Good From Far, Far From Good

There’s an old saying that a custom car is never really finished. You just reach a point where you’re willing to drive it.

If you’ve spent any time fooling around with old Fords, you know there’s something to that.

I’d recently swapped the 6.70 tires on my chopped ’50 Ford for a set of 6.40s. A small change, but one that made a real difference. The car sat a little lower, the proportions looked right, and the tires had finally quit rubbing on turns and over bumps.

The Ford was running better than ever. For once, I could enjoy the ride without mentally making a list of things to fix when I got home. Apparently, I’d mistaken that for being finished.

Naturally, I needed gas.

I pulled up to the pump, swiped my card, and found myself staring at a dead display. Couldn’t read a thing. But the machine beeped. At least one of us knew what was going on.

I’ve bought enough gasoline over the years to have a fair idea of what buttons come next. I worked my way through the usual routine, and the pump came to life.

The fellow at the next pump looked over.

“Hey, that pump works?”

“Yeah. Screen’s broken. Just gotta know what buttons to push.”

Then he spots the Ford.

“Nice car, man. I dig it.”

“Thanks.”

Once the tank filled, I stepped back to look at the car on level ground.

That’s when I noticed the passenger-side hubcap.

Or rather, the lack of one.

Now, a missing hubcap isn’t much of a mechanical emergency. The engine still ran, the transmission still shifted, and all four wheels were accounted for. But a bare wheel on a custom has a way of drawing your eye straight past everything you’ve managed to get right.

Besides, I rather liked that hubcap.

There was no telling where it had come off. Somewhere between the house and the station, presumably, but that left a fair amount of road to search. It might be in a ditch, under a truck tire, or still rolling toward somebody else’s collection.

The return trip was considerably less relaxing. Flashlight in hand, I worked my way along the roadside, watching for a flash of chrome in the weeds. Every promising glint deserved a closer look. Most turned out to be something nobody would want on a Ford. My standards had slipped, but not that far.

By then, I’d nearly talked myself into accepting that it was gone.

About half a mile from the house, I took another look out into an orchard.

There it was.

The hubcap was lying in the dirt and weeds, a little out of its element but still in one piece. I picked it up and looked it over. Somehow, after leaving a moving car and taking a trip through the orchard, it had survived.

You wouldn’t think finding a hubcap could improve a grown man’s disposition quite that much. You’d be mistaken.

I carried it home, cleaned it up, and put it back where it belonged.

But the tires clear, the car runs fine, and all four hubcaps are back where they belong.

All was right with the world.