Resurrecting An Old Rig

Oh boy, I have my work cut out for me this spring and summer!  I have decided to sell my beloved brown cabover Freightliner and reinvest those funds into finishing some other projects I’ve had lingering around.  One of those projects is my 1989 Freightliner FLD that I’m building to resemble dad’s brand new one that impressed me so much when I was 12 years old.  While that old truck isn’t specifically the subject of this poem, the concept is similar.  This poem is about a rusty, crusty, or just plain dusty old truck that was put away decades ago, but still captures the heart of its owner – and maybe inspires them to put it back on the road someday.  Maybe it hasn’t seen the open highway since Milli Vanilli invented Karaoke.  Maybe it has been growing grass under it since Kenny Chesney had a mullet.  Perhaps the oil pan still has the oil you bought back when Shell Rotella gave free “Farther Down The Road” cassette tapes for buying a couple gallons of their brand of Texas Tea.  But the vision for lighting her up and rolling through town again keeps her from heading to the scrap pile.  After all, those old rigs just need air, fuel, and fire to roar to life.  They don’t rely on unreliable foreign sensors and microprocessors, they turn their big noses up to fuel efficient aeros, and are just plain fun to drive, all while running on rancid old diesel that has been sitting in the tanks since the pumps tallied gallons faster than dollars.  Get out and do something with that old dinosaur that was set aside in favor of newer equipment.  Leave those truck payments in your pocket and direct them to something more fun.  The same wind is still out there for the pushing.  And don’t try to tell me it’s bad for the environment.  Resurrecting a beautiful old big rig is the most enjoyable form of recycling that I can think of.  Now, get out there and fire that old thing up!

BUSTED-UP JEWELS
By Trevor Hardwick

Well this thing ain’t pretty,
And it ain’t so plush.
And it ain’t your rig,
If you’re trying to rush.

This ain’t the kind of rig,
Fit for a king.
She’s a keeper, if you’re into,
That sort of thing.

She’s sittin’ on six,
Out of ten, of her wheels.
She’ll never be finished,
Least that’s how it feels.

The last load she pulled,
Was when Reagan left town.
Ever since then,
She’s been sittin’ around.

My neighbors think she’s,
Just some junk in the yard.
When I light her up,
It will catch ‘em off guard.

These days the new rigs,
Are falling apart.
And there just ain’t nothin’,
That captures my heart.

Payments go up,
But the quality’s down.
Someday, I’ll roll,
This old rig into town.

I’ll head to the truck stop,
And stroll through the lot.
While everyone stares,
At this rig that I’ve got.

Those fuel-squeezin’ semis,
With sensors and such.
The best they can offer,
Don’t thrill me too much.

They come with big payments,
That could break the bank.
They’re so fuel efficient,
With gold in their tank.

I’ll keep my rusty,
Old, busted-up jewel.
That still fires-up,
On ninety-cent fuel.