The color was what Ford called “Birch Gray,” which I call “leftover WW2 battleship paint gray.” But it was a handsome enough color, complemented by the black bumpers and trim and the chrome grille. The interior was so neat and tidy it looked as if my mom had lived in there her whole life, even the steering wheel was perfect, no cracks, and seat looked and felt great.Īin’t got many pictures of the F-1. No dents, no rust, not on the frame, not inside the fenders, not anywhere, just a cherry body that was “rock solid”. Then he rolled up and Holy Cow Batman, what a great looking truck! When he said restored he wasn’t kidding, it was so darn clean it looked like it’d just popped out of the factory.
51 ford f1 replacing king pins windows#
It took the dude about half an hour to show up, and I was looking out the windows the whole time. “How about now?” “OK.”Īt this point I should note that my wife says I’m “cheap and easy.” I, of course, disagree. “Calm down, McClure,” I said to my inner child, “it’s probably a rusted out POS.” I actually started to sweat a little, and felt a little dizzy. Oh man! I’d always loved those “Bonus Built” post-war Fords, this guy was good, he’d found my exact weakness and applied serious Vulcan neck pinch pressure. I felt the adrenaline rush through my body like quicksilver. “I got a ’51 Ford pickup,” he drawled out. “What you got to trade?” I quizzed, determined to hold my ground if it was something stupid like a sensible, reliable, reasonable, safe and comfortable Camry or Accord, no way was I gonna drive one of those things. But still, people should have been calling!įinally one afternoon the phone rang and it was a guy who was excited about my van! Yay! He wanted to see it right away, like now, but said he wanted to know if I’d trade for it. Now sure, perhaps cutting a little into the sales potential was the minor fact that I was selling a seriously oddball vehicle that was probably never going to be able to legally wear California plates. It was darn depressing that no one seemed to realize that I was offering the greatest minivan ever created for sale, I guess Central Californians were just not sophisticated enough to know that they should be in a mob screaming out higher and higher bids for my VW bus. The ad for selling the Westy, which was essentially unregisterable in California due to my hacking off all the smog gear in Texas, had run for a few weeks and nothing was happening. Now that you understand our gestalt, let’s get back to our tale.
Marching to his own drummer, running outside the pack, keeping his own tempo etc, etc, blah blah blah. Was it a nice tidy 89’ Toyota Corolla? Perhaps a clean, late-model Honda Civic with four doors and a little blue velour seating? Or even, feeling risky now, an ’87 Chevy Celebrity with taupe paint, “Euro” stickers on the fenders and AC?Īnd our hero doesn’t drive boring. When we last left our hero, he’d just traded up and gotten rid of the Ultimate MiniVan Driving Machine™ the lime green 77’ VW Westphalia. My young family (still) needed reliable transportation.
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