No sense looking in the rearview mirror on this one
My love of old pickup trucks has been well documented on these pages over the years. I spent my early driving years begging my folks to let me buy a pickup. Such a vehicle would have fit perfectly into my lifestyle back then with my jon boat slid into the bed and weighted down with a mess of decoys, a muddy retriever and a handful of dead ducks. My mother was convinced, however, that I would inevitably roll such a setup over in a cornfield, so the boat ended up on top of a late model Chevy coupe, and the smelly dog road in the bucket seat next to me.
Once I was out of the house, I bought the first of a string of six pickups that have spanned the past 40 years. Miraculously, I have yet to roll one over in a cornfield. I have, however, driven more than one truck to the edge of its grave — a phenomenon closely linked to the type of truck I seek. If it’s under 20 years old, it’s just not for me.
My latest ride turns 25 this year, and while it appears its life before me had been relatively easy, time may be catching up to the little S-10. Steel lasts a good long time in some parts of the world, but not so much on the salt-strewn highways and byways of Northeast Ohio, and I’ve replaced more than my share of hopelessly corroded metal things over the years. Plastic, however, has always seemed immune to the ravages of time. My current truck is disproving that myth.
It was sometime around Christmas that Kristin and I were driving down the highway when she smugly pointed out the window to the passenger side mirror and declared, “That thing’s not long for this world.” The thing had long showed a tendency to rattle a bit at speed, but now it seemed to be taking the dance to the next level. Accordingly, at the soonest possible juncture, I wrapped the lame appendage with generous amounts of duct tape with the intention of firming it up with some good epoxy once the weather permitted. Four months later I’d glued the thing up as good as new. Kristin was skeptical of this fix.
“Nice job, but some day that thing is going to drop off like stone,” she said.
I was indignant. I’ve epoxied dozens, perhaps thousands, of things around the house over the years, and nearly all of them have held up long after the rest of whatever I’d fixed had gone to dust.
I had traveled on, proud of my accomplishment, until one day last week when I glanced over to see my expertly epoxied mirror had developed a minor shimmy as I traveled down the highway at speed. I made a mental note to add another layer of glue once I arrived back home.
Moments later the shimmy escalated to a full-on shake, and just as I was about to pull to the side of the road, there was a loud pop and the entire assembly checked out like a skydiver exiting an airplane. I watched out the rear window as the mirror hit the pavement at 70 mph. It was not so much like the “stone” Kristin had predicted, but rather more of a grenade. The whole appeared to vaporize to the molecular level upon impact.
Looks like I’ll be ordering a new one — along with some much stronger glue.
P.S. Happy Anniversary, Kristin! After 35 years of nonsense, you’re still my favorite goofball! Love you!
Kristin and John Lorson would love to hear from you. Write Drawing Laughter, P.O. Box 170, Fredericksburg, OH 44627, or email John at jlorson@alonovus.com.