When the bed of the truck is overflowing with three cubic yards of mulch or groaning under the weight of the rocks from a dismantled farmhouse chimney, I can swear that the leaf spring suspension is literally cracking in two beneath my bench seat as I motor slowly along the two-lane road while the other drivers line up behind me, waiting for their chance to pass.
Some of them give me a happy thumbs-up gesture, or roll down their windows and shout "I love your truck".
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The others, I assume, are silently wondering what kind of jerk would over-compensate for his shortcomings by foisting this ersatz mockery of a truck upon the rest of the driving public.
Honestly, though, am I really so different from the farmers who used to drive their tractors into town for a haircut at the Friendly Barber Shop? I grew up in suburban New Jersey for starters, and have a couple of college degrees, so I don't exactly have my rural bona fides.
I have owned this dysfunctional vehicle around 18 years.
I promise it starts; you'll just have to be patient.
For the past two years, I've kept my increasingly unstable truck in a kind of halfway house, sort of a "Club Chevy Nova". It wasn't invited to my stepdaughter's garden wedding at our house in May—it just sat and sulked, full of bent-up metal poles, a discarded lawn mower and cans of old paint.
Luckily, to date, nobody has actually yelled at me, "I hate your truck".