200 thousand miles didn't seem like that much. At the time it was just 14 years old. Kind of a muck-layer green in color, the flatbed was painted black with the best hand brushed coats of dull, dark, black paint. 2 x 8's on the flat bed. Big tires. The only thing of any real value to the vehicle. I paid my boss $100.00 cash money for that truck. Paul Hains at Hains Greenhouse sold it to me.

It was a piece of work to drive. There were certain things that had to be done to get it to stop and or go. The clutch pedal. It was shot. The spring or the lack of spring would mean that when you were shifting from any gear to any gear, you had to keep your left foot on the clutch partway down or it would shoot up past where your foot would rest, and the metal plate that no longer had a rubber pedal cover covering it, would shoot up about 4" with a slam, and would leave your left leg either in pain or bleeding with torn trousers and in pain. The brake pedal worked exactly contradictory to the clutch, because if you came to an intersection, you had to pump the brake at least four times before it would begin to stop. No radio, and the floor covers kept your feet from falling through the floor. It was all green, or sort of green. Big white dash, and the passenger window did not operate because there was no handle inside.

But it drove, and would get 9 miles to the gallon. The lights worked on dim, which bought me enough with my parents to drive it after dark. Gas was less than a dollar a gallon, so who cared, and it would pass inspection.

I was in town one afternoon and I came up the road just east of the old hospital. I pulled up to turn left on Frank Phillips Blvd. when the clutch acted a bit funny and the brake was taking more turns when I started to enter the intersection, looked up and a car was coming right toward me and fast. I threw both pedals down quick, jerked it into reverse and this caused the clutch to come loose from my foot, scraped my leg, rolled backward with a jump, and that was when I heard a funky !Fwap! like noise and slammed the pedals down again and the engine died.

I was out of the intersection but had no clue what had happened, other than looking in the side view mirror and seeing a motorcycle rider standing beside my truck, grabbing and pulling with all his might.

Jumping from the truck I ran back and hollered at him, for his front tire was completely wedged under the flat bed and his back tire was about head height . He was in a panic, and was yelling, and pulling on the bike, and told me he had to get it free. He finally got it through to me that he had "borrowed"'the bike and helmet from someone at school, and he needed to get it back and parked before school let out .

So I jumped in the truck, ran through the combination, let the clutch out and the bike came roaring down the the pavement, he jumped on it, jerked the handlebars and pulled it around, and took off. Sort of. The front tire showed it was bent with it warping back and forth as he drove back to school. I looked at the truck, no marks no dents, and I managed to get on the street and made it home.

There was another time my Dad drove it home......that can wait a while.

Ralph Peck

Photo by Ralph Peck

Bartlesville, Oklahoma