Over the past 45 years, I’ve had some fun with trucks, but I’ve never wanted to own one. For 30 of those years, in fact, that was also my general feeling about wives. In truth, I did briefly possess an appliance-white 1970 Ford commercial van with a 390-cid V-8 that towed my ’71 A-Production Corvette. After a race at Mosport, the truck’s engine began running like a dozen doughnuts in a disposal, then it seized. At the time, my net worth matched the average sixth-grader’s, so I walked to a junkyard a stone’s throw from Cayuga Raceway, where the sympathetic owner conjured a replacement V-8 and a hoist. By sunset, the engine fired. “Now you’ve got a half-nice truck,” Mr. Junkyard said. READ MORE ››
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