Chapter One

The exact time and place that he and I finally decided to spend the summer of ‘78 exploring America shall forever be unknown. But that moment was likely baptized in beer and shrouded in smoke.

John Goodwin Sisson and I met in September, 1975 on the first day of our freshman year at Ithaca College. He occupied the dorm room across the hall from mine in Tallcott Hall on the upper quad.

Neither of us had roommates with whom we particularly enjoyed spending time. And the feeling was likely quite mutual. They were both “upper classmen” and had little patience with freshmen.

John and I quickly became buddies by default.

This was my first time away from home. I knew how to drink beer and chase girls, but I was otherwise clueless about surviving in a dormitory environment.

John had the advantage of attending boarding school. He understood the subtle etiquette of dorm life. The do’s. The don’ts. And how to establish dominance over the pack.

His roommate nicknamed him “Farts.”

John Sisson would eventually be my Best Man when I married Patricia. He is godfather to my only son, Alexander. My older brothers, Bob and Chuck, consider him our fourth brother. And to this day, he remains my closest friend and confidante.

I’m convinced you only get one friend like John Sisson in your life…if you’re lucky.

John and I may have begun talking about going “cross country” at some point during our freshman year, over beers and backgammon. But I’m sure those discussions didn’t get serious until he showed up after summer break in a shiny new 1975 Toyota HiLux SR5 Long Bed pickup truck.

It was green. More olive than hunter. With thin white and black stripes along each side. It had a five-speed stick on the floor. A peppy 2.2 liter 4-cylinder engine. Bucket seats. Radial tires. And compared to other vehicles of the day, it sipped gas. Twenty miles per gallon! (Your mileage may vary.)

MSRP: $3759, plus tax, tag & title.

Long before the #vanlife craze, there were Mini-Trucks. They flowed onto America’s shores by the boatload from Japan. Datsuns, Mazdas, Isuzus, Mitsubishis, Toyotas. Many were re-branded and sold with Ford, Chevy and Dodge badging.

These affordable, surprisingly tough little trucks caught the imagination of a country that was still deeply in love with anything on wheels, powered with an internal combustion engine, in spite of the recent gas crisis.

(The average price of regular had crept up to a whopping 57 cents a gallon in 1975!)

The Mini-Trucks provided a limitless canvas for self-expression. Customizing and modifying these tiny vehicles soon spawned its own industry, including glossy magazines devoted to an eager, ever-growing fanbase hungry for big ideas. These publications were supported by after-market manufacturers and distributors selling everything from camo seat covers to custom chrome-plated engine parts.

The Mini-Truck bug had bitten John. He had spent the summer doing mods on his new vehicle, like installing a sunroof and front bumper guards. (J.C. Whitney, the leading automotive aftermarket mail-order retailer of the day, mistakenly sent him two sets of bumper guards. Rather than send back the extras, John installed all four for a truly “one-of-a-kind” custom look.)

He also had a white fiberglass cap/camper shell installed over the bed. Then replaced the cab’s rear window with a slider, providing pass-through capability and improving ventilation to the camper.

Oh, and “hey breaker what’s yer 20 good buddy?” John bolted a CB radio under the dash and mounted a white whip antenna behind the sunroof.

The truck was delivered without a rear bumper, inspiring John to craft his own from a massive 2” x 8” slab of red oak. He sanded it smooth. Stained it. Drenched it in a dozen coats of polyurethane. Then mounted a license plate frame and a few reflectors on it.

That bumper was more than a work of art.

It was John. Solid and one-of-a-kind.

He would eventually build out the inside of the truck’s bed, creating an efficient, cozy cabin on wheels. Instead of just tossing a mattress back there, John crafted a Mondrian array of storage compartments with hinged doors, flawlessly padded and covered with button tucked upholstery fabric. He chose a warm, durable plaid weave that resembled a wool blanket snatched from a Vermont cottage. The rear-most compartments accommodated a large cooler, while offering easy access to essential gear when the tailgate was down.

I was in awe. It was brilliantly conceived. Beautifully executed. Unlike anything I had ever seen. The man was, and remains, truly gifted.

This green machine was more than a means of travel from point A to point B. It provided limitless possibilities for adventure!

An extended trip across America may have been lurking in John’s mind while he labored over every last detail, but speaking from my own experience, I suspect he was more motivated by the process than the potential end-use.

It’s my Labor-of-Love Theory.

Why do we create the things we do? While the inspiration may be spawned by a problem that needs solving or a need to be filled, we do it because we can. It’s fun. It makes our brain feel good.