It was a Friday night when I decided to check Facebook Marketplace one more time before putting my phone away. There she was, freshly posted, a white 1971 Ford F250. Big wheels in the back, small ones in the front, the perfect raked stance. Still enough original paint on it to not be an eye sore but not enough to not worry about dinging the door. It was exactly what I had been looking for.

A few months before seeing this truck, I had seriously injured my knee, and a month after that had sold my first car. A car I told myself I would never sell. Without being able to surf or workout, I was going crazy. And with no project to work on, I had nothing to keep my mind busy. I knew there was nothing I could do about my knee but take its course through surgery and physical therapy but I had to find a solution to keep my mind at work. I couldn’t work on a motorcycle because I wouldn’t have been able to ride it. So I began to look for old trucks. Why? Because they’re cheap and there are millions of them around.

After a phone call with the seller, I booked my one way flight for Sacramento for the following night. I called my good friend John, who happens to own a 1969 Ford F250, that I wasn’t going to be able to help him at his shop the following day because I was going to buy this truck sight-unseen. John congratulated me, asks me a few questions about the truck and we rescheduled. A few minutes later, John calls me back.

John - “I’m the only person you know who is an expert in these trucks and engines and I cant let you have all that fun by yourself. Im coming with you.”

We arrived Sunday morning to the sellers home tucked away in the mountains outside of Placerville. The truck sat underneath a tree, shaded from the heat that was soon to beat down. Tom, the seller, was a metal artist and made beautiful pieces from scrap steel, carburetor components, and concrete. He can make these metal vines look so real, it isn’t until you try to smell the small flowers on it that you realized they are metal. We talked for a while about our lives, families, and art. I told him about the drive John and I were about to embark on to which he and his wife both said, “Oh to be young again.”

This truck had lived a good life up in the mountains but it was time for some Southern California sunshine. Its days of hauling hay bails and dirt were over. It was now time for surfboards and sand.

With a few pumps of the pedal, the truck fired right up and with a composed idle. John and I were both way too giddy and confident. We changed one of the stripped tires to the spare, topped off the radiator, signed the title over, and we were off. 500-miles to go.

We drove through the mountains enjoying the warm, summer mountain air. Our first stop was an Ace Hardware for some roadside tools. The usual tool accouterments of a couple of screwdrivers, 3/8” socket set, adjustable wrench, needle nose pliers, and vise grips. Their ain’t a whole lot more you need when dealing with an American car before 1975. While waiting outside, a older man walked past me and said, “I’ve musta owned over 20 of these trucks. I loved every single one.” I was starting to understand why just from the first 20-minutes of driving it. We left the curvy mountain roads to find the interstate and really begin trucking.

Another hour down, our first problem arose; engine stumble. We found it to be a dry and cracked carburetor vacuum plug. What wasn’t an issue at our original altitude, now become one once we were at sea level. A quick jaunt into the closest Auto Zone and we were back on the road again. Unfortunately, this didn’t last long as we rolled into Lodi. We pulled into a parking lot with an O’Riley and prepared to do a partial “shade tree tune up” on the truck. Spark plugs, oil filter, fuel filter, and a couple of beers.

The stops kept the truck running well but the biggest potential issue still lingered in the back of our minds. When are these front tires going to go out? We never mentioned it to each other in fear of jinxing it. We didn’t have to keep those thoughts to ourselves for much longer as we descended into Modesto. We started to hear what sounded like a few big pebbles hit the inner fenders. We initially thought it was rocks but that was highly unlikely for an interstate this clean and traveled upon. We pulled over to find the front right tire starting to shed its rubber off. We pulled out our phones and started dialing every possible tire shop in Modesto. In a modern car, this wouldn’t have been a problem, even for it being Sunday at 4pm. But for us, with unconventional 16.5” diameter wheels, this was a monumental issue. Somehow John was able to get ahold of a used tire shop on the other side of town with the tires we needed. We jammed over there as quickly as we could and got them changed just before sunset.

Now we were in a pickle. Do we go as far as we can, sleep until sunrise, and pick it up in the morning or drive through the night and get to San Diego at God knows what hour. We chose the latter. We took an extra detoured route to avoid coming down The Grapevine through Tehachapi Pass because of the current state of the brakes which took a combination of brake petal input and praying to stop. As we drove through the desert outskirts of Lancaster, Tom Petty playing from the bluetooth speaker, the hum of the engine, the expanse of the night sky, I started to became very calm. The thin steering wheel began to glide between my fingers and palm. I no longer tried to fight the slop and every bump that tried to rip it from my grip. The heat from the engine kept my legs and feet warm as the air from the window cooled my face. The smooth rise and fall float in the road began to resinate with the same spring rate in the bench seat. I couldn’t tell if I was getting tired or finally comfortable with how the truck wanted to behave.

This bliss feeling didn’t last long as I unknowingly came up to a railroad crossing where I was going a touch too fast. John, asleep at the time, now awaken to both of us airborne in the cab of the truck saying, “Oh shit!” We landed with as much grace as wounded duck. Anything in the cab that wasn’t buckled in was now everywhere.

We finally pulled onto HWY 15, the final freeway to get us home. It was 3am. My circadian rhythm was starting to take over and I began to feel more alert again. I was testing the highway speeds more, pushing my sensory speedometer because the actual one didn’t work. Of course. Signs of home grew closer and closer as we drove along. Portions of freeway that were remembrances from trips past, reassuring just how much closer we were to home now. Certain In n Out’s, freeway signs, and highway overpasses.

We pulled up to Johns shop at 5am. We quickly patted ourselves on the back and parted ways to get some sleep. We just accomplished something most car guys dreamt to do. We both couldn’t believe that a 53-year old truck got us all the way home without any tow truck causing issues. I couldn’t have asked for a better copilot and would not have been able to do it without him.

An Old Ford

SoCal 250