By Ted Nugent
Let’s get one thing straight right off; I am no mechanic. The internal
combustion engine remains a complete mystery to me even now 100 years after the
opening volley of the Industrial Revolution. No wonder I am a bowhunter. A
sharp stick is about as technical as I can get. I’m glad I only have to jam on my
Gibson guitars because I can assure you I couldn’t build one if I had to.
When it comes to mechanical considerations, I am pretty handy with a hammer, a
saw, gunpowder and a crowbar, but I am FumbleFingers McDork when it comes to
automotive mechanics. I can take stuff apart pretty good, but you better call
a taxi if you’re waiting for me to put them back together. There is an
upside however. As a follower of the world’s greatest philosopher, I adhere to the
wisdom of Dirty Harry when he said, “A good man knows his limitations.”
That I do, but nonetheless, I have a huge chest and scattered workbench of
Snap-On and Craftsman tools and I’m gonna use em. You might as well get out of my
way.
My first Bronco Dream erupted in the summer of 1971 when I purchased that
gorgeous light green beast with the white top from Mike Stellingworth from the
local Ford dealer in Jackson, Michigan. I paid right around $3200 for her
loaded, and she came with all the real wheeling goodies to provide me one hell
of a fix for my no-road wanderlust. With three on the tree, posi rear and LS up
front, all the heavy duty goodies available at the time, and even a Warn
winch, I thought I had died and gone to heaven. I was rockin baby!
I had an 80 acre farm back then that offered some killer woodland trails and
plenty of rolling fields to explore. Nearby was unlimited rivers and bogs to
test my little pony in and I was having the time of my life penetrating the
heretofore inaccessible outback to soothe the savage exploratory beast
within. Gonzo BroncoBoy was born.
Then somebody gave me a Dick Cepek catalog. Now I was in deep trouble, for
no longer could I live with this stock showroom truck when the customizing
possibilities ran amok before me. I felt like Lewis and Clark with a wrench.
This was an era of exploding Baja offroad technology, and I was like a kid in a
candystore. I started buying auxiliary toolboxes, racing lights and shields,
axle cables and grabhandles, mostly all the ultra-simple bolt-on stuff that
even a guitar player could install without too much destruction. I put in a
rollbar and large capacity gastank, squeezed in the biggest tires I could on
the stock suspension and then cut and added fender flares. Soon dual shocks and
airbags and engine goodies were added. I found myself prone under the old
girl every waking moment that I wasn’t on tour or in the woods hunting. It was
a grandtime of manly wrenching upgrade in my life and I was having a riot.
How I managed to keep all my fingers and knuckles I will never know.
I knew I had to have larger tires and a higher ground clearance for my
insane swampruns, but liftkits were really in their infancy back then. Like the
professional knucklehead I was, I simply got creative, not understanding the
critical importance of steering and suspension geometry and its pivotal
relationship with center of gravity and survival. I cut the spring towers and added
taller coils, mated shocks that looked to match, then juryrigged a pair of
steel blocks to wedge under the rear leafsprings that gave me enough height
increase to install 36” Cepek FunCountries with killer CenterLine aluminum
wheels. Now that’s the way a Ford Bronco is supposed to look! After a few axle and
driveshaft replacements and adjustments, the damn thing was eventually
drivable.
I added a double battery kit with isolator, a high output police alternator,
more KC Dayliters, police spotlight and HD wiring, a CB radio, an auxiliary
heater, 3 point racing harnesses, skidplates, tinted bubble rear side
windows, an oil cooler, a HD radiator, HD hi-flow fuelpump, hi-output windshield
washers, gunracks, a louder horn, parachute packs for storage behind the seats,
an under rear bench lockable toolbox, xtra domelights, roof marker lights,
and an assortment of Cepek goodies enough to choke a goat. But man was I
wrenching bigtime baby! Mr. Goodwrench can kiss my…, well, you know.
I will never forget my maiden longrange Bronco voyage to the stunning West
Slopes of Colorado in September of 1973. With my trusty Fred Bear take-down
recurve bow and a bouquet of gorgeous turkey feathered aluminum arrows,
propelled by an unstoppable spirit for wildness and adventure, I loaded up my little
American Spirit of the Wild Adventure truck with all my hunting and camping
gear for a muledeer dreamhunt in the wilderness of the Uncompadre National
Forest. I got your Rocky Mountain high right here kids. I thought I had died
and gone to heaven. This wayback excursion represented the ultimate in
rugged individualism and independent self-sufficiency at its finest. I killed
grouse and a deer with my bow and butchered and cooked them on a small campfire
next to my one man puptent and the mighty Bronco high on a mountaintop deep in
the wildest of wilds, all by my badself. It don’t git no better than this my
friends!
