The '68 Jeep

In my 49 years on earth, I've learned only one thing with total certainty: it's
that any bad day can be cured by a drive into wild spaces in a classic Jeep.
Pretty sure my dad tuaght it to me. If so, he was right. This fact has accompanied me through life.

This is the story of my Jeep. Not any Jeep, mind you: it joined the family
before I did.  I laugh when I see ads for "vintage" Jeep Wranglers that date
back to the early 2000s.  Mine was a 1968, older than me.  Before the Wrangler
was the AMC and before that was the Kaiser, only one short generation removed
from the old Willys that had served hard time in World War II. And it was still
largely unchanged in design.  The Kaiser was still so simple you could airdrop
it to troops in a palletized container and have them assemble it in the field.
In the winter you froze, in the summer you cooked.  If it rained, you stood a
decent chance of getting wet.  But it was a Jeep: worth it!

This Jeep became mine when I finally was old enough to drive it.  My folks
offered it in language that gave me a chance to turn it down for some other
vehicle. Not a chance; I'd been waiting 17 years to get behind its wheel.  And
off I went, over the horizon into adventures unforeseen.

I've always said owning a classic Jeep is like surviving an abusive marriage:
the more you love it, the more it beats you. With the 4x4 engaged you could get
into endless trouble. But you could also get into endless trouble right in the
garage.  I had endless adventure: parts gave out, requiring I learn how to fix
them. Dad was there to teach me, which was the only way I was going to figure it out.  I once caught fire going over the Throgs Neck Bridge. The steering failed
on a highway outside of Boston. The alternator left me in the snow outside of
Buffalo.  There were other design choices we wouldn't make in the 21st century,
like the fuel tank located under the driver's seat, or the seatbelts that went
originally only across the lap. Safety in modern cars is vastly improved -- and
I'm not sure I'd want my own children driving a '68 Jeep at highway speeds, to
be honest -- but in modern vehicles, all the fun is gone: getting there was
always half the fun in an old Jeep, and not getting there was sometimes fun
too.

After countless adventures through the Fingerlakes and the Adirondacks, by 1992
the steel body was starting to go, though the engine was still solid.  That led
to one of my greatest triumphs: rebuilding it with my dad from 95-96. It took
all my money, and a lot of back-and-forth trips from Boston, but over a winter
it got done: a replacement fiberglass shell, improved gauges in the dash,
bigger wheels, and a few aesthetic touches any 25-year old male would
understand.  And then again, I drove it over the horizon into adventure (and
more than one calamity). It was a good father-son moment too, learning from a
guy whose expertise under the hood of an old vehicle was boundless.  What a
feeling of dread when I began the project: how is something like this even
possible? "We can do it," he said. And he was right: What a feeling of
accomplishment when we put on the final touches and drove it away, looking
great.

I drive more modern cars now: safer, more reliable, better compliant with the
expectations of the 21st century highways and modern emissions standards.  But
some days, I still long for the wooded, rural road, the wind rattling the
canvas top, frigid air in the cabin, a warm thermos of coffee beside me, a full
set of tools riding shotgun, and a folded map across my knees. Jeeps meant
adventure in 1968 and 1992; they mean adventure now too.  I look back at these
pictures in pride, remembering the satisfying clunk of engaging four-wheel
drive at the front axle with a short-bladed screwdriver, a line of dark pines
at the horizon. The spirit -- it's still out there. 


... and he lived happily ever after (but kept an extra alternator in the
toolbox).