Posted by Old Truck Nut on May 05, 1999 at 19:57:41:
Reprinted from March Gentlemans Quarterly- I bought it before I ever even saw it. An old friend of mine discovered it, parked in some fool's driveway in upstate New York with a for sale sign in the window. This old friend of mine knows everything there is to know about automobiles of a certian age. He looked it over and called up immediatly. "I found your truck," he announced. "I'll take it." I said. It is a 1964 Chevrolet pickup truck, square and simple. It is an American beauty, built in Detroit in the early days of the Vietnam War. This truck is the most optimistic color in the world - a bright sky blue, with clean white trim. The cab holds a single long seat, firm as any park bench. The bed is lined with wooden planks and virtually begs for hound dogs to jump up into it. (Git up there, Banjo! Get up there, Biscut!) The information you get from the dashboard is all the information you ever really need to know: speed gas tempature. There is a knob for the windshield wipers and a knob for the headlights. The ashtray says "ashtray." The tailgate says "Chevrolet." The solid steel doors say "Chunk" when they slam. I bought this truck for my husband for his thirty-fith birthday. I do not think he would mind the worlds knowing that he started ton cry when he first saw it. "for me?" he said. "Really?" Then he wiped his eyes and asked, "Do you think the guys at the service station will like it?" To Michael the guys at the service station represent everything good about our small town - friendliness, competency, honesty. And, yeah, they liked it. They liked it a lot. They came out from under the cars they were working on to admire and touch it. Whenever a certian kind of man sees this truck, he just has to touch it. This truck attracts good men the way a virgin attracts unicorns. I bought this truck for my husband because it is exactly his age. Also, I knew it would remind him of his father - a really good man who could drive a pickup truck, eat a sandwich, smoke a cigarette and drink a cup of coffee all at the same time. Like his dad's old trucks, this one is fundementally trustworthy. It is not fast. I have a friend who owns a new Mercedes coupe. His cars natural speed is nienty-two miles an hour, which is to say if his attention drifts as he is driving down the the highway, he will suddenly look down at the speedometer and realize he is driving nienty-two miles an hour. That's how fast his Mercedes wants to go. The natural speed of my husband's 1964 Chevy pickup, on the other hand, is thirty-five miles an hour. This truck wants to mosey. This truck wants to stroll along and look at fireflies. People take pride in thier fast cars, but I belive there is greater status to be found in a slow truck. When you drive down the road at thirty-five miles an hour in a beautiful old truck, you show that you are too important to rush. Your life is too valuable to be taling corners on two wheels. You got some chores, but you got no worries. Any worries you got are wrapped up safe and sound in a ton of Detroits finest steel. When you got nowhere to go and all the time in the world to get there, this is the truck you want to be driving. -Elizabeth Gilbert