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The Benefits of Having Your Own Moving Truck
After living here and there for a few years, the time finally came for me to consolidate my things and move them all to one place. The problem? All of my things had ended up in Boulder, Colo., and I live in Brooklyn. That meant I needed a moving truck, and moving trucks can be pretty pricey to rent for a cross country move.
Mulling over my dilemma, I came to some conclusions. First, renting a U Haul truck would cost more than $1,000. Second, because U Haul won't rent cargo vans for trips that long, the resulting box truck would be getting terrible gas mileage. (When I had moved from Virginia to California years ago, I kept track of the fuel economy on the box truck I was driving, which hovered from 7 to 10 miles per gallon.) Third, I'd have to give back the truck after spending all that money on it, which equates throwing money out the window on a breezy day.
It was a simple idea, really. I could see on the Denver Craigslist ads that it would be pretty easy to get a used Econoline van for less than $1,200. I'm a pretty decent mechanic, so I figured that with a small tool set on board, I'd be able to keep the thing running across two thirds of the continent. Upon arrival in the Big Apple, I could then unpack my things and sell the van for the same price I'd bought it for or a little more to a vendor or service worker in need of a strong running, rust free Western vehicle.
I was going save a ton of money on this move.
But that skill with tools comes from an affinity for old cars, and prudence quickly gave way to fancy. The long lists on Craigslist and eBay of drab white Econolines that would undoubtedly have been suitable for my move and for subsequent duty with a New York food vendor began to morph into searches for "Chevrolet pickup" and "Suburban" and, worse yet, "full size wagon." I began looking for vehicles from the '90s, but as the days wore on, '90s became '80s. Soon, the clock swung to the '70s.
Luckily, I found what I was looking for in a more reasonable guise. It was a light blue 1980 Chevrolet 3/4 ton pickup with the sort of patina you only see in the West. A rust colored haze peeked out from beneath its faded blue paint here and there. It had a 350 cubic inch V 8, 4 speed manual transmission and a single 4 by 10 speaker in the middle of the dash for listening to its AM radio. The ad said it had exhaust headers, dual exhaust and glass pack mufflers. A burly steel mesh brush guard nearly as old as me adorned its front end. It appeared to be the perfect moving truck.
I called the owner Bob, a 69 year old Vietnam veteran who said that he had bought the truck as a project, but discovered that at his age, he could scarcely lift its heavy, 16.5 inch steel wheels off the ground to change a tire. That's when he knew it was time to move on. Sounded reasonable to me, so I talked him into holding on to the truck for a few days until I could get it. I was the first person to call, but he had that old school do the right thing Americana tinge to his voice that made me feel certain that he wouldn't sell it before I arrived on his doorstep.
My hunch about Bob turned out to be right, and the truck was sitting in his driveway when I showed up almost a week later. It looked just like it had in the photos. The bench seat, covered in blue houndstooth patterned vinyl, was only torn in few places, and as I slid into the driver's seat, turned the ignition key and listened to the engine roar to life, I knew I'd made a good choice. Besides, the flat sweep of the truck's wide dashboard, its round analog dials, its triangular vent windows, its impossibly long shifter handle and the commanding view from which I surveyed the world from the driver's seat all made me smile.
It takes awhile to drive through Kansas, and by the time I reached Topeka, it was night. The tarp I had tied to the top and sides of the stake bed with at least 20 pieces of nylon rope tied at odd angles and giving the truck a modern day "Beverly Hillbillies" appearance was in tatters. Keeping my speed at a conservative 60 miles per hour meant that the truck was getting more than 13 miles per gallon better than a U Haul box truck, in my experience but even at that speed, the force of rushing air had damaged the violently fluttering tarp.
So I stopped at a Home Depot in the suburbs outside of Topeka, chatting with a talkative man with huge sideburns, a sweet Midwestern lady and a soldier stationed at Fort Riley as I secured a new, heavier duty tarp to the bed with a $12 set of ratchet straps I'd bought at the store. The weather report was calling for rain to garnish the tornadoes, and I didn't want to risk my things getting wet. The resulting mutlitarp configuration was enough to have made Jed Clampett utter a "Dang" in admiration, and I was hopeful it would be sufficient for the rest of the drive.
