How old is 40 in truck years?
I’ve gotten that question a lot.
Turns out it’s still 40. And at 40 years old, even a successful, accomplished monster truck isn’t immune from a midlife crisis.
How else would you explain these past few months?
After all, the first 39 years were wonderful. I spent the summers of my youth four-wheeling, attending off-roading events, and tearing through the gravel-bottom rivers of southern Missouri with my guardians Bob and Marilyn. As I got older, I became somewhat of a celebrity—OK, a big celebrity—and started traveling the country.
And that’s been my only life—for 40 years!
Go to work.
Oh sure, there was golf on Sunday. But I hate golf.
There had to be more to life than car-crushing and destruction. So after celebrating my 40th birthday, I did what any sane 40-year-old would do. I woke up on the front lawn of BIGFOOT 4×4 headquarters after an all-night bender with Snake Bite. And then I quit my job so I could have some “me-time”—and find my true purpose in life.
It would all start with a new, exciting profession. I wasn’t sure what, but I knew I’d keep a diary as I embarked on this new phase of my life (mostly because my therapist said I should keep a journal to express my feelings).
You have to start someplace.
Unfortunately, my dreams of working my way from pizza delivery guy all the way up to second-shift topping supervisor were dashed fairly quickly. In my haste to deliver my pies in under 30 minutes, I may or may not have taken out a couple mailboxes…and a few parked cars…and a Chinese food delivery guy.
Following my stint as pizza delivery truck, my apparent love of mailboxes netted me a gig delivering the mail. Did you know you need a right-hand drive steering wheel to be a mail truck? Or you can just drive left of center to access the mailboxes. I did. I was fired.
I’ve always considered myself a people truck.
I love people, so I traded in the quiet, narrow streets of suburbia for the crowded, congested roads of the big city. I came across so many interesting people. Mind you, none of them could actually make it into my cab, but I saw them standing over on the side of the street. I learned a lot of cool new words, too.
What I really don’t like is other cars (see past 39 years). This, too, ended badly.
It wasn’t all bad, though.
My earlier work with the post office qualified me for another government job: Presidential motorcade car. Here’s me doing some of my best work. That’s me in the back. It turns out those limousines aren’t nearly as indestructible as you’d think.
Hey kids—don’t text and drive.
Following an informal (and very handsy) meet-and-greet with the Secret Service and a brief stint in the D.C. jail, it was time for a new career path.
I love black. It’s so slimming. So I had an old friend who used to dig graves help land me the perfect job. I mean…what could possibly go wrong as a hearse? The income was steady, and I already met the dress code from my previous job.
And how much more could I really hurt my passengers?
It worked out great, and I even got my own entrance to a cemetery to accommodate my husky build. That’s where I stumbled onto a potential life-changing opportunity.
I was a perfectly happy hearse—until I met those meddling kids.
I ran over their van while making a delivery to the cemetery, and they were looking for reliable transportation. They were a mystery-solving gang in need of a new ride, and the opportunity sounded right—401K, stock options, and all the snacks you could eat.
So I traded black for psychedelic—and things got really hazy after that.
I’ll fill you in soon.
Artwork by OnAllCylinders contributors Deana Johnston and Mike Bloomhuff.