Pull up a chair, this will be a long one.
Today, I was laying under the 1993 80 waiting for the slow drip on the oil change to achieve whatever slow cadence I've used over the decades to cue reinstalling the drain bolt. My wife pulled up and I jokingly said from under the truck "I feel like this may be close to my 40th oil change." She said something about doing it in my sleep, patted my leg and headed into the house. As I refilled with Rotella Synth and installed the WIX filter, I wondered again about that, and resolved to count them in the paper log I've kept on this old girl since we bought it. She has 247k on the clock, and years back I noted I was changing it at about 6k, so that would figure out.
I've done all the maintenance from Day 1, and "Bessie" has an interesting history. I was a Product Developer for Lexus at Corporate when we bought her in 1992, and in those days, we could order a car and have it put into a fleet briefly and get a bigger discount. So, Bessie spent some time with the Engineering folks, who checked various procedures, and I think put an experimental tranny sound insulation on her due to the A442 bus tranny's big gears. She's been a major part of our lives. I brought both our children home from the hospital in her, even though we had newer vehicles, because I wanted to tell them that some day years later. They both know it and consider her a member of the family as well. She's gotten us through many blizzards, including a memorable 5 hour drive from Utah in a huge storm that paralyzed the interstate. We drove nearly to Montana in the northbound left lane at 30mph with 18" of untracked snow on Michelin ice tires, listening on the CB in case anyone needed immediate help, passing many thousands of vehicles. The southbound lanes had been closed already but too many people must have been trapped on our side already.
She's been retired now for 15 years, and according to the log, we've put just 8000 miles on her in 7 years. Today's oil change had exactly 1153 miles on it, but timed out on age. Which brings me to perhaps the most memorable event - just last weekend.
My wife and I often explore around British Columbia in our bright yellow restored VW Vanagon, as it's just a few hours from our doorstep. For a decade we'd been hearing about a remote hike where the 360 degree views afford 4 different hanging glaciers from the summit. It's called Monica Mountain, and we've never gone as the Vanagon on a good day has 92hp pushing 4000lbs and won't make it up the 27 mile "4WD required" road. I'm 64 now, and we're both in great shape, so we decided to take the LandCruiser up there last weekend and check it out. It's Grizzly country, so I had to set up the back for sleeping as Canada does not allow proper bear protection, and we have Grizzly here and know better than to sleep in a tent without the great equalizer.
We got to the 4WD road a bit before noon, and it was essentially a rough gravel road for 20 miles into the remote back country, then deteriorated into a jumble of sharp rocks for the last 7 miles as they were "fixing" the road simply by pushing head size granite rocks around with a D9 Caterpillar with no apparent desire to improve the surface. Serious banging and clattering - the kind of abuse that starts you thinking about 33 year old wire chafing deep in the harness, that old hose on the right side of the engine that needs replacing, and being hours from a cell signal if something went awry.
The hike was beautiful, and I got to see my first Wolverine up near the summit. We were the last vehicle at the trail head, and the sun was setting as we headed down the steep section in low range to save the brakes. Very quickly, we discussed staying up on the mountain and doing the Jumbo Ridge trail the next day, since we were already way out there in the backcountry. Pulled into a flat spot after deciding to stay out, leveled the truck for sleeping, and soon we had dinner bubbling on the stove.
Just at that exquisite moment when I leaned back in my camp chair in the twilight, took in the stream burbling 20 feet away, and mentally dropped my guard to enjoy a peaceful evening, it happened. My right kidney sent me a familiar signal of mild pain, indicating I was about to pass a kidney stone. I waited about 10 minutes to see if it was something else, before telling my wife. Concern registered in her eyes as we both realized we were 4 hours from the nearest hospital, with a couple hours of travel on a remote exposed mountain road and darkness was falling. We briefly discussed not packing up to see how it goes, and the kidney weighed in with a surge of pain I'd imagine is like having an MMA kick in the gut.
Tight lipped with concern, we both jumped into action, tossing half eaten dinner in the the trash bag, stowing gear quickly, and I just tossed the fully assembled camp chairs in the back of the 80, rather than breaking them down like the origami project they are. We said a quick prayer, and I opted to drive as I was concerned there was a very real risk of puncturing a sidewall rushing downhill in this first torn up section and I've got a lot of offroad driving under my belt, plus rushing down a steep rough track in a heavily loaded SUV also presents a brake fade possibility, as does hitting a large animal, etc. Lots of potential to be disabled, or take a turn too hot and slide off the road. I ran over the options in my mind, thinking ahead to the pain level I know is coming and realizing I would literally be unable to help my wife change a tire or set up the MaxxTraxx, etc - perhaps soon.