As I pulled the last strap tight, the wind picked up. It wasn't like what I was used to, where it begins to blow steadily, getting a little stronger with each gust. This wind was violent, whipping up leaves and debris in impatient, angry jerks as a couple of lightning bolts streaked across the night sky.
I wanted to stay ahead of the worst part of the storm, so it was time to get going.
I drove nearly all night, heeding the meteorologist's report that the storm was moving east the same direction I was headed at 40 miles per hour. I pressed the gas pedal down a little deeper, picking up speed to 65. I didn't dare go faster in a fully loaded truck while the wind was so strong and unpredictable, but I had every intention of outrunning the cluster of tornados the radio said were hitting parts of the plains. At one point, I saw a 15 passenger van that had passed me earlier in a ditch on the median, pointed in the wrong direction; a good example of why not to drive too fast in a tall vehicle when it's windy.
I stopped for fuel in Kansas City, noting that the air was still once more. But again, as I put on the gas cap, the angry wind returned, kicking up dust and fear. I took off van cleef bracelet alhambra replica again on Interstate 70, slicing through Kansas City and out of the gustiest wind again.
After I'd driven out of the truculent air, a cloud of modified American sports cars began to form around me. They had all been driving much faster, but one by one they took position near one another. There were a couple of Mustangs, a Challenger, a Camaro; I braced myself for the inevitable. With the suddenness of the tornado whipped wind, they all took off down the dark highway with a roar, making it appear as though all the other vehicles on it myself included were standing still.
It wasn't until a few hours later, when I was too tired to drive further, that I stopped again. After buying more fuel, I drove down a darkened country road somewhere in Missouri looking for a place to spend the night. For a guy of my height, an old truck's bench seat makes a perfect bed, and I had stumbled upon a rural campground that would do just fine as a stopping place.
With no storm to occupy my thoughts the next day, I tuned the AM radio to something other than weather. There's really not much on AM radio anymore, and there's only so much Rush Limbaugh a person can listen to. I'm not sure what other people do on long drives when there's no music and no one else to talk to, but I sing. I started with individual songs and then graduated to entire albums. As I was singing Reb Tevye's "If I Were a Rich Man" foot stomping and fist shaking and all a family in a minivan pulled alongside, looking at me with "Should we call a doctor for you?" looks.
Because I was driving by myself, I stopped for reasons that a group traveling together would never agree to. I took pictures of the '49 Ford in the Kansas field. I stopped in Fairmont City, Ill. near East St. Louis looking for something to eat, and found some delightful Michoacn fare at a roadside stand set up near a cluster of buildings that looked abandoned. It was a Monday, and taking a stroll around town, I noted that there were quite a few young men sitting on porches, not working.
Eventually, I entered New Jersey, closing in on the home stretch. As the truck crested the last long ridge before beginning the descent toward Manhattan, the air changed, as did the airwaves. Cool, crisp air turned warmer and more humid, and all conservative talk radio all the time which I had switched back on just for something to break up the hum of large tires on asphalt faded as I swung the dial to WNYC and then to a station vacillating between Bachata and what sounded like Catholic sermons in Puerto Rican Spanish. The truck's barely muffled exhaust boomed as I accelerated out of the Holland Tunnel like a big, rusty bullet, and Manhattan's quiet nighttime streets offered an easy route van cleef arpels alhambra bracelet copy to the Brooklyn Bridge and home.
That trip was a few months ago, but I still haven't gotten around to selling the truck. Its spartan charm still makes me smile, and I like seeing it parked out on the street in front of my apartment building. It was also great for beach trips over the summer.
I didn't end up saving much money on the move, but neither did I spend much more than I would have on a U Haul. But I got something more out of it an experience that felt less sterile than the one size fits all aesthetic of rental van travel. The truck van cleef arpels alhambra bracelet replica an old farm vehicle now sitting on a cobblestone street in America's largest city had been the answer to my moving problem. But in its out of placeness, it has found a niche as a conversation piece. That, and I've never in my life had so many people ask me to help them move large objects.
