a terrible E.T., but we made more noise and tire smoke than anyone else out there.

This car was later stolen from my garage, along with all my tools.  It was recovered about a week later, and I sold it to some cowboys.  Eventually the younger brother of the guy who stole it bought it and did a beautiful and correct restoration.  It got sold in about 2001 and hasn’t been seen since.  There is lots more to the story, involving cops, girlfriends, cop’s girlfriends, liquor, more cops, flying hoods, dragstrips, bad fuel pumps, midnight bonsai runs, and a flying Volkswagen…but that is a whole ‘nother chapter.

In about 1984 I dragged home a rusty hulk of ’64 Chrysler 300 convertible from Minnesota.  This took two trips and included a wheel spun off the axle, the car spontaneousley removing itself from a tow bar, a fuel pump, a coil wire, an irate highway patrolman, lots of dead slimy newts, a truck stop prostitute with a feather boa, lots of beer, mutant local residents, a lounge lizard Disco King guy, free storage in a trailer park, hitchhiking, a free ride from the highway patrol, senile old people, and a huge dump truck purchased at auction….in no particular order.  It was a great time.

 After stripping the body I found a shotgun blast into the driver’s door and some bullet holes through the inner windshield frame and front fender.  The car obviously had some history…and I found out all the serial number tags corresponded to a ’64 Chrysler New Yorker 4 door hardtop.  Hmmm.   It got painted Dr. Kildare gray, and a new black top turned it into a very pleasant car to drive.

After that I did a bunch of cars and bought a few already close to finished.  They include:

’70 Cutlass S 350 2 door sedan with 330 HP

’70 Cyclone Spoiler modified 429 Super Cobra Jet

’84 Buick Grand National Turbo

’68 Camaro RS/SS-350

’69 Camaro 327 coupe

’28 Ford Rat Fink, Cadillac powered roadster

’78 El Camino full custom

’79 El Camino SS

’65 Jaguar E-type

’68 Road Runner clone

’38 Chevy 2 door sedan (already done except for the parking brake)

’71 Lincoln custom

’64 Impala four speed

After selling those cars I never saw them again.  Weird, huh?

Currently I’m stuck with a radical ’53 Chevy truck and my dream car, a factory 429CJ/4 speed Cyclone Spoiler.   One of my sons is dying to buy a ‘65 Riviera, but is just a little short on cash…I guess it’s my turn to re-pay the favor now.  Thanks, Dad. 

I Need a New Hobby; or,

Another Great Trip to Colorado

                                                                                                       (by Bob Dunfee)

I have one unlucky friend (OK, maybe only one friend, period) who sometimes gets a call from me.  In my most cheerful voice I say, “How would you like to ride along to St. Paul/Fargo/Devil’s Lake/Watertown/Ft. Collins/etc. to pick up a car?”

“I don’t know, I’m kind of busy,” he always says.

“Oh it’s no big deal, we should be back the next afternoon…and I’ll buy the beer,” I carefully explain.

“I suppose we’ll be trailering?” he asks with a slight waiver in his voice.

“Oh yeah, but it’ll work out good…and I’ll take care of the beer, OK?” I counter with.

After a bit more negotiating I usually convince him that everything will work out fine…this time.  I really don’t understand his issue.  Sure, one time a rusty convertible passed us on a corner….the same one that had been attached to the tow bar behind us a few seconds before.  Then there was the convertible top that flew off.  And, the fenderless trailer that shot rooster tails about 90’ feet in the air during a downpour.  Of course there was that one 12-hour unfortunate incident in Minnesota with the axle breaking at the hub, the tire going into oncoming traffic on a two-lane, the “glad to catch up to us” highway patrolman, the prostitute with a feather boa, and Guido the trailer park Mafia guy.

Thinking back, there have been stitches, second degree burns, license points, countless gallons of gasoline, and the occasional paint damage.  All these could be avoided if I just took up a more mild-mannered hobby.  But I am a slow learner.