I remember one harrowing, near death morning of numbnut overzealous
offroading stupidity when I was a bit throttle heavy, wheeling a bit too wildly down
a mountain trail drunk on freedom and clean air. I had just maneuvered across
a ridiculous ravine, barely growling up the off slope, when the jubilant
celebration of defying nature got the best of me. My eyes betrayed my depth
perception when at an irresponsible rate of velocity, I too late realized the
winding non-road came to an abrupt deadend and dropped precariously into a
bottomless valley beyond any shock absorbing suspension capabilities. I was
literally airborn for quite an extended breath, and only by the grace of God was my
little Bronco kept straight as I landed with a life threatening hardcore
THUMPBANG for a perfect four point landing about 30 yards past the T in the
trail. Miraculously, I was able to stop within mere feet of the edge of nowhere.
I dropped my head to the steering wheel, with a traumatized deep sigh, then
looked ahead of me for what could and should have been the end to a rather
perfect life. All the contents in my Bronco were scattered helter skelter, and
even my spare tire and gascan carrier was ripped off its moorings and now
rested another 40 yards beyond my landing spot. I was shaking and scared as hell I
’ll tell ya. I sat in the swaying yellow grass for quite awhile before I
gathered my breath and wits, thanking God for His mercy. That was a close one,
and a hardcore lesson was learned that happiness and fun does not include
dangerous and irresponsible actions. Fortunately, the Bronco fired right up and I
limped back to my campsite for some prayers and introspective upgrade. Whew!
The next morning I was loaded up and ready to drive back to Michigan just
after sunrise when my wilderness baptizm by mechanical fire slapped me back a
step or two. I had juryrigged the tire carrier back together with supplies I
had with me, and the Bronco started right up for the long trip home. I yanked
the shifter back and down for take-off, and nothing! The 3 on the tree just
slugged up and down with no resistance and I realized the gear shifter was not
connecting to any transmission. At first I couldn’t imagine what I was going
to do. I didn’t even have the basic understanding back then how anything
really worked or what procedure to follow troubleshooting such a development.
Instinctively I lifted the hood and began to examine everything. Reaching
around the driver’s window, I jacked the shifter back and forth and immediately
saw how it moved against the steering column. The small hook that moved wasn’
t connected to anything, and then I saw the transmission linkage that
apparently was supposed to be moved by the rod and hook. I went to my toolbox and
pulled out some cotterpins and nuts and bolts, and amazingly put 1+1 together
to reconnect the shaft to the linkage. Well, I am here to tell you, I felt
like Bill Stroppe and Parnelli Jones rolled into one on the desolate Baja 1000
course, fixing Old Oly for a Baja win! I have never been so proud in all my
life as I was that day all by myself on the distant Rocky Mountaintop as I
closed the hood and began my trek homebound. I was feeling pretty cocky, yet
humbled by the fear of not really knowing what to do. I was obviously lucky as
all git out to have such a simple, basic mechanical problem as a dropped
cotterpin on a shift linkage rod. But it was a powerful wakeup call for the
mechanical dream of self reliance we all have burning inside us. Mr. BadWrench was
born that day and feeling pretty cool!
I was beating on the old girl pretty hard in those days. I got to the point
where I didn’t really worry about body damage as I threaded the needle on
forest and rock strewn non-trails. Doors and quarter panels were adequately
shredded, dinged and dented thoroughly. In fact, heartbreak slammed me to the
ground when a friend ran a stopsign in my beloved beast and took a hard hit to
the midsection. Ouch! I was devastated. My baby was barely drivable, and I
refused to live a life Broncoless.
It was now 1974 and my precious daughter Sasha was born, so I was
ultra-cautious about safely transporting my family in this less than professionally
lifted, severely beat up and altered bobtail. I took a long hard look at my
Bronco and decided I was having so much fun with her, that instead of just
rebuilding my 71, I would start from scratch with a brand new 1975 Bronco. Godbless
the American Dream, huh! There’s no end in sight!
Stay tuned for the continuing saga of Nuge Terminal Broncitus in the nest
issue of Bronco Driver magazine. Communicate directly with Ted about Broncos or
anything else ya want to at tednugent.com TalkBack.