Uncle Meldon - just sayin' ;p - I have met him, cool guy 
Saving The Old Rustbucket--My 1982 FJ40 Tale
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- #22
Meeting Tucker74
Excellent Austin Beerworks Russian Imperial Oatmeal Stout on tap at last night's WALCS meeting. I'm feelin' no pain. Here's the next chapter.
So now I have possession of Uncle Meldon's 40, and I've ageed to get it to Hawaii. The truck seems solid and well maintained, but I don't really know much about it beyond the initial inspection. I'm about to drive the old girl 3,600 miles, so a thorough pre-flight systems check seems in order. I live on a corner lot on a relatively busy street, directly across from a greenbelt. Out front there's an endless stream of joggers and cyclists, in addition to heavy vehicle traffic during rush hours. Out front is not the safest place to park. We also have an abundance of door-to-door solicitors so I typically ignore anyone who approaches the house--magazine sales, crusaders with petitions, charity volunteers asking for donations, beggars, religious zealots, you name it. I avoid 'em all like the plague.
One sunny afternoon, with departure only a couple of weeks away, I decide it's time to get better acquainted with the truck. Just to be safe, I've parked the 40 out of harm's way on the side street. I'm lying in the street underneath the engine bay checking out belts and hoses and stuff, and I see feet approaching, slowly and tentatively. Dark trousers, black business shoes. I'm thinking this can only be one thing, a Mormon missionary, and I am not in the mood. The feet stop alongside the truck and I hear a very polite: "Excuse me." Hmmm, he's almost too polite. Now I'm convinced it's a missionary, so I stay under the truck and totally ignore him. He says excuse me again, this time a bit louder. I still ignore him. I figure I can stay under the truck and wait him out, and he'll eventually go away. There's a long pause, he paces around like he's deciding whether to leave, and then I hear these magic words.
" Nice 40, man. Didn't mean to bother you. I live in the cul-de-sac 2 blocks down the street and I see your Cruisers on the way home from work every day. I have a 40, and an 80, and a Pig, and I'm a home brewer. If you ever need help wrenching, let me know."
He begins walking away. I quickly crawl out from under the truck in order to catch him before he leaves, and in the process manage to bash my head on the winch. Flesh wound. It was worth the injury. He's not a missionary. Not even close. He's Tucker74 from MUD. He does own Cruisers, and he knows how to brew some beer.
Excellent Austin Beerworks Russian Imperial Oatmeal Stout on tap at last night's WALCS meeting. I'm feelin' no pain. Here's the next chapter.
So now I have possession of Uncle Meldon's 40, and I've ageed to get it to Hawaii. The truck seems solid and well maintained, but I don't really know much about it beyond the initial inspection. I'm about to drive the old girl 3,600 miles, so a thorough pre-flight systems check seems in order. I live on a corner lot on a relatively busy street, directly across from a greenbelt. Out front there's an endless stream of joggers and cyclists, in addition to heavy vehicle traffic during rush hours. Out front is not the safest place to park. We also have an abundance of door-to-door solicitors so I typically ignore anyone who approaches the house--magazine sales, crusaders with petitions, charity volunteers asking for donations, beggars, religious zealots, you name it. I avoid 'em all like the plague.
One sunny afternoon, with departure only a couple of weeks away, I decide it's time to get better acquainted with the truck. Just to be safe, I've parked the 40 out of harm's way on the side street. I'm lying in the street underneath the engine bay checking out belts and hoses and stuff, and I see feet approaching, slowly and tentatively. Dark trousers, black business shoes. I'm thinking this can only be one thing, a Mormon missionary, and I am not in the mood. The feet stop alongside the truck and I hear a very polite: "Excuse me." Hmmm, he's almost too polite. Now I'm convinced it's a missionary, so I stay under the truck and totally ignore him. He says excuse me again, this time a bit louder. I still ignore him. I figure I can stay under the truck and wait him out, and he'll eventually go away. There's a long pause, he paces around like he's deciding whether to leave, and then I hear these magic words.
