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I came to a sharp fork in the deeply rutted road of my life this fall.
I had to decide if I would continue to limp around on Saturdays in my beloved but inefficient ’87 pickup, or sell it off to some poor soul in more need of it than I.
My eight cylinder American-made truck has a relatively small engine in it, the most petite offered in its day.
Still, you can feel the engine torque the body of the truck when you turn it on. Perhaps that’s why is gets only about a dozen miles to the gallon, and that’s at 50 mph with a strong tail wind.
If I’m towing anything, or have a heavy load in the truck’s bed, the miles per gallon figure crashes into the single digits. In short, my fine truck is not what you’d call fuel efficient.
But a rural geologist needs a truck. It’s part of the image, isn’t it?
Still, lately I’ve been strongly tempted to sell the thing off. The truck costs money in gas and oil. It requires funds to insure. New studded snow tires add to the fun.
The truck is old enough it breaks down, including in the middle of the road, leading to towing bills and major charges from my mechanic. (I suspect my pickup pays his mortgage, but perhaps it only seems that way to me.)
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