The sound of thunder and the shaking of the floor was a preview that my father had arrived.
He is going to NYC tomorrow to clean up his deceased mother’s affairs, and is taking my mother’s car (for reasons that will shortly become apparent.) My mother cannot drive my father’s vehicle, so he is dropping his vehicle off and borrowing mine so my mother can drive.
We exchange keys and he leaves.
At five O’clock go outside to confront my father’s vehicle.
It is a 1995 Dodge Ram 3500 Cummins Turbo Diesel Dually, Quad Cab, Full Bed 4 X 4. It has the towing package a humungous power plow mount, a winch, those funky lights on the top… and yet more.
In the front part of the bed is my father’s huge galvanized steel tool box. Behind that, fitting not quite properly is a large bed cap.
The bottom half of the truck is a uniform light grey from years of accumulated dust and road salt that pervades the roads up on my father’s mountain. Otherwise the truck would be black. Sticking from the right fender is a large “snorkel tube,” that permits my father to drive his truck underwater should the desire suddenly come over him.
I’m not sure what utility this has on the Mountain, but my father bought the truck that way used.
A snorkel on a truck is one of those things. You never know when you’re going to have to drive underwater do you? Then it would be too late to wish you had a snorkel on your truck, wouldn’t it?
Stuck in the grillwork of the truck are about a ton of mud, rocks, the dead remains of various forms of widlife, and the occasional Honda Civic.
In the back window is a USMC sticker that reads “Semper Fi.”
I open the one ton driver’s door and it literally groans with lack of oil.
I leap onto the huge metal bar that is a foot rail, attach a crampon and begin my ascent into the cab. I am careful to take my time and acclimate myself to the altitude before going for the summit, but finally I am in the cab.
On the floor of the passenger’s cabin are about 80 Budweiser tall boy cans. My father would never drink and drive. He does however sit out in his truck in the dirveway, smoke and listen to Rush Limbaugh since Mom doesn’t let him smoke in the house. The windows are streaky yellow from cigarette smoke.
Sitting next to me is the controller to the plow. It looks like a Nintendo game pad.
“How does this thing work?” I remember asking my Dad.
“I dunno.” He said.
“Well then how do you control the plow?”
“Nobody every really controls a plow,” says Dad.
I insert the key, and depress the clutch. This latter requires almost enough force to lift me out of my seat.
I turn the key and nothing happens.
Oh Yeah, It’s a diesel.
I turn the key to position one and wait for the glow plugs to heat up (picture the Death Star’s big laser charging.) A moment later I get the green light and the truck rumbles to life with that incredibly rattling chain sound that only a diesel makes.
In case your curious, diesel fuel is actually derived directly from testosterone, and is not a petroleum product at all.
Brake off.
Find reverse
Release clutch.
I’m oughta the parking space.
Fucker won’t go into first gear, WTF?
Allright, it’s a diesel, these things don’t matter to much. We’ll try second gear.
Nope.
Back to square one.
I fiddle around trying to mess with the clutch and get the truck to accept first gear. My leg is getting tired from trying to hold the clutch in for so long. Finally I get it.
I resolve to not take the truck out of gear while it’s stationery as it’s hard to get back into gear.
Out the drive and into the road.
Holy Shit! This is some tight steering. With a lurch and a twist and a near miss of my coworker’s Lexus, I’m off.
OWWWWW SHIT! I get some whiplash making a right turn. The truck is both huge and inexorable in a sluggish fashion yet incredibly powerful and responsive.
As I come to the first light, I slam on the brakes and just narrowly avoid eaing the Rav4 ahead of me.
My leg starts to feel tired holding in the clutch but then we go again, and it gets some rest.
I make another turn, nearly take out a Ford Explorer and head down route 30, shifting into another gear every ten seconds.
Just as I gather momentum I hit another light, and downshift like mad to get the beast into first gear before I stop.
I sit there, one foot on the clutch, the other on the break for about a minute. My leg beigins to shake with fatigue. I am sweating.
The light changes, and I move forward little by little, but it turns red again.
Shit!
I grip the steering wheel with white knuckles and stand on that clutch as my leg trembles and vibrates. Slowly, inexorably my leg tires and the clutch begins to move. I feel it begin to engage. It is too late too pull the truck out of gear. The Subaru ahead of me, waiting peacefully, is competely unaware that my leg is about to fail and they are about to be crushed.
And the light changes.
I drive perhaps for half a mile.
The next light, I am stuck on a bridge. I grit my teeth and tremble. I decide that when my leg fails I will drive off the bridge and into the water below to avoid killing those people ahead of me.
This will be no problem because of course, this truck has a snorkel.
Fortunately I’ve run three marathons, and my endurance paid off. I was able to maintain clutch depression and avoid any unnecessary manslaughter charges.
I got home, shut the truck off and rappelled out of the cab.
I fell to the ground and cursed loudly to the heaven’s above:
"Jesus Christ on a popsicle stick, Dad! Hello? D’you think you might have somebody adjust the tension on your clutch linkage? Huh? Oh, and could your truck be any bigger and less user friendly? I couldn’t see shit through all the nicotine stains. I know you don’t drink and drive, but what do you think a cop will say when he sees your truck full of empty beer cans?
Oh, and did I mention the fucking clutch? Holy Shit, you stupid jarhead! Replace the rusty goddamn spring or what have you. If that sucker snaps you’ll take out everything within a mile.
And the fucking clutch.
Jesus Christ on a clutch!"