" Nice 40, man. Didn't mean to bother you. I live in the cul-de-sac 2 blocks down the street and I see your Cruisers on the way home from work every day. I have a 40, and an 80, and a Pig, and I'm a home brewer. If you ever need help wrenching, let me know."
He begins walking away. I quickly crawl out from under the truck in order to catch him before he leaves, and in the process manage to bash my head on the winch. Flesh wound. It was worth the injury. He's not a missionary. Not even close. He's Tucker74 from MUD. He does own Cruisers, and he knows how to brew some beer.
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I'm assuming that based on the story thus far, you will be documenting your other road trips to pick up and deliver cruisers? It wouldn't be one of your stories if you didn't make it really long and go off on a bunch of tangents...
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- #24
Fear not. This story will be longer than War and Peace, and more entertaining than Young Hippies in Love. Really, it will.
Sea Knight said:Fear not. This story will be longer than War and Peace, and more entertaining than Young Hippies in Love. Really, it will.
Love it! Keep bringing the tell! You should write a novel! Last read this good was who needs a road!
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- #26
77mustard40
SILVER Star
Thanks man. Next chapter comin' right up. Stand by...
Lee you should have knocked out a couple of chapters after last night's Austin Beerworks' Sputnik, could have made for super reading. I didn't know how big it was until about 10:00 this morning.
- Thread starter
- #28
The Zinger Girls
OK, they aren't really Zinger girls, but I think it sounds cool and this is my story so that's what I'm calling this chapter.
Uncle Meldon's 40 apparently had auxilliary lights mounted on the windshield frame at some point. By the time I picked it up the lights had been removed, leaving several nickle and dime size gaping holes in the frame. I was concerned about the frame taking on water during a rain or worse yet, being attacked by salt air during shipping. I had visions of the 40 arriving in Hawaii with a rusted out windshield frame and widespread cancer, which would have been all my fault. Those holes needed to be plugged. I'm no welder, so a redneck solution was gonna be required. We have a great neighborhood hardware store, Zingers. It's not your Daddy's old hardware store. You can find anything there from Waterford Irish Crystal to organic coffee to birthday cards and fru-fru gift items. They also stock every conceivable kind of fastener, including a complete selection of metric hardware. Mike, the owner, is a vintage car geek, and he carries a lot of obscure stuff that comes in handy when you're trying to devise a "Southern engineering" fix. I felt certain he'd have something I could use. On general principle, I also wanted to pick up a couple of rolls of duck tape. Road Trip Rule No. 1: Never leave home without duck tape. Anyway, after putzing around in Zinger for an hour and considering the options, I decided to tap the holes and use bolts, so I bought a few metric flange head bolts and several Neoprene plumbing washers in the same diameter as the flanges. And a tube of silicone for good measure.That should do it, I think.
If you don't already know, Austin is a college town, home of the U of Texas and several smaller schools. Something like 60,000 students live here, including lots of fine looking coeds. Yeah, thousands of them. At that time, in 2005, Zinger Hardware was located in a strip shopping center adjacent to Sun and Ski Sports. Which happens to be the place where coeds with rich parents go to buy pricy stuff...high dollar ski gear ("Oh we're not going to Aspen this year. Everyone goes there. We're going to Taos. Or maybe Whistler...blah blah blah")...swim suits for Spring Break in Cabo...designer sports duds, you know the kind of place. So I'm ambling across the parking lot toward the truck with my little bag of bolts and duck tape, and I can't help but notice that there's a shiny red Porsche Boxster parked in the spot next to me. Way out at the edge of the parking lot. The only two vehicles there. I don't think anything about it, because I always park as far away from other vehicles as I can get. I assume the Porsche is parked there to avoid door dings. That's how I developed the habit, so it makes complete sense to me. I drove Porsches during my yuppie period, and I still appreciate fine German machinery, so I make a mental note to have a better look at the Boxster before driving home.
