Being that my last two columns started and ended on soft notes, I thought I would spice things up a hair with some cayenne peppers. We have to be the most misunderstood group of automotive enthusiasts, just north of the PT Cruiser enthusiast. We build our trucks, we rebuild our trucks, and then we drag our trucks to a never-ending demise. I don't know if I even quite get the addiction we acquire from dragging or beating up our trucks. It has to be somewhere in the neighborhood of being addicted to crack.
Now that I have you warmed up to my speed, I can get around to saying what has been on my mind. The date: December 30th, '05. The setting: Wal-Mart parking lot in San Dimas, CA. The destination: Blythe, CA, for Resolutions '06. The scene: a bunch of the homies chilling with our rides, two Penske box trucks, and a lot of flavorful chat about how stupid we will be in the coming days. I drove my full-size, as always, which is heavily customized, featuring a 5-1/2-inch body drop, 22-inch wheels, and custom paint. I know, yours truly has a full-size, but it's a mini-truck at heart.
I drive this thing everywhere. Mike and I drove to Texas Heatwave with it, and a week later drove to Drop Zone in Oregon with Mike and Josh Freeman. If you calculate the mileage, it sits just under 5,000 miles in a week and a half. What slap on the wrist do I get for driving a heavily customized vehicle that much? Let's just say that my not-so-cheap 22-inch tires have felt the wrath the most. I downsized my tire size from a 285 to a 265 so I could drag the living piss out of it without any rubbing whatsoever. Unfortunately, retread missiles and potholes are at war with my Continentals.
Back to the story at hand: I'm rolling my full-size about 2 inches off the ground and am well on my way to a ridiculous weekend of debauchery at Reso. As I see the "22 miles to Blythe" sign, the not so unthinkable happens: shredded tire (and chrome). As I'm a complete jackass, I have no tools on me. I forgot my bucket of tools that usually accompanies me on such trips. I'm screwed! All of the guys with me don't have a thin wall socket, so unless I'm feeling like putting my five push-up capable body to the test of ripping the wheel off with my bare hands, I'm out of luck. (I've been working out. I'm up to ten, so no wisecracks.)
We have one last chance at freedom from the weed-infested outskirts of the highway. Our buddy Bobby from Sadistic Iron Werks is about ten miles ahead. Does he have the socket? Of course he does; he's an honorary eagle scout. Bobby makes the trip back to help my trifling ass and gets me up and going. It sucked, as now I was rolling a pimp-daddy stocker. The sixteen in the front and twenty-two in the rear look is a good year or two out of style, so showing wasn't even an option to me anymore. The weekend wasn't even close to a loss,though, due to the enormous amount of excitement that was to be had.
Now, as I sit writing this (with my truck for sale and not wanting to mess anything up to hinder my asking price), I contemplate driving to a show in Arizona. Am I going? Yes. With my truck? You bet. Am I an idiot? Probably. What can I say? I'm a mini-trucker through and through. I don't know what drives me or, for that matter, any of us. We just are what we are. My truck may get hammered and beat and chipped on the drive. But you know what? Then I'll have another story to write about.