If you've never had the pleasure of a kidney stone, I hope you never do. It's a fearsome reputation, but I'll tell you it is also one of the oddest versions of pain you'll ever experience. My urologist tells me he has many female patients who have told him it is worse than childbirth. It's not what you might visuallize - not like a knife in the guts, not the "high frequency" pain of a broken bone, the sting of a hornet, etc. It's more like only the base note of pain. An internal, powerful deep hum of pain that has you breathing in tiny sipping gasps, it reduces your world to two things. One - the pain, and two - all the things about your immediate world that bother you. So you'll try to lay down thinking it will help, writhe around for 18 seconds and decide it's better to stand. Stand for 30 seconds and decide it's better to bend over and lean on the bed. A suitable millisecond later, you'll decide to pace around the bedroom, then illogically decide to jump in a hot shower. Your mind is looking for minute variations you can make in your immediate environment that may provide the tiniest sliver of respite, and the doing of these things also satisfies the overwhelming urge and desire to "do something" to get away from this pain that is attached to your side like a limpet mine. None of them work. An unanswered phone in the other room will instantly become the focus of your irritation as you mumble "please, someone answer that $%#& phone, as if that ringing is responsible for your pain.
But there is one thing you absolutely don't want - which is to be jostled around, bumped, touched, or otherwise disturbed from trying to lie in physical peace while mentally dealing with the pain. Questions like "can I rub your back, can I get you a glass of water, can I read you the 80 Series trunion bearing procedure?" are met with veiled anger as you just want to be left to your own devices.
So here I am banging and bouncing down a rough track making safe maximum pace, and unable to speak from the jostling. On previous stones, just being driven to the hospital, I was keenly aware of every expansion joint and pavement crack. This was off the Richter scale, though I took small satisfaction that me driving equates to me doing this to myself in terms of increased pain. Which was way better than being a passenger and having it done to me, trying not to complain about each brake stab and every rock unfairly hit by my side's tires. Then it got worse.
My arms and legs started going numb. I began forced deep breathing, thinking my gasping was letting the oxygen sats go down. Nope - didn't help. Kept progressing down my arms, and when it got to my hands, I had to stop the truck - unable to continue without risking an unknown next phase. Later, I hypothesized my body was going into mild shock from the pain, causing the numbness. My wife has excellent driving skills (she drove a Gen 3 Supra stick when we met!) and kept up a great pace downhill, using tranny braking as I had been to prevent brake fade, yet maintaining a brisk pace in case that stone blocked the urine flow completely. The speed and steepness were right in that sweet spot to fear for brake fade - steep enough to require constant braking, but not enough speed for cooling airflow. Now as a passenger, I again started thinking of all the things on the Cruiser that could fail - right now, when I needed her to get me to a hospital. We all regard Toyota as the top of the heap, and the LandCruiser as the right vehicle to be in under this circumstance, but decades of aging, a quarter million miles, how are the belts, man I hope this abuse doesn't crack the exhaust or manifold - ack! Mind game atop layers of pain.
I had to crawl into the back and lay flat after a few minutes. In the darkness laying back there, I gave thanks that the 80 was built for a bit of abuse, and that we had fresh BFG A/T's against all the sharp granite rocks. The front suspension bottomed out on the limiters a few times, with the heavy nose downhill attitude and need for hard braking through bumps, and I applauded my wife's brisk pace - alternately telling her to flog it and reminding her what a puncture or stuck would mean as I would be unable to help in any situation. Typical husband stuff.
Overall, I had a feeling of peace as this vehicle has been tended to personally by me, and even details like checking the lower knuckle nuts annually are carried out (which could have gotten us killed out there). I managed to float in a steady state of pain and stop worrying about the 80 at this crucial 90 minutes of her life with us. All the years of good maintenance and care came home to roost as this magnificent beast stolidly tended to her work, absorbing the blows and chewing up the miles.
We got back to the main dirt road, then on to the area of the hospital a few hours later with nary a hiccup. Ordinary pavement never felt so velvety smooth. We called the hospital and let them know our situation, they explained their Canadian medical system for Americans, and we pulled into a campground a few minutes away to assess things. Around 2am the stone moved out of Area 51 and I fell asleep. Next morning - nothing. Like it didn't happen.
Which short story brings me to tonight's oil change. I had to count it twice, but yes indeed. As I wrote the miles, filter type and oil in the log book, it turned out to be the 40th time I've change the oil on this wonderful rig. I've never been so glad I was in a vehicle known the world over as the dependable mule, and the right vehicle to be in whether you are special forces, or a guy dealing with a kidney stone on a remote Canadian mountain. Here's to our mutual passion, and to our fine taste in motor cars! Cheers.
