The end of a green-truck affair
The truck is dead, buried in DuBois. I drove her from Seattle to Philadelphia, from Philadelphia to Seattle and back again. And the greenest truck anyone’s ever seen – Mac / Misty / Rozinante – gave up the ghost.
Bob and Lee have given the details. And I got to say, they beat the hell out of triple A. They showed up at 3 or 4 a.m. (the hotel room was without a clock) banging and pounding on the door and yelling “Silliman Silliman” and Bob handed me a beer he’d brought from Michigan before he even walked in the door.
We worked like an imitation pit crew. We rednecked it, manically unbolting, removing and moving downwards to the block. Bob would point to a bolt and you’d unbolt it. And then after 15 minutes or so you’d ask, “so, what is this thing?” and he’d explain the innards of the engine pointing at the greasy cavity and saying “we’re into the guts of it now, this is the guts of it.” We ate a piece of pizza each at noon, and stopped for Coke’s once, and worked solid for 5 and something hours. But it all came to 0.004' of a warp, and that was it. It was over.
I sold the truck to the shop owner for the $65 I owed him, piling all the engine pieces in the passenger seat and I put my hand on the hood and said “it’s okay, go to sleep, you’ve done me well, you’ve done me well.”