Automotive love: 1979 Chevy through 8 states, 4 seasons, and 35000 miles

[lucky_strike]

I am writing this to briefly share the story of my 79 Chevy truck for those who may find it amusing or can relate. I saw an ad on SFBay craigslist for a 1979 Chevy Big 10 with an unmolested 350, 70k original miles and a Muncie 4 speed a few years ago. Initially I ignored it, but when my rusty blue hunk of a 1968 F100 finally pushed me over the edge, I decided to drive out to the north bay and give it a look. A squarebody had always been my dream truck since my first exposure to a 1984 Suburban when i was a kid. "American steel."

The original owner had passed away, leaving it to his son. The truck had been garaged all its life with a meticulous maintenance record kept in pencil on the back of the original warranty card. The interior was almost immaculate, with a vacuum gauge installed above the climate controls and a catch can under the hood. No wires hanging down spliced, the intake still had the factory RTV oozing out. It had everyone's favorite table cloth split vinyl seat. It drove beautifully, despite a slight pull. I drove it home that afternoon.

Old hank the Ford was gone.

That summer, driving to work and to the east bay from the Peninsula, I learned very quickly just how unbearably H-O-T that square bodies tend to get. I tried everything. Windows down and vents open, bucket of ice with a fan, but eventually accepted my sweat soaked fate. I later discovered the seemingly forgotten importance of constant hydration after suffering a nearly blinding heat migraine while stuck in traffic in Oakland. My calves grew stronger feathering that awful, squeaking, heavy clutch for hundreds of hours in Bay Area traffic.

But still, my white Custom Deluxe never gave out on me. Not in the heat, not ever. She never stopped running. All those crazy high school nights cruising with the crew, she never put me to shame.

Fast forward two years. I'm moving to Wyoming and taking the truck with me...in August. Loaded down with 1000 pounds of stuff in the bed, a tube radio riding middle, blue and yellow California plates, and both tanks filled to the brim, the white truck and good buddy of mine headed east. I left my high school buddies and their faithful classic trucks behind. By, now I had a pretty good understanding of what its like to drive a classic truck daily, and I was confident.

I made it through the sierras that night, feeling my poor smogged down small block struggle as the altitude increased. Little did I know, 10 hours of the most miserable driving I had yet to experience laid just beyond the Nevada border. 8AM, I hit the road from Reno. The truck is already smoldering, and the sun has been up only a few hours. As the hours dragged on and the fuel disappeared, soggy sweat and my aching body ate at my morale. No relief from the blistering 95 degree desert heat. My buddy and I would shout and cheer at the sight of a distant cloud giving shade, because it meant a moment of cool air and shelter. But between that and a few hours of trucker wisdom on the CB, we made it out alright.

Nevada took a toll on the truck, too. At a gas station somewhere near Elko, I discovered a new drip from the bellhousing. A few moments of denial gave me comfort, but deep down I knew-rear main seal.

A quart later, I dropped my buddy off in Salt Lake City and made my way to Wyoming. Just outside Rawlins, I stopped at a hazy and dimly lit roadside Cafe for a drink and some relief from road daze.
"Howdy! Smoking or non smoking?"
Wow-haven't head that before.
"Smoking please, I'll have a burger and a Pepsi if you don't mind."
"Sure hun, I'll have that right out."
A cigarette and a half hour later, I was walking out the door when the waitress stopped me again.
"You drive that thing all the way from California? Folks must think you're crazy! Good luck."

That afternoon, I rolled into Laramie. I was the complete picture; old white truck, kid in a Budweiser hat, 30-30 Winchester on the rear window, smelling like gas and coolant from a blown off radiator hose. I fit right in.

Not long after, I had a solid group of buddies coming from Hawaii to New York, rolling up and down dirt roads in our line of antiquated vehicles. All 4 wheel drive, except mine. I was determined to prove that my half ton with a locker could do everything their big diesel 4x4s could, and it did. My unmistakable rolling cinder block was with me all those long college nights out in the hay fields and crazy backroad parties of summertime in Wyoming. I even towed an 03 Cummins off a sand dune with a rope 4 miles back home. Granny gear never fails. I was content-until winter.

