I heard the wackiest thing recently. Normally a font of wisdom, my gorgeous and adorable wife uttered words that made absolutely no sense. While out of town for the day, she called and casually mentioned getting lost and stopping for something called directions. I think that's the word she used. I hope I remembered it correctly, because I am not familiar with this strange term. She said she stopped at a store, and in a peculiar turn of events, these directions were freely given. If a business was giving away something for free, it must have no value, but my wife said it was not so.
Normally I'd have just written it off as crazy talk, but this vague concept of asking for directions became an issue for yours truly later in the day. I was on a Jeep parts retrieval mission. These weren't just any Jeep parts, either. I had a line on a T-98 four-speed transmission, complete with factory adapters and the special (read: expensive) output shaft. While a T-98 in Jeep trim is tough enough to find, this was the rarest of the rare. It was the version used in Forward Control trucks. Instead of a normal top cover with a long shift lever sticking up, it had a low-profile cover designed for remote control operation from the cab.
It doesn't matter that I don't presently own a Forward Control Jeep truck in which to install this transmission. That's a minor detail that could be solved at a later date. Uber-rare parts like this fall under the "Sell a Kidney If Necessary" category. Buy 'em first and figure out the rest later. And fortunately, I didn't need to offer a kidney or anything remotely equal in value for this T-98. The seller wanted it gone because he was building a rockcrawler. He readily accepted my insultingly low offer, but I'm getting ahead of myself. First I had to find the place.
Under normal circumstances, I'm quite adept at navigation. A few people have told me that I seem to have a built-in compass. I believe they meant that as a compliment, implying a built-in sense of direction-as opposed to having a mechanical device implanted surgically, or worse, non-surgically. Oh, sorry for that detour, and back to the story. I was facing a crisis of epic proportions. Even with Jeep parts at stake, no matter how I tried, I couldn't find the seller's house. There was only one logical explanation. The seller had moved after giving me directions, and immediately razed his house and turned the site back into an empty field. Maybe he had second thoughts about selling such rare Jeep parts and didn't want to face me. It's the only thing that made sense.
Before you ask, yes, I printed a map ahead of time. It had step-by-step directions. I even had it with me. I wasn't relying exclusively on my super-natural ability to navigate and simultaneously sniff out Jeep parts. There was one slight problem with the map, though. Somewhere deep in the bowels of coding, my computer and printer have developed their own secret language. Most documents will print just fine. On occasion, however, it would appear that I've selected the "Print Hieroglyphics" option. That was the version I grabbed on my way out the door. Curiously, the ads on the page printed perfectly. Not so with the street names or step-by-step directions. Note to self: Actually read what is printed when checking important documents.
And so it came to be that I asked for directions. You may have felt the Earth lurch from its axis in response, so I apologize. I already knew full well that I had become lost and was burning precious daylight. Asking for directions was a bit unnerving, because this was brand new to me and I was also in Deliverance territory, far from town. After confirming that no banjos were playing within earshot, I surrendered my pride and found somebody to ask. The directions I received proved not only had the seller moved, but practically all streets in the vicinity had been renamed or relocated. Yet I persevered and found my prize.
Previously, I mentioned the seller was ready to unload this jewel, not fully aware what he had. There is, of course, the Jeep Buyer's Code of Ethics, and I could not in good conscience run afoul of it. There are certain standards of behavior expected, such as refusing to take advantage of unknowing sellers. But then again, the seller was in the running for Chucklehead of the Year. He was hacking up a unique Jeep that he had inherited from his grandfather, so I was granted an exemption. I never met either of my grandfathers, both having gone to their rewards before my time, but still they left me plenty in an intangible sense, including a top-notch set of parents. Still, I wouldn't have complained if either grandfather had bequeathed me an FC-170 with the factory T-98 option.
In addition to being impressed with my hunter/gatherer skills, my beloved wife was astounded that I had asked for directions. She had no idea what made this greasy lump o' Jeep any different from the others in the garage, but her smile was nearly as big as mine. It will be interesting to see how that smile holds up when I tear out the flower bed to make room to park a future Jeep project. After all, a transmission like this needs a worthy recipient vehicle.
-Dr. Vern