As I get closer, I see two twenty-something coeds standing on the far side of the 40, giving it the once over. I deduce that they must belong to the Boxster. They're oohing and aahing over Uncle Meldon's 40 like it's James Bond's Aston Martin, which strikes me as a bit strange. You've seen pics of the 40. It has lotsa battle scars, a 4" lift with shackle reversal, 33x1250 MT's, a full cage, raggedy-ass seats, and a funky looking go-cart steering wheel. The front bumper looks like it was fabbed from oilfield pipe, and there's a well used 8274 topping it off. This 40 has character to spare, but it ain't pretty. To a Cruiserhead, maybe, but not to a sorority chick. There's probably a dozen or more cute Jeep Wranglers and flashy Bimmers in the Sun and Ski parking lot, but for some reason these girls seem intrigued with the 40.
Yeah, the Zinger girls. One is tall, blonde, and tan. The other is slightly shorter, also blonde, also tan. I think Hmmm, that must be the only way they make 'em these days. Both are wearing skimpy exercise outfits. They're covered with tiny beads of perspiration and it looks like they just came from the gym. They look fit. I notice these things. Yeah, they're very fit. And tan. And blonde. Did I mention tan? Anyway, one of them asks if this is my "cool Jeep." After politely educating them on the crucial differences between a Jeep and a Land Cruiser, naturally I tell a small lie and say that yep, it sure is mine all right. I rationalize that it's not a complete lie. It's mine until delivered. Right? We continue talking and the tall one seems really interested in the 40, and even a little knowledgeable. She mentions that her parents own a big cattle ranch in West Texas, and she grew up driving 4 wheel drive trucks. She asks some pretty good questions about the hubs, and winch, and I think she may even have asked about lockers. I was impressed. Then we talk about the upcoming adventure. I tell them that my proposed route will not be direct. I intend to stay off the beaten path. I hope to travel back roads and take in as much wilderness scenery as possible. I plan to wind my way through New Mexico, Colorado, Wyoming, Montana, Idaho, and Washington. Then what, they ask, and I tell them about flying from Seattle to Kona, chillin' at the beach house, the whole shootin' match.
The tall one does most of the talking. She asks if I'm making the drive alone, and how long I'll be gone. I say yes, it's a solo trip, and may take a couple of months, possibly more. She asks when I plan to leave Austin and I tell her I'm not sure, but probably within a couple of weeks. It's mid-April. She thinks for a minute and then says...wait for it...."Want some company?" I almost crap my pants. Before I can even say anything, her friend, the shorter one, says "Have you lost your mind? You don't even know this man!" Which is true. Not to mention that I'm 55. I'm married, and I've told them so. Both my kids are older than these girls. Hell, the scivvies I'm wearing are probably older. Then she says, ignoring her friend, "I prefer mature men. If you can wait until the first week in May, when my finals are over, I'll go with you. To Hawaii too." Her friend is becoming visibly agitated, and says "This is crazy. You know your parents would never agree to this." I'm speechless and still haven't responded. Then the tall one says: "My parents will be in Europe all Summer. They won't even know about it. And they don't give a $hit anyway."
I'm still not sayin' a word. This is entertaining. And ridiculous. I don't even know her name, nor does she know mine. Yet she's lobbying for a two month road trip with a stranger who's probably older than her father. Her friend is right. This is crazy. She's probably crazy. So I say, "Ahh, well, thanks, but I don't think that would work out because, uhh, I may stop and visit my parents in Oklahoma, and, uhh, you know, the truck may break down....mumble mumble." I see this isn't working so I play my trump card. "Oh yeah, and my wife may come to Hawaii for a week or so, after I get there." Then just like that, it's over. She gives me the "How dare you reject me, you stupid a-hole" look. Then she regroups, and says "Well have a good trip." They mount up, the tall one driving, and roar off leaving rubber, just for emphasis I guess.
I drive home and by the time I get there, I've stopped sweating and my pulse has almost returned to normal. I park in the driveway, dig out my taps, crack open a beer, and commence plugging the windshield frame holes. I'm about halfway done when my wife pulls in. She walks over to see what I'm doing.
