We have a shop truck here at the historic Troutman Foundry, my funky North Carolina car commune. Keeping this 1992 Dodge (which we call Fuggles) running has proven to be nearly as involved as repairing and outfitting the building itself.
Oh, it was a good idea. A community truck maintained by the community? Sounds like the perfect plan. Then it turned into something more akin to borrowing your neighbor’s lawnmower, it breaking while in your care, and being on the hook for fixing it and mowing his five acres in return. We at the foundry have taken on quite a burden. So now I ask: Should we keep fixing it? Or get something sturdier to handle the inevitable abuse?
For those not yet in the know, Fuggles is our two-wheel-drive 1992 Dodge shop truck, equipped with the NV4500 five-speed manual transmission, a Detroit locker, functioning R-12 air conditioning, and the mighty 3/4-of-an-LA 3.7-liter V-6 engine. Wrapped around all of that awesomeness is a paint job by the truck’s previous owner, a friend of the foundry named Jon. He performed it in his driveway, with either a roller or a poorly set-up HVLP gun. We can’t tell which. It’s that bad.
Our initial arrangement was that Jon would store Fuggles here, and in exchange, we could use and maintain the truck. However, as new dings, dents, cracked plastic, and a misaligned door accumulated, we found that Jon’s tolerance threshold for “normal wear and tear” didn’t match this extreme use case. So Jon agreed to sell me Fuggles in exchange for two years’ rent, so he could store his 23-foot Chaparral bowrider.
The knife was now turned around to point at me.
Initially, things went well. Friend Thomas realigned that broken door, and we kept up a strong campaign against stray water bottles, fast food wrappers, used tobacco, and general trash in the interior. Fluids, though? That’s where the early warning signs showed up—starting with fuel. More than once, I saw the truck on the side of the road with a white Cook Out T-shirt rolled up in the window. (I told this related to an all-or-nothing misfire that has plagued the truck for years. More on that later.)
Then came the loss of other, more meaningful fluids. Concerning, but manageable, was the coolant leak that we dealt with by topping it off with water. Electrical gremlins soon took hold. Intermittent fuel and spark delivery issues—unpredictable and annoying—became the norm. One side effect: unreliable gauge readings. Faults like this help you get to know your P.O.S. shop truck. For instance, oil pressure—wasn’t registering on the gauge until the second tick mark. (How many PSI is a tick mark, anyway?) The coolant temp gauge was moving only about 1/8 of an inch. Within that narrow window, it was “accurate enough.” Beyond that? Could be normal… or catastrophic.
You can see where this is going. Water gradually replacing coolant, inaccurate gauges, growing ambivalence.
Foundry legend has it that one cold winter night, while coming back from the auto parts store, disaste struck. The gauges looked fine, but then steam suddenly poured out from under the hood. Despite the signs, the ill-timed journey continued… until Fuggles came to a halt in the middle of Center Street in downtown Statesville.
The best investigation available at the time indicated that a freeze plug had rusted out. Thomas jacked up the engine and replaced the plug. Of course, it was the most inaccessible one, located behind the motor mount. Forensics suggested that the slow loss of coolant, replaced by water, had been leaking from a pinhole in the freeze plug, which ultimately did its job: it blew out, likely even before the parts run started, and was held captive by the motor mount.
About a week later, someone dared to make a run to the dump in Fuggles. They were again stranded. Understandably, our trust in the rig was shattered. Fuggles sat idle for weeks, full of trash. No one could give a straight answer on whether it was fit for use. Meanwhile, trash piled up both in the truck bed and the shop. Landscaping projects were deferred.
Enough was enough. I issued a stop-work order on everything until we dealt with Fuggles.
The forensics continued: After replacing the freeze plug, a second overheat was caused by the new plug blowing out. After starting the engine, it became a 3.7-liter air compressor that promptly and vigorously pressurized the entire cooling system. Removing the water pump revealed a sheared-off impeller—probably due to rust, or maybe frozen solid when the fan pulley yanked it apart during cranking. At a minimum, the motor needed head gaskets, a new water pump, and all the supporting hardware.
Over the next several weeks, we gradually replaced the head gaskets and all related components. Distractions and our general lack of motivation dragged out the project.
What followed were all-nighters, filled with warped exhaust brackets that wouldn’t line up and “other things” that surely shortened Thomas’s life expectancy. Fueled by nicotine, alcohol, and pizza, he pressed on all weekend. But as the sun rose that Monday morning, it also rose on a new day for Fuggles.
Well, almost. On his way to my house, Fuggles blew out another freeze plug.
We took the risk with another, and Thomas installed a marine-style freeze plug—making a total of three. And then, the ultimate test: A dump run where we don’t have to leave Fuggles on the side of the road.
I could tell he was nervous when Thomas asked me to ride along to pay the dump fee and grab mulch. These were small errands, well within Fuggles’ and Thomas’ normal capacity, under normal trusting circumstances. Hoping he’d relent and let me off the hook, I told him where the petty cash was hidden.
No luck. Fuggles showed up in my driveway—no hood, ready to pick up mulch. When it pulled in, no fluids were leaking. And it didn’t smell. Or smoke. Thomas claimed the rings had gone slack when the engine overheated, but it didn’t sound or fume any worse than before, in my estimation.
I asked if we could turn on the ice-cold A/C, but Thomas’ tired, wary expression said it all. So, we short-shifted and rolled with the windows down, our eyes glued to the temperature gauge throughout the 3.1 miles to the landscape supply. (As a side note, I patronize this landscaping place because it’s close and good, but more important, it is run by Corvair nuts. Story for another time.)
With two yards of triple-ground mulch in the back, we carefully headed back to my house to spread it. Even in 95-degree heat, it was a relief to be back and spreading hot stinky oak chips. In flip-flops, no less. Once Fuggles was empty, I released Thomas to clean up the disaster left over from his weekend fix-it bender, dropped him off with a load of Moskvich parts and a Yamaha Chappy from my shed, and I left for another load of mulch.
I was feeling good. We identified the problems and fixed them. I was about to get a second load of mulch!
Fuggles died, again, in the middle of Center Street in downtown Statesville.
What was the question? Fix the truck or upgrade to something better? Ask me when I’m home next.
There’s a saying about Chrysler products. “Avoid the curse of the .7s” That is, avoid the 2.7, 3.7, 4.7 and, to some degree, the 5.7 engines.
If it was up to me, that truck would have disappeared a long time ago, to be replaced by a beater Chevy or Ford.