Today, I was laying under the 1993 80 waiting for the slow drip on the oil change to achieve whatever slow cadence I've used over the decades to cue reinstalling the drain bolt. My wife pulled up and I jokingly said from under the truck "I feel like this may be close to my 40th oil change." She said something about doing it in my sleep, patted my leg and headed into the house. As I refilled with Rotella Synth and installed the WIX filter, I wondered again about that, and resolved to count them in the paper log I've kept on this old girl since we bought it. She has 247k on the clock, and years back I noted I was changing it at about 6k, so that would figure out.
I've done all the maintenance from Day 1, and "Bessie" has an interesting history. I was a Product Developer for Lexus at Corporate when we bought her in 1992, and in those days, we could order a car and have it put into a fleet briefly and get a bigger discount. So, Bessie spent some time with the Engineering folks, who checked various procedures, and I think put an experimental tranny sound insulation on her due to the A442 bus tranny's big gears. She's been a major part of our lives. I brought both our children home from the hospital in her, even though we had newer vehicles, because I wanted to tell them that some day years later. They both know it and consider her a member of the family as well. She's gotten us through many blizzards, including a memorable 5 hour drive from Utah in a huge storm that paralyzed the interstate. We drove nearly to Montana in the northbound left lane at 30mph with 18" of untracked snow on Michelin ice tires, listening on the CB in case anyone needed immediate help, passing many thousands of vehicles. The southbound lanes had been closed already but too many people must have been trapped on our side already.
She's been retired now for 15 years, and according to the log, we've put just 8000 miles on her in 7 years. Today's oil change had exactly 1153 miles on it, but timed out on age. Which brings me to perhaps the most memorable event - just last weekend.
My wife and I often explore around British Columbia in our bright yellow restored VW Vanagon, as it's just a few hours from our doorstep. For a decade we'd been hearing about a remote hike where the 360 degree views afford 4 different hanging glaciers from the summit. It's called Monica Mountain, and we've never gone as the Vanagon on a good day has 92hp pushing 4000lbs and won't make it up the 27 mile "4WD required" road. I'm 64 now, and we're both in great shape, so we decided to take the LandCruiser up there last weekend and check it out. It's Grizzly country, so I had to set up the back for sleeping as Canada does not allow proper bear protection, and we have Grizzly here and know better than to sleep in a tent without the great equalizer.
We got to the 4WD road a bit before noon, and it was essentially a rough gravel road for 20 miles into the remote back country, then deteriorated into a jumble of sharp rocks for the last 7 miles as they were "fixing" the road simply by pushing head size granite rocks around with a D9 Caterpillar with no apparent desire to improve the surface. Serious banging and clattering - the kind of abuse that starts you thinking about 33 year old wire chafing deep in the harness, that old hose on the right side of the engine that needs replacing, and being hours from a cell signal if something went awry.
The hike was beautiful, and I got to see my first Wolverine up near the summit. We were the last vehicle at the trail head, and the sun was setting as we headed down the steep section in low range to save the brakes. Very quickly, we discussed staying up on the mountain and doing the Jumbo Ridge trail the next day, since we were already way out there in the backcountry. Pulled into a flat spot after deciding to stay out, leveled the truck for sleeping, and soon we had dinner bubbling on the stove.
Just at that exquisite moment when I leaned back in my camp chair in the twilight, took in the stream burbling 20 feet away, and mentally dropped my guard to enjoy a peaceful evening, it happened. My right kidney sent me a familiar signal of mild pain, indicating I was about to pass a kidney stone. I waited about 10 minutes to see if it was something else, before telling my wife. Concern registered in her eyes as we both realized we were 4 hours from the nearest hospital, with a couple hours of travel on a remote exposed mountain road and darkness was falling. We briefly discussed not packing up to see how it goes, and the kidney weighed in with a surge of pain I'd imagine is like having an MMA kick in the gut.
Tight lipped with concern, we both jumped into action, tossing half eaten dinner in the the trash bag, stowing gear quickly, and I just tossed the fully assembled camp chairs in the back of the 80, rather than breaking them down like the origami project they are. We said a quick prayer, and I opted to drive as I was concerned there was a very real risk of puncturing a sidewall rushing downhill in this first torn up section and I've got a lot of offroad driving under my belt, plus rushing down a steep rough track in a heavily loaded SUV also presents a brake fade possibility, as does hitting a large animal, etc. Lots of potential to be disabled, or take a turn too hot and slide off the road. I ran over the options in my mind, thinking ahead to the pain level I know is coming and realizing I would literally be unable to help my wife change a tire or set up the MaxxTraxx, etc - perhaps soon.
