I'd like to believe that, as I have gotten older and have gained more experience, I have some justification for looking back on my personal life and professional career with at least a modest degree of satisfaction. As I occasionally slip into the stupor of self-satisfaction, I sometimes commit the cardinal sin of taking myself seriously. However, given the circle of so-called 'friends' that I associate with, invariably that sense of self-satisfaction is very short-lived. It seems that without fail, in some professional situation, just when I let my guard down, and assume that I may be viewed with even just a moderate degree of respect, one of these so-called 'friends' will bring up the infamous pick-up truck story -- "Hey Pops, why don't you tell them about your pick-up truck," or "Gee Pops, I'll bet they haven't heard what happened with you and your pick-up truck." For example, I was once asked to participate in a panel discussion at a professional conference. For some unknown reason, the panel moderator decided to it would be a neat idea to talk to friends of the panel members to get some background information to use in the introductions. Well, in my case, my 'friend' decided it would be really funny (ha, ha) to pass on the pick-up truck story. The moderator proceeded to use the story when he introduced me. It goes without saying that my credibility was more than a little damaged. So, rather than be continually broad-sided by that story for the rest of my career, I've decided that my interests are best served by letting everyone know about the pick-up story and at least be sure that you know the true facts.

I once owned a four-wheel drive Dodge pick-up truck. It was complete with big tires, chrome wheels, fog lights -- the works. I was just a gun rack and a chaw of Red Man away from being mayor of Redneckville. That truck was my most prized possession. Although, having been divorced the previous year, it was, in fact, my only possession. As long as the truck stayed running, it provided considerable pleasure. However, once there were any mechanical problems, my reverence for the truck quickly diminished. For, you see, I have one character flaw which is fatal when you own a vehicle prone to requiring repairs -- I hate working on cars, trucks, or any other mechanical device related to the automotive industry. Since off-road vehicles often take a beating, they are predisposed to minor, and sometimes major, mechanical problems.

Of course, I always had the option of taking the truck into the shop whenever a problem arose; but even that was complicated by a number of factors. First, I was suffering a cash flow problem (remember the divorce?); but more importantly, there was my family. I have four brothers and a father who are very mechanically inclined for whom working on cars is a way of life. They look upon anyone willing to actually spend money at a garage as a sucker at best, if not downright unmanly -- "You paid $300 to replace that clutch? Boy, they saw you coming. You could have gotten the parts at the junk yard for $50 and done it yourself. You must be made of money." Given my situation, whenever mechanical problems arose, I would avoid fixing any problem until I absolutely had too. When the truck would no longer operate, I would either deal with my own distaste for working on cars or withstand the inevitable shame of actually paying someone to fix it. I tell you all this to provide some context for this story, and perhaps gain a more sympathetic hearing as I explain what happened.

It was during the early spring of 1980 that a problem arose with the starter. On sporadic, random occasions, when I attempted to start the truck, nothing would happen. I would turn the key and the starter would not turn. I could hear the solenoid kicking in but nothing else. Calling on my depth of automotive expertise, I assumed that the problem was in the starter motor itself. The first time it happened, I recalled that it was possible to turn the starter motor over by shorting out the terminals on the starter motor itself. There was plenty of room to crawl under the truck (remember the big tires?), so, with a screwdriver in hand, I crawled under the truck and, sure enough, when I placed the screwdriver across the terminals on the starter motor, the engine started right up. Voila! Problem solved. So, for several weeks I carried a big screwdriver in the truck. On those odd occasions when the truck wouldn't start, I'd hop out with the screwdriver, crawl under the truck, and start it up. Since it didn't happen very often, I rationalized that I had struck upon an acceptable solution.

