Initially, I planned on moving through the back roads of Pennsylvania in an old F150. The kind of truck you see in the middle of the sticks with a cash only sign for $500. Rusty and faded, new or used, it didn't matter, the old Fords patinaed overnight. I grew up in these trucks.
The green '76 F150 that I learned to drive on still sits by the building that used to house the Big Trout across from Spring Creek. I've been waiting for the for sale sign to show up on it's windshield ever since I moved back home. Then there was the yellow stakebody that needed a can of either for the carb and a brick for the gas pedal in order to start on winter mornings. Summer time humidity would cause it to stall out. You would have to remove the gas cap to start it again. But my favorite was the one Pop had when he was the landscaper at the Masonic Homes in Elizabethtown. Forest green, with a push button start. I remeber being around 4 or 5 and sitting in the cab on summer days with the smell of two-stroke exhaust and freshly cut grass hanging in the air. In the fall it was leaves. Winter, coffee.
These were the trucks that I hoped to find. Trucks owned by old men who still ran trap lines and smoked Pall Mall. The kind of truck that would be perfect for hitting the back roads. The kind that would blend in, disappear. Then gas hit three dollars a gallon. I was going to need another solution.