Christmas rolls around and I head over to Idaho Falls. With only a couple months of slipping and sliding under my belt, I was truly unprepared. I make it through Wyoming and up to Billings and Bozeman without trouble. I hit the highway again and i quickly realized just how little I knew about how bad it can get. An hour or so goes by of being peppered with melted snow by big rigs, and without working washers, visibility got challenging. Then in a matter of 5 miles, the road went from clear and dry to deadly. The road was ice, I was sliding in 2nd gear, and the blowing snow was getting worse.

The road closed 10 minutes after I got on. 50mph gusts at 15 degrees. I couldn't see past my hood, couldn't see the road, and the semi trucks behind me couldn't either. "This can't get any worse." And then it did. I let off the throttle to pull over, but it didn't move. All that water kicked up by those trucks got under my hood and into the throttle cable, and froze. Before I knew it, I was sideways in a runaway truck on a blind highway in Montana. I smashed the clutch and feathered the truck into the shoulder. I ran out and got blown off my feet, but eventually forced the throttle back down, praying that the passing semi trucks didn't mistake my hazards for tail lights on the road. I got back on the road, then out of the blinding snow came a set of red tail lights. I smashed the brakes and ended up facing the wrong direction, still blind and on the verge of panic. I corrected, and got on the CB. For the next 30 miles, I used mile markers a guide to communicate my position to the truckers in front and behind me. 2 throttle freezes and 6 hours later, I arrived in Idaho Falls with a shredded water pump and ruined throttle cable.

I fixed it in Idaho, topped off the oil and made the drive back to California in a single pass. With my pretty new Wyoming plates, I went ahead and ripped off ALL the smog equipment and fitted long tubes, true duals with magnaflow mufflers pointing right out the back. The 350 could finally breathe! And she sounded oh so good.

As I drove around my old familiar roads, I discovered a nasty miss that was due to a fouled plug in the #6 cylinder. Unfortunately, it kept fouling-over and over again. I left once again for Wyoming shortly after, stopping for gas and a spark plug replacement every 500 miles or so. As it got into the negative degrees, out came the cardboard over the grille to keep the heater working. I made it back, exhausted but happy to see my dirty white Chevy had once again made the trip many hesitate to make in a new car. A few trips to Denver, but not much else, brings us to yesterday.

I decided to write this based on what happened yesterday afternoon. I had just replaced the old street tires with a nice new set of Wrangler Radials to improve snow handling, and sure enough, it snowed that night. I set out on I80 towards Cheyenne with my girlfriend, confident in my trucks ability to handle the snow better now. 10 miles in, a sudden 60mph windstorm and blowing snow led me within inches of wrecking my baby into the back of a snowplow. 2 rigs jack knifed on the other side, and I called it quits. I barely managed to make it back up the hill, sliding about as if she wore drag slicks on an oil covered stainless steel plate. We got back and took her AWD crossover, and I felt somewhat defeated as she cruised 70 down the same spots that almost took out my beast (going 30) without even a single slip.

My pickup now sits outside, safe and sound, 35000 miles since I bought her as a naive speed demon in high school. Many people have called me crazy for driving her like I do, driving her with the trust and confidence of a new car owner. And I'll admit, there is something to be said about the safety and practicality of new cars. But through my reckless adventures in this obsolete machine, I've learned patience, endurance, quick thinking, and I've come to appreciate many of the modern luxuries that are too often taken for granted.

This truck has the kind of soul that can't be replaced by air conditioning, traction control and heated seats. And it has developed a driver that wont ever take those luxuries for granted. As many times as I've tried, I'll probably never be able to ditch my old nameless Chevy. I hope one day to pass her on to my kids, along with all the memories I've made and have yet to make with her. Good days, bad days, rain sleet snow or shine, she always got me home.

A car is a man's moving expression of himself. This is mine.