When the light turned green, I pressed the gas pedal but the truck stalled. I went to start the engine again and, of course, this was one of those times when the starter refused to engage. I tried several times, but to no avail. My only choice was to crawl under the truck, lie on my back in the rain, and start it with the screwdriver. As quickly as possible, I hopped out the truck and performed my starter trick. Fortunately, the engine started right up. Embarrassed and now soaking wet, I climbed back into the truck. The light was green, so I immediately put the truck in gear and stepped on the accelerator. The truck stalled again. I'd started out being embarrassed, now I was mad! Angered by the prospect of another wet and nasty sojourn under the truck, I grabbed the shift lever and literally threw it into 'Park.' Or so I thought.

It is perhaps appropriate here to digress slightly to provide some brief technical information regarding trucks and cars from Chrysler Corporation of that vintage which came equipped with automatic transmissions. Those of you who have owned these types of vehicles may recognize this phenomenon. It seems that when you put this vintage of Chrysler product into gear, the automatic transmission hesitates ever so slightly, less than a tenth of a second, and then engages with a very recognizable 'clunk' sound.

Amazingly, in hindsight, I processed all that information and reached the conclusion that I was in big trouble before the 'clunk' finished sounding. Astutely, I concluded that I needed to be somewhere other than where I was. I rolled over on to my stomach and tried to crawl out before the truck started to move. I didn't quite make it.

The only part of my body that found its way out was my head. Of course, in this position, that put the rest of my body in the path of the approaching front tire. The front wheel rolled up over my right shoulder and, without the slightest hesitation, proceeded down my back. Perhaps somehow sensing my disgust toward it just moments earlier, the truck had no intention of stalling now.

Once again, a slight digression is in order. As many people have reported, in times of stress or imminent danger, events seem to slow down; everything seems to happen in slow motion. I would like to report that this indeed seems to be the case. By the time the wheel began to roll down my back, I had concluded that I was not going to die since I saw no visions of departed relatives and there were no invocations to walk toward the light. By the time the wheel reached the middle of my back, realizing that I would survive this episode, my mind turned to more mundane thoughts. I remembered that it was rush hour with the streets filled with cars. Given that I was in the process of being run over by my own truck, the thought most foremost in my mind was "Who is watching this and what conclusions have they drawn about my intelligence level?"

The front wheel of the truck continued down my back, over my rear end, and then down my right leg. When the truck finally rolled off of me, I assumed that incident was over. This proved to be an incorrect assumption. I raised myself up to my hands and knees and looked over my shoulder toward the truck. It seems my humiliation was not yet complete because the truck was still rolling along its merry way. I now had to get up and chase it.

Since the wheels had originally been turned to the right in preparation for my turn on to the main street, the truck now proceeded, in reverse, along a sweeping arc. It hopped the curb and crossed the sidewalk. It started to back up a slight grade into the yard of the house on the corner. Just as it crested the hill, perhaps finally taking pity on me, it paused, the engine still running. This gave me enough time to catch up to it, open the door, jump into the driver's seat, and turn off the engine. I carefully moved the shift lever into 'Park,' all the way this time, and put on the emergency brake.

Having regained control of my obstinate and perhaps demonic vehicle, I sat there trying to collect myself and get a grip on what had just happened. I looked down at myself -- soaking wet, muddy, the front of my jeans torn in several places. As I was sitting there, a concerned passerby walked up to the truck and spoke to me, asking me a question that, up until that point in my life, I never imagined would be asked of me.

In the days that followed, I took quite a bit of grief, particularly from my family. They twisted the name 'Mr. Goodwrench' from the television commercials of the day into 'Mr. Dumbwrench.' It took some time for that nickname to wear off. To this day, I haven't revealed to them that when I went to fix the starter the next day, the problem was only a loose connection on the starter -- it took less than a minute to fix.

So much for the pick-up truck story. You all know it now, there is no more additional information I can provide. Any conflicting descriptions of the events of that day are purely figments of the imaginations of those who wish to exaggerate the facts. Hopefully, my life can proceed without the random and ill-timed interruptions by my 'friends' requesting that I tell the story yet again. And if any one tries to bring up the transmission story, I'm not talking.