Most recently, I helped a guy sell a custom truck to Colorado.  In the “No Good Deed Goes Unpunished” category the truck was damaged by the buyer’s shipper and then the buyer was not happy with the truck in general…He said the radiator leaked, it ran awful and smoked all various colors, the various electronic components didn’t work, the engine was trashed, the battery was dead, the convertible top holdowns were not adequate, and on and on.  Plain and simple, he wanted his money back.  Tough luck, buyer beware, right?

Not so fast.  I had made the mistake of receiving the payment for the truck at my address….well, if pushed hard enough this might mean that I was a broker…something that you cannot be in South Dakota.  A brief consultation with the lawyer determined that if he sued, he would be suing me and the seller since I was the one who received the money….didn’t matter that I kept $0, that is zero, big fat goose egg, no dinero for helping out on the deal.  Guess it is time to go and buy a ’53 Chevy pickup my lawyer says.

So off I go, make the phone call to my unlucky friend.  Everything will be fine I state with confidence.  Things have changed…I don’t tow with a big Pontiac sedan or a half ton, short bed, six cylinder pickup with a bumper hitch anymore.  We’re talking Yukon XL folks, got the factory tow package and the 4.10 gears.  Pre-wired and cold air conditioning.  “It’ll be a fun trip,” I say.  “Maybe we can stop at Woody Creek Tavern…I’ll buy the beer.”

Had a great plan to pick up a U-Haul trailer only about two blocks from the truck, then make it back to Vale, CO where I had a pre-paid motel room off Orbitz for only $65.  Six hundred and thirty miles in a day, no sweat.  Leave at 7 a.m., load the trailer, and be done driving before 6.  Right.

Seems to be a lot of construction in July.  Between waiting for lead cars and dead standstill traffic it took us until 4 p.m. to get there, and that was at 5 or 10 over the limit whenever we were moving.  Picked up a trailer from the U-haul guy in Basalt, CO.  Nice guy, but boy he bent me over.  Old, all steel, rusty orange hulk of a trailer was hooked up.  We got to do that ourselves too, since he was the only guy there.  Ten minutes to 5, closing time for him.  Oh yeah, he didn’t reopen until 10 the next morning either.  Gotta sleep off the Rocky Mountain High, I guess.  Let’s call him The Hippy.

So we go around the corner, and there she is.  A slammed ‘53 Chevy pickup, convertible top, widened front fenders and hood.  All the seams were welded and filled.  Custom running boards flared out.  Back of the cab was split and widened to fit the Cadillac chassis.  The body had about 2 inches clearance off the pavement.  Gorgeous pearl beige and plum two-tone paint with a blue mid-coat.  All mine.  Damn, I don’t even like trucks.

Met the “buyer.”  Let’s call him Dick.  He seemed OK but mostly just wanted his check.  He already had AAA there with the ‘53 pulled up on a rollback truck because that’s what he said it took to get it unloaded off his transporter’s rig…did I mention it was low and wide?

I gave the ‘53 a once over.  The convertible top was bent and its headliner destroyed, both windshields were cracked, there was a little damage on the front roll pan.  The large solar collector was cracked, and then there was the paint damage from where the shipper had run a strap over it, destroying the top coat on both sides of the cab.  Not the pretty truck I had seen just 10 days earlier.  Blued and tattooed, that’s what I am.  

The whole deal with the roll back truck dumping it right onto the trailer was ridiculous.  Tried that a couple of times…blocked the trailer on all four corners but as front wheels went onto the trailer the weight came off the roll back and his suspension would come up.  Then he would end up too high…that was one of the stupidest things I have ever seen conceived of.  The truck driver was getting antsy to leave, so I finally told him to just dump it off his truck and we’d deal with it.  He’d already been there a couple of hours, due to us getting stuck in the last traffic jam and dealing with The Hippy.  I think he wanted some cash in addition to his regular fee…but I stiffed him ‘cause I was too stressed out and looking for a SawzAll.

So this carpentry crew was winding up their day and said we could use their tools and any lumber that was laying around, just close the lid when were done.  Nice fellows, and indeed we used some stuff.