Her: "How was your day?"
Me: "Oh, it was OK."
Her: "Do anything interesting?"
Me: "Nope, just went to Zinger and bought some bolts"
Her: "Sounds pretty boring."
Me: "Yep, I guess it was."
Sigh.
OK, they aren't really Zinger girls, but I think it sounds cool and this is my story so that's what I'm calling this chapter.
Uncle Meldon's 40 apparently had auxilliary lights mounted on the windshield frame at some point. By the time I picked it up the lights had been removed, leaving several nickle and dime size gaping holes in the frame. I was concerned about the frame taking on water during a rain or worse yet, being attacked by salt air during shipping. I had visions of the 40 arriving in Hawaii with a rusted out windshield frame and widespread cancer, which would have been all my fault. Those holes needed to be plugged. I'm no welder, so a redneck solution was gonna be required. We have a great neighborhood hardware store, Zingers. It's not your Daddy's old hardware store. You can find anything there from Waterford Irish Crystal to organic coffee to birthday cards and fru-fru gift items. They also stock every conceivable kind of fastener, including a complete selection of metric hardware. Mike, the owner, is a vintage car geek, and he carries a lot of obscure stuff that comes in handy when you're trying to devise a "Southern engineering" fix. I felt certain he'd have something I could use. On general principle, I also wanted to pick up a couple of rolls of duck tape. Road Trip Rule No. 1: Never leave home without duck tape. Anyway, after putzing around in Zinger for an hour and considering the options, I decided to tap the holes and use bolts, so I bought a few metric flange head bolts and several Neoprene plumbing washers in the same diameter as the flanges. And a tube of silicone for good measure.That should do it, I think.
If you don't already know, Austin is a college town, home of the U of Texas and several smaller schools. Something like 60,000 students live here, including lots of fine looking coeds. Yeah, thousands of them. At that time, in 2005, Zinger Hardware was located in a strip shopping center adjacent to Sun and Ski Sports. Which happens to be the place where coeds with rich parents go to buy pricy stuff...high dollar ski gear ("Oh we're not going to Aspen this year. Everyone goes there. We're going to Taos. Or maybe Whistler...blah blah blah")...swim suits for Spring Break in Cabo...designer sports duds, you know the kind of place. So I'm ambling across the parking lot toward the truck with my little bag of bolts and duck tape, and I can't help but notice that there's a shiny red Porsche Boxster parked in the spot next to me. Way out at the edge of the parking lot. The only two vehicles there. I don't think anything about it, because I always park as far away from other vehicles as I can get. I assume the Porsche is parked there to avoid door dings. That's how I developed the habit, so it makes complete sense to me. I drove Porsches during my yuppie period, and I still appreciate fine German machinery, so I make a mental note to have a better look at the Boxster before driving home.
As I get closer, I see two twenty-something coeds standing on the far side of the 40, giving it the once over. I deduce that they must belong to the Boxster. They're oohing and aahing over Uncle Meldon's 40 like it's James Bond's Aston Martin, which strikes me as a bit strange. You've seen pics of the 40. It has lotsa battle scars, a 4" lift with shackle reversal, 33x1250 MT's, a full cage, raggedy-ass seats, and a funky looking go-cart steering wheel. The front bumper looks like it was fabbed from oilfield pipe, and there's a well used 8274 topping it off. This 40 has character to spare, but it ain't pretty. To a Cruiserhead, maybe, but not to a sorority chick. There's probably a dozen or more cute Jeep Wranglers and flashy Bimmers in the Sun and Ski parking lot, but for some reason these girls seem intrigued with the 40.