If you've never had the pleasure of a kidney stone, I hope you never do. It's a fearsome reputation, but I'll tell you it is also one of the oddest versions of pain you'll ever experience. My urologist tells me he has many female patients who have told him it is worse than childbirth. It's not what you might visuallize - not like a knife in the guts, not the "high frequency" pain of a broken bone, the sting of a hornet, etc. It's more like only the base note of pain. An internal, powerful deep hum of pain that has you breathing in tiny sipping gasps, it reduces your world to two things. One - the pain, and two - all the things about your immediate world that bother you. So you'll try to lay down thinking it will help, writhe around for 18 seconds and decide it's better to stand. Stand for 30 seconds and decide it's better to bend over and lean on the bed. A suitable millisecond later, you'll decide to pace around the bedroom, then illogically decide to jump in a hot shower. Your mind is looking for minute variations you can make in your immediate environment that may provide the tiniest sliver of respite, and the doing of these things also satisfies the overwhelming urge and desire to "do something" to get away from this pain that is attached to your side like a limpet mine. None of them work. An unanswered phone in the other room will instantly become the focus of your irritation as you mumble "please, someone answer that $%#& phone, as if that ringing is responsible for your pain.
But there is one thing you absolutely don't want - which is to be jostled around, bumped, touched, or otherwise disturbed from trying to lie in physical peace while mentally dealing with the pain. Questions like "can I rub your back, can I get you a glass of water, can I read you the 80 Series trunion bearing procedure?" are met with veiled anger as you just want to be left to your own devices.
So here I am banging and bouncing down a rough track making safe maximum pace, and unable to speak from the jostling. On previous stones, just being driven to the hospital, I was keenly aware of every expansion joint and pavement crack. This was off the Richter scale, though I took small satisfaction that me driving equates to me doing this to myself in terms of increased pain. Which was way better than being a passenger and having it done to me, trying not to complain about each brake stab and every rock unfairly hit by my side's tires. Then it got worse.
My arms and legs started going numb. I began forced deep breathing, thinking my gasping was letting the oxygen sats go down. Nope - didn't help. Kept progressing down my arms, and when it got to my hands, I had to stop the truck - unable to continue without risking an unknown next phase. Later, I hypothesized my body was going into mild shock from the pain, causing the numbness. My wife has excellent driving skills (she drove a Gen 3 Supra stick when we met!) and kept up a great pace downhill, using tranny braking as I had been to prevent brake fade, yet maintaining a brisk pace in case that stone blocked the urine flow completely. The speed and steepness were right in that sweet spot to fear for brake fade - steep enough to require constant braking, but not enough speed for cooling airflow. Now as a passenger, I again started thinking of all the things on the Cruiser that could fail - right now, when I needed her to get me to a hospital. We all regard Toyota as the top of the heap, and the LandCruiser as the right vehicle to be in under this circumstance, but decades of aging, a quarter million miles, how are the belts, man I hope this abuse doesn't crack the exhaust or manifold - ack! Mind game atop layers of pain.
I had to crawl into the back and lay flat after a few minutes. In the darkness laying back there, I gave thanks that the 80 was built for a bit of abuse, and that we had fresh BFG A/T's against all the sharp granite rocks. The front suspension bottomed out on the limiters a few times, with the heavy nose downhill attitude and need for hard braking through bumps, and I applauded my wife's brisk pace - alternately telling her to flog it and reminding her what a puncture or stuck would mean as I would be unable to help in any situation. Typical husband stuff.
Overall, I had a feeling of peace as this vehicle has been tended to personally by me, and even details like checking the lower knuckle nuts annually are carried out (which could have gotten us killed out there). I managed to float in a steady state of pain and stop worrying about the 80 at this crucial 90 minutes of her life with us. All the years of good maintenance and care came home to roost as this magnificent beast stolidly tended to her work, absorbing the blows and chewing up the miles.
We got back to the main dirt road, then on to the area of the hospital a few hours later with nary a hiccup. Ordinary pavement never felt so velvety smooth. We called the hospital and let them know our situation, they explained their Canadian medical system for Americans, and we pulled into a campground a few minutes away to assess things. Around 2am the stone moved out of Area 51 and I fell asleep. Next morning - nothing. Like it didn't happen.
Which short story brings me to tonight's oil change. I had to count it twice, but yes indeed. As I wrote the miles, filter type and oil in the log book, it turned out to be the 40th time I've change the oil on this wonderful rig. I've never been so glad I was in a vehicle known the world over as the dependable mule, and the right vehicle to be in whether you are special forces, or a guy dealing with a kidney stone on a remote Canadian mountain. Here's to our mutual passion, and to our fine taste in motor cars! Cheers.