Pulling onto the trailer was easy enough; until we got to the trailer fenders….did I mention that U-Haul has two sizes of trailers?  Nope, neither did The Hippy.  Of course everything was locked behind razor wire at The Hippy’s store, so we were stuck.  In Rapid City I would have just went and picked up a different trailer, let U-haul figure out the paperwork.  Impossible to do in Basalt, CO.

So, the truck was actually running OK, a little rough, and as it got warm it was leaking a few drops of coolant.  I can’t even go into the gory details, but I will say that Dick finally realized how screwed I was on this deal and gave us a lot of help.  It took four hours, a cutting torch, a SawzAll and two blades, a few chunks of lumber, and two hydraulic jacks…but eventually we squeezed (literally) the truck onto the too small trailer.   Dick really started to help about the time I asked for a “really big” hammer so I could smash all the fenders in…even he couldn’t stand to see that.

Eventually we had done more damage to the front pan and hacked the running boards all to hell.  I guess that’s the problem with welding and molding everything together…kind of hard to unbolt body components.  As a last insult, the trailer tail lamps stuck up over the deck, and caught the leading edge of the right rear fender.  That left a mark….and a hole.

I was sweating like a pig.  I cursed The Hippy loudly, more than once.  My left thumb was bleeding pretty good from the razor sharp sheet metal on the hacked off, previously molded in, running boards.  There were metal shavings in my eyes and my nose burnt from the billowing smoke and flames that resulted from application of a cutting torch to undercoating.   I threw a $10 bill into his SawzAll box for the trashed blades, and we got the hell out of there, promptly at 9:00 p.m.

The drive back took the same amount of time, top speed of about 65 but we didn’t get stopped in any construction areas.  The Yukon was struggling a bit coming up to the Eisenhower tunnel.  I’d never seen the gauge over 210 degrees before, but we had the windows down, the A/C off, and you could hear the auxiliary fans kicked in.  4,000 RPM and about 45 mph.  About then the amp gauge started to fluctuate wildly.   It didn’t drop and stay down, so we pressed on.

My buddy was sleeping off all the high altitude beer that we drank between 11 p.m. and closing time.  Yes, it is still possible to run up a $110 bar tab in a few hours in Vale, CO.  Maybe it was the tequila.  My eyes were dried up and sunken like two old raisins, my hands shook, and I had a fear of farting.  Perfect condition for coming off the Continental Divide with an extra 6000 pounds of trailer and load pushing.  I needed ice cream, a Pepsi, and maybe some Ibuprofen.  My bank account was in the same condition as the running boards, but at least we were headed home.

The rest of the trip was uneventful…saw a semi hit the ditch and lose his pup trailer…figured his day sucked even worse than mine.  In Cheyenne I did my best to sell the truck for a $2,000 loss to a roofing crew.  The father and his two sons couldn’t come up with cash until the following Tuesday, so we jumped back on I-25.

Unloading was a piece of cake, and attracted a crowd of 8 teenage boys.  They thought the truck was the coolest thing they’d ever seen.  Hmmm.  The radiator wasn’t leaking at all, but a power steering hose blew its nut all over the driveway.  The engine seemed to be running fine…maybe something about a carbureted engine at 9,000 feet was the problem.

So here’s the plan.  A 500 cube carbureted Cadillac engine rebuilt with just a little bit of extra cam.  The whole body lifted up on the chassis and airbags to get the low stance back.  New tinted glass for the windshields and a robust header panel.   A redo of all the body seams.  What’s left of the running boards taken off, make it look like a ’36 Cord.  Maybe a nice pleated interior with some door panel moldings that mimic the fender lines.  All the electronics ripped out in favor of good old engineering.  (Did I mention the recessed flat panel TV’s, video game, DVD players, and built in surround system?  Arrghh.)  Then a TH 400, removable hardtop, and a fiberglass bed cover.  Some different offset on the wheels and a respray.

Or, I could start collecting stamps.  I don’t think I can buy enough beer for anymore of this.