I took a personal day to buy a 1977 Jeep I had never driven.
The CJ5 was in Grand Junction. I could take a Greyhound bus out there, look it over, and drive it back to Denver if it was not complete garbage.
The return trip was the interesting part. Vail Pass is not where anybody would choose to learn the full condition of a thirty-two-year-old Jeep. I asked a friend if he wanted to follow me back. My sales pitch was gas, food, and what would probably become a good story.
“That sounds more fun than scary to me,” I wrote.
Two days later, I owned it.
The engine ran well enough. The clutch seemed okay, although second gear could pop out. The ignition lock needed to be replaced. The speedometer and odometer did not work. The oil-pressure gauge did not work. The temperature gauge was questionable. It needed a rearview mirror.
Basic stuff, according to the email I sent a Jeep shop.
I had already spent days sending Craigslist links, asking sellers about mechanical condition, and comparing old Wranglers and CJ5s. The clean choices were less interesting. The yellow CJ5 looked like the one.
It was not transportation chosen by spreadsheet. It was a summer car with a manual transmission, an unknown history, and enough broken gauges to make the first long drive a little stupid.
That was also why I wanted it.
The Jeep needed work before it could become reliable. First, it had to make it home.