First Time I Noticed I was a Hardcore Classic Chevy Truck Enthusiast
It was Love at First Sight of a Red Classic Chevy Pickup.
It was the summer of 1990 and I was riding my bicycle to my friend’s house a mile away. The road was straight mile of blacktop, one of many straight roads crisscrossing the Michigan countryside, and I was coming up to the house that had it. The “it” was a classic 1950s Chevy pickup (similar to the one pictured above), cherry red with a stepside bed proudly proclaiming it was a Chevrolet in bright white lettering. A man was outside hand polishing the pickup, as he often did on the weekends, and as I rode by time and time again, I openly stared lucky each time to keep my bicycle upright. Being a shy kid, I never summed up the courage to go talk to him about his obvious pride and joy. I should have.
As life goes, my Dad worked at GM on the truck side and was more focused on the newer pickups than the classics. My mother didn’t care at all about cars as long as it ran. Besides a brother who was with his buddies most of the time and an infant sister, I didn’t have anyone to talk about classic pickups.
Growing older, I still kept an eye out for classic pickups and I’ve always wanted one. It just never made sense going to college, raising a family and starting a business. However, my dream would become a reality a week after Christmas two years ago.
At the time, I had a 1963 International C1200 pickup I had bought off a guy in Wyoming. It wasn’t really what I wanted, but it had 4-wheel-drive and I bought it cheap as a backup car for when I didn’t have a free press loan to drive.
Sitting around watching football with my wife’s family, I was talking about how I had some sort of problem with the pickup and getting ideas. The conversation died and about an hour later, my wife’s uncle sat next to me.
“I’ve been thinking about talking to you,” he said. “You should take the old green pickup. I’m getting too old to do anything with it and I know you would do something with it.”
Stunned, I called my father-in-law over and made my uncle repeat those words – everyone trust my father-in-law and I’m the new guy in the family. After my father-in-law confirmed what he said, I was stunned.
The old green pickup was a 1962 Chevy C10 I had lusted after for about a decade. It was my wife’s grandfather’s farm pickup and it had been parked in a barn for quite some time. I had occasionally gone over and looked at it through the years, but it was promised to my uncle. Promises are kept in my part of the country, so I always wrote it off as not an option.
Thrilled by the news I could have it, but also realistic it was winter in Eastern Wyoming and it would be months until I would bring it home. I made plans to sell my International and waited.
Once Spring hit, another uncle pulled the truck free with a tractor and gave it a quick wash. As my father-in-law, my wife and I made our way to the farm, I couldn’t believe my eyes as the truck was sitting in the yard and my uncle was trying to keep air in the tires. Bringing it home just got a lot easier.
Fortunately that week, I had two press loans – a Nissan Titan XD and a Ram Power Wagon. We jackknifed a trailer attached to the Titan next to the Chevy and ran a steel line from the Power Wagon’s winch to the front of the pickup. The winch pulled the truck up onto the trailer and the jackknifed trailer didn’t roll forward. Within about a half hour, we were back on the road.
Bringing it home, it was clear I had my hands full. This truck was used. Really used. The story goes most of the grandkids learned to drive in the truck and the myriad of dents reflect this rural “driver’s training.” Plus, it was a hunting pickup and there were bullet casings in nearly every nook and cranny.
The tires were mismatched, the stock inline 235 6-cylinder had been “farmer” rebuilt several times (use as little new parts as you can while rebuilding it). It had no working brakes, the emergency brake had a knot tied into it and most of the gauges didn’t work.
Inside the cabin, the seat had two covers on it and was broken. On the floor, I pulled free four different floor mats. Why so many? Turns out the floor mats were covering up the various holes in the floorboard.
Finally, cats had lived in it for years and likely had a few litters inside. The “aroma” wafting from the cabin was nearly as much as I could stomach.
A thorough power wash, soap and a new seat finally cured the smell and a complete tune up on the engine resulted in it firing over. New drum brakes all around from the backing plate out and a new set of wheels later, I was on the road. Somewhat.
The engine sputtered and fought for life one time around the block and a new carburetor was ordered. With this new carburetor, it was a “running outfit” as my grandmother called it once again. I named him Swede.
Why give an American pickup a Nordic name? It just fit. My grandfather’s nickname was Swede and he went by the name so much I didn’t know his real name until he passed a decade ago. Also, my family’s heritage goes back to Sweden.
For the next summer, I drove Swede all around town and made a few trips back to the farm much to the surprise of my grandmother. It had been years and years since the little green Chevy sat in the driveway and now with my grandfather passed, it was quite a sight to see it sitting there once again. Tears flowed.
Unfortunately, the inline six had had one too many farmer rebuilds and didn’t make it into the next summer. Again, undeterred, by this set back, I found a used 283 V8 out of a 1956 Chevy Belair which had been sitting in a local engine mechanics garage for a few decades. Working with my father-in-law and my uncle, we swapped the engines after making the mounts, clutch and throttle linkage fit the new engine. It is does not bolt right in as many would will tell you it will.
After spending a fall in the farm shop, Swede is back in action. I drive him to the lumberyard, to take out the trash and around town. I also took him to Denver twice in December (200 miles each way). I’ll have more on that adventure on another post.
Over the past two years, I’ve nearly replaced everything except for the frame and the body panels – I’m keeping the dents and the patina. He is the perfect truck for me to learn how to wrench on and I document a lot of the repair work for an upcoming restoration book a publisher reached out to me to write.
I try to drive him as much as a I can and I just love the driving experience. New trucks are great, yet you are often so disconnected from the driving experience – set cruise control and go. With Swede, there is no cruise, no power steering nor power brakes. It is literally impossible to text and drive and hell, I don’t even attempt to answer a phone call. Driving Swede takes all my attention and yet, there are times, after muscling the window down with my vice grip fastened on the knob, I cruise the country roads on a bright sunny summer day and the simplicity and beauty of owning a classic truck hits me. I have no cares in the world and it is as close to pure bliss as I can find.
