The clock is ticking. It's about time for the much-needed surgery that will surely, eventually, save the life of my dearest friend.
Her name is Ol' Black. She's my pick-up.
Before my trip out west, on the way to church on Sunday morning, she made some truly frightening noises, and screamed to a smoky halt. It has been determined that she threw a rod (either number 3 or 4, we're not sure). What we are sure of is that she is worth saving. By "we" I mean me, my cousin Jason, my auto artisan, Mark Lambert, and anyone who knows how much love I have for this machine. We all deem her more than worthy of the work it will take to bring her back to life on the road, and it all starts today. Jason's on his way over and our first step will be taking out all of the "extraneous componentry." That's just the beginning of the shop-talk I've learned that you'll have to endure in any of my writings of which my lovely truck is the subject. Get ready for some serious mindless blathering.
Say a prayer for sweet Ol' Black. May she grace the road once more with new energy in her lovely guts, and very soon at that.
We chilled in the driveway, washed cars, told stories, drank beer, watched Jason perform his magic, and laughed a lot. The engine is now holding on by a few bolts and will soon be relieved of her duties.