I joked that ever since I bought my Ford F600, I’ve been driving it every day in the blink of an eye. At the time, it’s just a new concept: taking a 55-year-old van to the city to sell milk and bread turns out like an explosion, at least in my opinion. I have no intention of doing that. About 3 weeks ago, however, this joke came true. And I found out it was as annoying as expected.
You see, I’ve been looking to sell my daily F-250 2015 drive force for almaximum a year. I had an instant case of buyer regret because I opted for a 3-quarter-ton diesel truck for my traveler. A handful of other people expressed interest in this, but the maximum was tire kickers and low-level players, until one of them wasn’t. I had almost stopped promoting it, and then a circle of relative friends gave me a ring that said it was three miles from my house. He looked at it, drove it and we shod hands after 20 minutes. The next day, he left.
I had nothing to upgrade, so the sales truck operated for the daily service.
For the first week, everything was ready. I drive almost anywhere at this time of year, our family’s camp, which is less than 14 miles from my humble home. It’s as undeniable as jumping, doing a five-point turn to face the road and hit the asphalt. As an added benefit, I can play 4 or five songs from the official playlist of the Trucker song ™ from The Drive.
The upheavals began at the time of the week when I did my vacation time in the quarry for a gravel load. I was surprised to discover that I was the only truck, so I was loaded and took some pictures (away from the hectic and boisterous machinery, of course). He was there, quite with a heavy load, on his element.
Moments after I took those pictures, I jumped the steering wheel and walked about 50 feet before I broke. “Queaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
In fact, my “upgrade” to the electric fuel pump disappeared. Turn the key and you might not hear it start: it’s noisy, I’d actually hear it, so I knew that was the problem. I called the first user I can think of and who had been in this scenario once or a hundred times, also known as my father, who writes enough to save my supposed stranded gravel transporter. After forty-five minutes and a sneaky Call FaceTime with my editor and friend Jerry Perez, my tank had arrived.
I had a day off, so Jerry went back to my break. It felt good. Look at his arrogant face in the corner.
We repaired the truck on site with nothing but a screwdriver, a cable cutter and insulating tape. I’m very happy to find two pieces of grass in the fuel line that fed the pump. Always a smart signal.
It started almost without delay and I continued my day, using the five and a half tons of more than 21 miles to the place of delivery. Unloading the load was an adventure in itself when I parked downhill in a steep yard, battling gravity with everything that had the ’66. I jammed my wheels and pointed to the nearest tree to avoid primary damage in the event of an accident.
With my empty van and my knuckles still white, I’ll one day. Mr. Phew
The next four or five days passed without drama, because I put 40 more miles in the sales truck. It didn’t last long when I got home from the camp at dusk when I discovered the next challenge and, once again, it was fuel-related. Fortunately, he began cutting strength on the larger hill in the corner. I had to lift it halfway, squeezing the clutch from time to time to make sure he didn’t die and make me come back in the dark night. To make matters worse, without the engine giving juice to my fixed servofrein under the cab, I have virtually no braking force.
This led me to park the truck and, for almost a week, my wife and I shared her car. I asked him to do a 15-minute check on Friday, which pushed him into the hills at full speed, so I hope everything that was stuck on the lines would be purged. Or it can be anything else. Which is to say. All I know is that the challenge is intermittent and I can’t reflect it unless you drive under load, and it just reappears.
As a result, I spent my weekend nights looking for a reasonable day that would allow me to move smoothly. The air conditioning would also be great. Don’t worry, ’cause I’ll take the truck when I can. I just repaired the two-speed rear, so now I feel even more like a truck driver when I skate on the road.
Well done to the old trucks, man. This thing turns around.
Caleb Jacobs is deputy editor of The Drive. He buys things like a Ford Sell 66 van and a 65 Chevy school bus. We continue to use it, even if we can’t understand why. Send him a note: [email protected]
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