After living here and there for a few years, the time finally came for me to consolidate my things and move them all to one place. The problem? All of my things had ended up in Boulder, Colo., and I live in Brooklyn. That meant I needed a moving truck, and moving trucks can be pretty pricey to rent for a cross country move.
Mulling over my dilemma, I came to some conclusions. First, renting a U Haul truck would cost more than $1,000. Second, because U Haul won't rent cargo vans for trips that long, the resulting box truck would be getting terrible gas mileage. (When I had moved from Virginia to California years ago, I kept track of the fuel economy on the box truck I was driving, which hovered from 7 to 10 miles per gallon.) Third, I'd have to give back the truck after spending all that money on it, which equates throwing money out the window on a breezy day.
It was a simple idea, really. I could see on the Denver Craigslist ads that it would be pretty easy to get a used Econoline van for less than $1,200. I'm a pretty decent mechanic, so I figured that with a small tool set on board, I'd be able to keep the thing running across two thirds of the continent. Upon arrival in the Big Apple, I could then unpack my things and sell the van for the same price I'd bought it for or a little more to a vendor or service worker in need of a strong running, rust free Western vehicle.
I was going save a ton of money on this move.
But that skill with tools comes from an affinity for old cars, and prudence quickly gave way to fancy. The long lists on Craigslist and eBay of drab white Econolines that would undoubtedly have been suitable for my move and for subsequent duty with a New York food vendor began to morph into searches for "Chevrolet pickup" and "Suburban" and, worse yet, "full size wagon." I began looking for vehicles from the '90s, but as the days wore on, '90s became '80s. Soon, the clock swung to the '70s.
Luckily, I found what I was looking for in a more reasonable guise. It was a light blue 1980 Chevrolet 3/4 ton pickup with the sort of patina you only see in the West. A rust colored haze peeked out from beneath its faded blue paint here and there. It had a 350 cubic inch V 8, 4 speed manual transmission and a single 4 by 10 speaker in the middle of the dash for listening to its AM radio. The ad said it had exhaust headers, dual exhaust and glass pack mufflers. A burly steel mesh brush guard nearly as old as me adorned its front end. It appeared to be the perfect moving truck.
I called the owner Bob, a 69 year old Vietnam veteran who said that he had bought the truck as a project, but discovered that at his age, he could scarcely lift its heavy, 16.5 inch steel wheels off the ground to change a tire. That's when he knew it was time to move on. Sounded reasonable to me, so I talked him into holding on to the truck for a few days until I could get it. I was the first person to call, but he had that old school do the right thing Americana tinge to his voice that made me feel certain that he wouldn't sell it before I arrived on his doorstep.
My hunch about Bob turned out to be right, and the truck was sitting in his driveway when I showed up almost a week later. It looked just like it had in the photos. The bench seat, covered in blue houndstooth patterned vinyl, was only torn in few places, and as I slid into the driver's seat, turned the ignition key and listened to the engine roar to life, I knew I'd made a good choice. Besides, the flat sweep of the truck's wide dashboard, its round analog dials, its triangular vent windows, its impossibly long shifter handle and the commanding view from which I surveyed the world from the driver's seat all made me smile.
It takes awhile to drive through Kansas, and by the time I reached Topeka, it was night. The tarp I had tied to the top and sides of the stake bed with at least 20 pieces of nylon rope tied at odd angles and giving the truck a modern day "Beverly Hillbillies" appearance was in tatters. Keeping my speed at a conservative 60 miles per hour meant that the truck was getting more than 13 miles per gallon better than a U Haul box truck, in my experience but even at that speed, the force of rushing air had damaged the violently fluttering tarp.
So I stopped at a Home Depot in the suburbs outside of Topeka, chatting with a talkative man with huge sideburns, a sweet Midwestern lady and a soldier stationed at Fort Riley as I secured a new, heavier duty tarp to the bed with a $12 set of ratchet straps I'd bought at the store. The weather report was calling for rain to garnish the tornadoes, and I didn't want to risk my things getting wet. The resulting mutlitarp configuration was enough to have made Jed Clampett utter a "Dang" in admiration, and I was hopeful it would be sufficient for the rest of the drive.
