Barreling into 2024 with the roar and rumble of a pickup truck

 

By Mary Kay Roth   

Most of my life I have self-righteously chanted the call for small cars, practical, energy efficient and commonsensical.  Little guys like Toyota Corollas, Honda Civics and Honda Fits.

I never understood the appeal of trucks, those nasty behemoths that hog the road.

Last year the world changed. My daughter and I bought a pickup. 

Not just any pickup. An almost vintage 1986 Ford F150.  Extended cab.  Long bed.

Mind you, a year ago I had no clue about this kind of trucker lingo.   But now I know the Ford F-series has been the best-selling truck in America for nearly half a decade – with the 1986 version representing the final hurrah of the F-series’ seventh generation.

My own 1986 model goes by many names. My granddaughters call it the Chocolate Truck, my neighbors, Count Chocula.  I call her the Rusty Beast.

A square-body Bullnose Ford, she’s tarnished and corroded, and bellows upon starting. Yet driving high above the throngs of pedestrian sedans, I am master of the road when I get behind the wheel. 

I am one bad ass. 

When you drive a pickup – apparently, especially a 1986 Ford F150, extended cab, long bed – folks wave at you. Drivers roll down their window to ask about the vintage. At gas stations, people circle around the truck to marvel.

Truly, there is an entire underground world of pickups out there with websites and Facebook pages dedicated specifically to Ford trucks of the ‘80s.

I now know the Ford F-150 of 1986 could carry a payload of about 1,500 pounds – featured a Windsor V-8 with either a 5L or 6L electronic fuel injector – had a six- or eight-cylinder engine that produced from 115 to 150 horsepower.

OK, I actually have no clue what that previous paragraph means. It just sounded cool. 

But when I was reading through a website of testimonials from other owners of 1986 Ford pickups, I did come across this fellow’s delightful gem: “Mine doesn't have all the bells and whistles but we can leave that to the luxury vehicles and sedans for old women. Mine tows and hauls, handles ice/snow.”

Whoa. 

Admittedly, this is a new and curious time in my life, no longer able to cling to any farfetched notion of middle age.  I am getting old.  I am an old woman.

I know some females avoid those words like the plague, but perhaps the words are not the true issue. Perhaps it’s time to redefine … old woman. 

Aside from the unexpected and mysterious body creaks, my health is solid – and I’m pretty sure I love getting older.  Somehow age offers an acute awareness that life is precious, should be lived with dignity and ferocity rather than resignation.

Old age is truly a fine time to run for office, run a marathon, ice skate.  To howl at the politics of the land, collect signatures for important petition drives, wear whatever you like. 

And drive a truck, dang it.  The Rusty Beast – with nary a luxury bell or whistle – pulls my daughter’s ski boat.  Hauls my beloved kayak. Helps out many a friend and neighbor. 

Granted, the gas mileage sucks. And there are underlying and surprising implications for gender and politics with a pickup truck.  My daughter and I have purposely plastered feminist bumper stickers on the Rusty Beast to counter country song stereotypes.

In fact, it took some time for the truck and me to get acquainted.

Initially, since the Rusty Beast groaned and moaned when we started her, we installed a push-button ignition. Then came the dilemma of the back tailgate. 

One summer afternoon, after taking my kayak for a spin at Holmes Lake, upon returning home I discovered the truck tailgate was down and my kayak had vanished. (She was rescued by retracing my path to find the helpful guys who had watched the kayak slide off my pickup, had retrieved it and were wondering if and when I would return.)  

Robust bungee cords now crisscross my tailgate.

And I have learned so much truck lore.  FYI, Henry Ford produced what is considered the first American pickup truck in 1917, the Ford Model TT. Fast forward to 1948, when Ford released the now famous F-Series, which would end up becoming not only the best-selling truck in America but also the top-selling vehicle overall. 

Today only about 16 percent of F-series owners are women.  My daughter and I belong in that prestigious minority.

Perhaps that’s why I was thinking of the Rusty Beast this year as – per tradition – I contemplated a guiding quote for my New Year … and borrowed these words from Dylan Thomas: 

“Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

You see, I don’t feel like tiptoeing into this new year. I feel like barreling into 2024 with the roar and rumble of a pickup truck.   

No, I’m not giving up my Honda Fit.  She’s still my main squeeze.  I will always believe in energy-efficiency and common sense.  I will recycle and conserve.

But there will be days this year when I’ll climb into my pickup truck, crank up the rock ‘n’ roll and drive off into the sunset – as this old woman is gonna burn and rave at close of day.