Bit of an interesting story on the origin of our panel truck. Came out of the Central Valley of California. Looked for quite a few years to find a panel worth restoring. Finally found this one on Ebay.
I call the boy, ask about the truck. Tells me the truck runs fine, "You can drive the truck." I believe him, those old Chevy trucks run forever. Explain to him we will hop a ride to Fresno, rent a car then drive out to his town, some little cow fart place, cannot remember the name. Tell him we will drive the truck back down to Southern California. My wife loves a travel adventure, likes staying in a fancy hotel room.
Boy says to me, "Oh no, you cannot drive the truck." I am confused, "Why not?" He simply says, "It bounces." We go round and round on this, finally get out him if you drive the truck faster than 25 or so, bounces off the road. Alright, fine, I will drag my fifth wheel trailer up there at 6 miles to the gallon.
Get up there out in the middle of nowhere, save for railroad tracks. Big fruit packing plant, about an acre in size building. Off season, none around, finally find the boy. He is a security guard, "Howdy, I'm Billyray, this here is Taha, we are here for the panel truck." My girl is already nervous, thinks this is a setup for robbery. She is usually right about these things.
He walks us around, big as a city inside. Lot of open space, big concrete pillars. Roof is a good fifty feet up. Skid marks all over the place, spinning donuts type skid marks. I ask about those, "I race my cars in here, I get tired of watching television. Come on, I'll show you." Walks us around, under tarps, bunch of cars, mostly Sixties. Couple of Impalas, a Stingray, few old trucks, all souped up hotrods, "I race my cars in here just like in the French Connection movie."
"Where's our panel truck?", I am fingering my wad of hundreds in my pocket, a big wad. He grins, "Over here." Boy walks us, seems like a half mile, walks us to a big plastic curtain. Passing through curtains, instantly freezing cold. He takes us into a huge refrigerator, big enough for fork lifts and tractor-trailer rigs. My girl grabs my arm, "Billyray, let's get out of here, this ain't right."
There's our panel. Parked next to the truck, a Pontiac GTO, a convertible, and an Oldsmobile 442 hardtop. This boy is a minimum wage security guard and has almost a million dollars in classic cars sitting in this city size fruit packing place, and racing those cars around like in a wild movie chase scene.
My girl, ornery girl, steps up, "Look, buster, I want to see a pink slip and registration." Don't know why she is so mistrusting, maybe because she is a Choctaw Indian. Darn if he doesn't produce paper work, looks real enough. My girl takes me aside, "Billyray, if not parked in this refrigerator, that truck is so hot it would be going up in flames." We debate for a time, decide to take a chance, good for parts at least. Give the boy his money, he scribbles on the pink slip, "Taha, you drive the truck outside, there is loading ramp out there we can use. I'll pull the trailer around." Truck fires right up, she gets out and walks around while the engine warms up after being half frozen.
Outside, I watch her pull out and head towards me. Sure enough, tiny little cracks in the asphalt get the truck bouncing so much it just about flies clean over the moon.
Later we learned all the leaves in the springs had been removed save for the main single leaves. Those eyelets on the ends had been heated with a torch until the ends were bent almost straight down. Frame was sitting right on top of the axles, no shock absorbers, removed so the frame could drop down.
A true low rider in the worst of ways. Got it registered OK, no problem there. My girl didn't like the motel room I got us over in Fresno, "Smells like cowboys and cows in here, bad enough I live with a cowboy." Tell her, "That's OK, I live with a cow."
Billyray