Yeah, the Zinger girls. One is tall, blonde, and tan. The other is slightly shorter, also blonde, also tan. I think Hmmm, that must be the only way they make 'em these days. Both are wearing skimpy exercise outfits. They're covered with tiny beads of perspiration and it looks like they just came from the gym. They look fit. I notice these things. Yeah, they're very fit. And tan. And blonde. Did I mention tan? Anyway, one of them asks if this is my "cool Jeep." After politely educating them on the crucial differences between a Jeep and a Land Cruiser, naturally I tell a small lie and say that yep, it sure is mine all right. I rationalize that it's not a complete lie. It's mine until delivered. Right? We continue talking and the tall one seems really interested in the 40, and even a little knowledgeable. She mentions that her parents own a big cattle ranch in West Texas, and she grew up driving 4 wheel drive trucks. She asks some pretty good questions about the hubs, and winch, and I think she may even have asked about lockers. I was impressed. Then we talk about the upcoming adventure. I tell them that my proposed route will not be direct. I intend to stay off the beaten path. I hope to travel back roads and take in as much wilderness scenery as possible. I plan to wind my way through New Mexico, Colorado, Wyoming, Montana, Idaho, and Washington. Then what, they ask, and I tell them about flying from Seattle to Kona, chillin' at the beach house, the whole shootin' match.
The tall one does most of the talking. She asks if I'm making the drive alone, and how long I'll be gone. I say yes, it's a solo trip, and may take a couple of months, possibly more. She asks when I plan to leave Austin and I tell her I'm not sure, but probably within a couple of weeks. It's mid-April. She thinks for a minute and then says...wait for it...."Want some company?" I almost crap my pants. Before I can even say anything, her friend, the shorter one, says "Have you lost your mind? You don't even know this man!" Which is true. Not to mention that I'm 55. I'm married, and I've told them so. Both my kids are older than these girls. Hell, the scivvies I'm wearing are probably older. Then she says, ignoring her friend, "I prefer mature men. If you can wait until the first week in May, when my finals are over, I'll go with you. To Hawaii too." Her friend is becoming visibly agitated, and says "This is crazy. You know your parents would never agree to this." I'm speechless and still haven't responded. Then the tall one says: "My parents will be in Europe all Summer. They won't even know about it. And they don't give a $hit anyway."
I'm still not sayin' a word. This is entertaining. And ridiculous. I don't even know her name, nor does she know mine. Yet she's lobbying for a two month road trip with a stranger who's probably older than her father. Her friend is right. This is crazy. She's probably crazy. So I say, "Ahh, well, thanks, but I don't think that would work out because, uhh, I may stop and visit my parents in Oklahoma, and, uhh, you know, the truck may break down....mumble mumble." I see this isn't working so I play my trump card. "Oh yeah, and my wife may come to Hawaii for a week or so, after I get there." Then just like that, it's over. She gives me the "How dare you reject me, you stupid a-hole" look. Then she regroups, and says "Well have a good trip." They mount up, the tall one driving, and roar off leaving rubber, just for emphasis I guess.
I drive home and by the time I get there, I've stopped sweating and my pulse has almost returned to normal. I park in the driveway, dig out my taps, crack open a beer, and commence plugging the windshield frame holes. I'm about halfway done when my wife pulls in. She walks over to see what I'm doing.
Her: "How was your day?"
Me: "Oh, it was OK."
Her: "Do anything interesting?"
Me: "Nope, just went to Zinger and bought some bolts"
Her: "Sounds pretty boring."
Me: "Yep, I guess it was."
Sigh.
Last edited:
this is getting better and better
Subscribed
Thanks man. Next chapter comin' right up. Stand by...
Dude! What are you doing? You're giving away all of the material for the book I'm writing about you!
Those Zinger Girls had a different take on the event; their blog is called "Creepy Old F***er Hitting On Me"...
Those Zinger Girls had a different take on the event; their blog is called "Creepy Old F***er Hitting On Me"...
LOL !
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- #37
Those Zinger Girls had a different take on the event; their blog is called "Creepy Old F***er Hitting On Me"...
Hey Jeff, what are you doin' in tech? Shouldn't you be shining up your gold lame' upholstery? ;p
Upholstery? You mean gold lame' pants. 
thecrazygreek
A.K.A. TheCraftyGreek
wtf?...
There's tech in there.
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