Some mornings, you think you’re going on a road trip. Other mornings, you find yourself halfway to nowhere, soaking wet, cranking a come-along around a tree like your life depends on it, trying to dig a 1948 Chevy Fleetline out of the mud before it swallows you whole.
It started simple enough—Steve, my brother, asks me, “Wanna ride out with me to look at a car?” No questions. Just road trip energy. “Sure,” I said. Let’s go.
Next thing I know, he’s loading tools in the back of the truck—chains, come-alongs, a shovel—and I’m thinking, damn, that’s a lotta gear just to check something out. I figured maybe he had to drop some stuff off on the way.
I should’ve known better.
Steve’s not just some backyard wrench-turner—he’s a self-made top-tier mechanic. Not his profession, but a legit genius with engines. Grew up that way. He’s pulled me out of more automotive hell than I can count. But this trip? This one was something else.
Into the Storm
We’re heading into sheets of rain, windshield wipers barely keeping up, driving deeper into Nowhere, Texas. We pull into this old property with big trees and a solid house, and this older guy steps out to greet us. Everything seems cool.
Until we walk around the side of the place.
The man waves his hand and goes, “There it is.”
Steve bolts off like he’s found buried treasure.
I look over—and there it is, alright.
Not a car.
A rusted-out carcass of what used to be a car. A ‘48 Fleetline, half-sunk in the earth like it had been trying to claw its way out since the Nixon administration. Covered in rust, dirt, leaves, and history. Just… lodged into the damn planet.
Steve’s already wrapping chains around it.
Blood, Mud, and Come-Alongs
The old man just stands back while I’m trying to figure out what the hell we’re actually doing. Steve’s in his zone, smiling like a man who already knows how this story ends. He bolts the chains through the frame, runs them back to some nearby trees, then cracks out two come-alongs and tosses me one.
“Crank this when I say.”
So there we are, in a downpour, straining against chains wrapped around trees like we’re playing tug-of-war with the past. The car doesn’t move at first. It’s glued to the mud. Steve grabs a shovel and starts going at it. No complaints. No drama. Just a man in his element.
Me? I’m behind my tree thinking:
If this chain snaps, I’m done. No helmet. No grace. Just lights out in a muddy field.
He’s digging, I’m cranking. We swap. He yells. I crank more. Then he cranks. And suddenly… pop. The Fleetline gives. Not much, just enough. The earth loses its grip. We look at each other like we just robbed a grave—and maybe we did.
The Beast, Unchained
We winch it onto the trailer and haul it back through the rain. Not much was said. Steve was lit up with that quiet, satisfied glow like he just pulled Excalibur from a junkyard swamp. I was wet, tired, and convinced the car would rot in his backyard for eternity.
But no.
Later that night, he calls me over.
The Fleetline? Stripped.
Every part laid out like military gear on a garage floor. The rust and floorboards were gone. Steve hammered the cancer out of the fenders, turning it into something straight outta Bonnie and Clyde’s last getaway.
He found a totaled T-top ‘85 IROC Camaro and pulled its tuned port fuel injection engine and 700R4 overdrive transmission—brought it back to life. Because of course he did. That’s Steve. Where most people see a relic, he sees resurrection.