Two-tone, faded yellow and rust. That’s how I start when people ask about the best truck I ever owned. 1958 Ford pickup, short bed, 282 small block with three on the tree, over-drive, bench seating and the original round AM radio still intact and operational in the dash. My old man traded a couple beat up Volkswagons for it for my thirteenth birthday.
It was going to be “Our Project.”
Dad taught me gear-head basics on that truck. Bloody knuckles, grease in the teeth, frustrating hours breaking loose 40 years of rust on a single bolt. Dad used to drag race when he was younger and took me to many events. I was 5 years old, sitting in souped up cars in the pits, shaking hands with drivers, being called “partner,” and “big guy.” It was only natural to dream, plan on taking the stock work horse and transform it into the fastest truck at the amatuer speedway.
Before any real body work started, We notched the frame, dropped in a 429 cobra jet, complete with Holly double pumper 850. My teeth rattled when nearly 500 horses erupted forth when the butterfly audibly opened on the carburator with a whoosh. I wanted a show car, painted the engine compartment metallic blue to reflect nicely off the chrome Edelbrock headers and air filter cover. Never did decide on a body color…never really got that far. If you’re going to drag, you need some serious traction so Dad let me take the Dana 60 positraction rear end out of an old F150 sitting in the weeds. He promised traction bars, polished stainless steel, to ensure a strong start off the line.
“Our Project” was going to be a thing of motor head beauty, fearsome, muscular, a winner.
Funny isn’t it? How life is what happens while we are busy planning? Somewhere between 13 and 39, Dad got old. I got married, kids, a career, moved away from home. Things never progressed much after the metallic blue. Dad pulled the 429 out, sold it, worth more out than in. Put the stock 282 back in, better resale value he told me. I suppose its normal for fathers and sons to grow apart as life pulls us in different directions. The older, worried about survival, having enough for the twilight years. The younger, striving to build a future, a nest, a castle.
We don’t see each other enough anymore, living 2,000 miles apart. Phone calls are sometimes strange, forced. How are the kids? Weather? Hip still hurting you? But every once in awhile, we talk about the old truck. Still got it, under a tarp, three tone now, faded yellow, rust and metallic blue. Several weeks ago my 14 year old started pressing me about a car. “Gonna’ be driving soon Dad. Can I have your old truck?” I told him sure, maybe we’ll work on it together.
It’ll be “Our Project.”
Strange thing that truck. It never worked, never hooked up the drive train to the transmission. Never finished the paint. Never put the hood back on. But, to this day, the bond that “Our Project” created, a tie that now crosses three generations, can never ever be replaced by any other truck.