As I pulled the last strap tight, the wind picked up. It wasn't like what I was used to, where it begins to blow steadily, getting a little stronger with each gust. This wind was violent, whipping up leaves and debris in impatient, angry jerks as a couple of lightning bolts streaked across the night sky.
I wanted to stay ahead of the worst part of the storm, so it was time to get going.
I drove nearly all night, heeding the meteorologist's report that the storm was moving east the same direction I was headed at 40 miles per hour. I pressed the gas pedal down a little deeper, picking up speed to 65. I didn't dare go faster in a fully loaded truck while the wind was so strong and unpredictable, but I had every intention of outrunning the cluster of tornados the radio said were hitting parts of the plains. At one point, I saw a 15 passenger van that had passed me earlier in a ditch on the median, pointed in the wrong direction; a good example of why not to drive too fast in a tall vehicle when it's windy.
I stopped for fuel in Kansas City, noting that the air was still once more. But again, as I put on the gas cap, the angry wind returned, kicking up dust and fear. I took off van cleef bracelet alhambra replica again on Interstate 70, slicing through Kansas City and out of the gustiest wind again.
After I'd driven out of the truculent air, a cloud of modified American sports cars began to form around me. They had all been driving much faster, but one by one they took position near one another. There were a couple of Mustangs, a Challenger, a Camaro; I braced myself for the inevitable. With the suddenness of the tornado whipped wind, they all took off down the dark highway with a roar, making it appear as though all the other vehicles on it myself included were standing still.
It wasn't until a few hours later, when I was too tired to drive further, that I stopped again. After buying more fuel, I drove down a darkened country road somewhere in Missouri looking for a place to spend the night. For a guy of my height, an old truck's bench seat makes a perfect bed, and I had stumbled upon a rural campground that would do just fine as a stopping place.
With no storm to occupy my thoughts the next day, I tuned the AM radio to something other than weather. There's really not much on AM radio anymore, and there's only so much Rush Limbaugh a person can listen to. I'm not sure what other people do on long drives when there's no music and no one else to talk to, but I sing. I started with individual songs and then graduated to entire albums. As I was singing Reb Tevye's "If I Were a Rich Man" foot stomping and fist shaking and all a family in a minivan pulled alongside, looking at me with "Should we call a doctor for you?" looks.
Because I was driving by myself, I stopped for reasons that a group traveling together would never agree to. I took pictures of the '49 Ford in the Kansas field. I stopped in Fairmont City, Ill. near East St. Louis looking for something to eat, and found some delightful Michoacn fare at a roadside stand set up near a cluster of buildings that looked abandoned. It was a Monday, and taking a stroll around town, I noted that there were quite a few young men sitting on porches, not working.
Eventually, I entered New Jersey, closing in on the home stretch. As the truck crested the last long ridge before beginning the descent toward Manhattan, the air changed, as did the airwaves. Cool, crisp air turned warmer and more humid, and all conservative talk radio all the time which I had switched back on just for something to break up the hum of large tires on asphalt faded as I swung the dial to WNYC and then to a station vacillating between Bachata and what sounded like Catholic sermons in Puerto Rican Spanish. The truck's barely muffled exhaust boomed as I accelerated out of the Holland Tunnel like a big, rusty bullet, and Manhattan's quiet nighttime streets offered an easy route van cleef arpels alhambra bracelet copy to the Brooklyn Bridge and home.
That trip was a few months ago, but I still haven't gotten around to selling the truck. Its spartan charm still makes me smile, and I like seeing it parked out on the street in front of my apartment building. It was also great for beach trips over the summer.
I didn't end up saving much money on the move, but neither did I spend much more than I would have on a U Haul. But I got something more out of it an experience that felt less sterile than the one size fits all aesthetic of rental van travel. The truck van cleef arpels alhambra bracelet replica an old farm vehicle now sitting on a cobblestone street in America's largest city had been the answer to my moving problem. But in its out of placeness, it has found a niche as a conversation piece. That, and I've never in my life had so many people ask me to help them move large objects.
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