Little truck saves gas, teaches lessons

A few years back I was in need of a fishing truck. Nothing fancy, just something that I could throw some fish or whatever in the bed and not care about my paint job, dents, etc. So I was happy to come across a 1988 Dodge Ram 50 (a Mitsubishi dressed up like a Dodge) that had very low miles, no rust, no dents and four-wheel drive.

But it was a tiny little thing and only had four cylinders. And despite the Dodge badge, it was a foreign make, which went against my preference for domestic brands. But the price was right and I figured I shouldn’t be too picky over something I was just going to keep parked behind the house except for the occasional bounce down the road to a fishing hole, so I bought it.

Then I got a new job in Anchorage with a 50-mile commute each way. I had a Chevrolet Suburban and a Ford F-150, which, while safer to drive, would have sucked my wallet dry.

So there I was pondering the cost of going out and buying a new car (maybe one of those fancy new hybrids) when I happened to glance over and see the nose of my little black Dodgubishi sticking out from behind the barn. Hey, why not? It got great mileage, had four-wheel drive and had the biggest bonus: I already owned it.

My wife wasn’t so sure. I distinctly recall getting that sideways glance from her as she was listening to me convince myself that relying on a 20-year old truck would work. It’s the same glance I get when I talk about such things as saving money by “making it myself.”

Anyway, with my wife quietly watching from the deck with that smirk on her face that reassures me I’m a pretty smart guy (that’s how I’m gonna interpret it since I’m the one telling the story), I spent a Sunday afternoon prepping the little truck for its new role as my commuter. I changed the oil and the coolant, checked the tires (they were horrible) and basically gave it a pre-flight check that would have made an F-15 crew chief proud.

Monday morning came and off I went to my new job. I wound my way around the corners of the Old Glenn on a beautiful fall morning. The sun was up, there was just a hint of frost on the ground and my old fishing truck was running great. Then I hit the Glenn Highway out on the hay flats. Oh my, that traffic moved fast! Running frantically through the gears I managed to get up to 65 mph and shoehorned myself into traffic.

Did I mention the truck was small? I’m not talking typical Japanese-truck small. I mean miniscule. If you’re not familiar with a Ram 50/Mitsubishi, it makes Toyotas and Nissans look gargantuan. The average kindergarten student could easily open the door and slide onto the seat.

Since I posed no real threat to the much larger Hondas, Volkswagens and Volvos, the drivers of these other vehicles would cut in front of me or ride my tail without a thought. Driving next to domestic trucks made me think, “This is what it must feel like to be the smallest guy on the chess team standing in the lunch line with the football linemen.”

I don’t think they even saw me as they made lane changes, so it was up to me to dart and dodge to avoid being crushed. By the time I made it back home that day I felt like I had just survived running with the bulls. This went on for about two weeks before I hatched my plan to give me a little peace during the commute.

A little time searching on the computer took me to places that specialize in bumper stickers. I’ve never been a fan of bumper stickers, but these were desperate times. I shelled out $30 and about a week later, my box arrived. Remember that look I mentioned that my wife gives me when I’m having one of my genius moments? I got that and more when she came home and saw the entire tailgate and bumper of my truck covered with stickers — and not boring stickers you see all the time.

No, I took my right-leaning tendencies and jammed them as far right as I could with messages regarding guns, illegal immigration, big-government, speaking English and the like. If I couldn’t compete with the other drivers in terms of size, then I would convince them I was crazy. I was Joe Mullett on his way to or from a militia meeting with a rifle and a fresh case of Blue Ribbon in the cab. It worked! I couldn’t begin to count the number of times I would watch a car flying up on my tail only to slowly back off — way off.

Winter came and I learned something new. Apparently it doesn’t get that cold in Japan. That’s the only way I could explain why the heater core was the approximate size of a deck of playing cards. Even with cardboard taped over the radiator I could never coax much more than the slimmest trickle of lukewarm air out of it during winter. But I don’t give up easily, so I endured the odd looks from my co-workers as I entered the office in my sweatshirt, Carhartt jacket, ski gloves and a hat. (I also endured that quiet look from my wife again.)

With only a few minor mishaps, the little black truck carried me back and forth for almost two years. Then tragedy struck. My wife was using it one day (something she loathed) and was on her way to pick me up in Wasilla. A young gal had just purchased an espresso at the stand in front of Alaska Industrial Hardware and apparently didn’t feel the need to look up as she placed her change in her purse and pulled out, blowing through the stop sign in the process. My wife had no chance as she locked up the brakes and slammed into the other vehicle. Thankfully, she was OK, but the little black truck was a total loss. As the tow truck from the insurance company came to take it away, I almost shed a tear watching the crumpled nose head down the driveway, around a corner and finally out of sight. I wonder what ever became of that tailgate full of stickers?

Ben Compton is a Palmer resident and publishes his column under the tagline “Compton’s Corner,” the same title used by his grandmother, Phyllis Compton, a longtime Frontiersman columnist.