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Sometimes a confluence of events takes place that paves the road toward something you hadn’t planned. Something that ends up working out in the greater scheme of things, but wasn’t part of the original blueprint.

Let’s back up.

I recently made the decision to sign up for several classic car tours across Texas. The Fairlane was finally in good enough running order that, for the most part, I figured it was time to take her out, stretch her legs, and put her to the use I’d envisioned when I bought her two and a half years ago.

In other words, it was time to stop owning the investment and start enjoying it.

There was, however, one item I knew needed attention before I ever pointed the hood ornament toward the open highway where real miles would begin piling up.

The spare tire.

When I replaced the tires after suffering a blowout shortly after buying the car, in an explosion of tread and expletives that would have made Sister Thelma cover her ears with the church bulletin, I only replaced the four tires touching the pavement.

The spare remained untouched.

There were reasons for that.

Not good reasons.

But reasons.

First, I simply didn’t want to spend the money. Second, the wheel the spare tire was wrapped around was such a rusty disaster I’d have been embarrassed for the guys at Discount Tire to even touch it. Third, I’d already survived one spectacular blowout. What were the odds lightning would strike twice with four brand-new tires underneath me?

Turns out, when you’re planning to spend a few hundred miles roaming the highways of Texas with a caravan of old car enthusiasts, your risk assessment changes a bit.

I imagined Marty standing beside me on the shoulder somewhere outside Junction, putting an arm around me and asking, “What do you mean the spare probably won’t make it to the next town? Are you out of your ever-lovin’ mind?”

Point taken.

There was no way I was asking Discount Tire to mount a brand-new tire on the rusty archaeological specimen living in my trunk. So off I went to O’Reilly Auto Parts for everything needed to refurbish the offending wheel in the privacy of my own driveway.

Armed with wire brush attachments for the electric drill, I set out to make that wheel look factory fresh again.

Just as a public service announcement…

Shorts and flip-flops are probably not the recommended attire for this phase of the project.

Steel wool, fine-grit sandpaper, and Band-Aids all became part of the restoration process. Then came acetone to clean everything thoroughly, primer to prep the surface, and finally several coats of Dupli-Color Wimbledon White.

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I don’t like to brag…

…but that wheel looked absolutely gorgeous.

That’s about where the plot thickened.

Buttercup was preparing to go into the hospital for surgery that would leave her sidelined for a while. She wasn’t going anywhere, which meant I wasn’t going anywhere either.

Bottom line…

I suddenly had time on my hands.

I looked at the jack assembly and realized it was almost as derelict as the spare wheel had been.

Why stop now?

Out came the wire brushes, sandpaper, primer, paint, and enough elbow grease to qualify as a gym membership.

In all humility…

…they came out beautifully.

Now the new tire sat proudly on the restored wheel.

The jack looked factory fresh.

I gazed down into the cavernous abyss that is the trunk of a 1960 Ford Fairlane 500.

There wasn’t a chance those beautiful refurbished parts were going back into that.

The trunk had become the weakest link.

I peeled back the old, tattered trunk mat and immediately discovered someone had previously treated the floor with Rust Stop in a manner that can best be described as…

…enthusiastic.

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Or perhaps “artistically unconcerned.”

Either way, it wasn’t pretty.

Out came the wire brushes again, along with the electric drill, assorted tools, and various other necessities that may or may not have included beer.

In my defense…

It was 102 degrees outside with a heat index of 109.

During the wire-brushing process, I actually went completely through the trunk floor in one spot.

That had not been part of the plan.

I suddenly had a decision to make.

Option One involved locating someone with a welder, watching several YouTube videos, and teaching myself to weld while sitting inside the trunk directly above a gas tank containing fifteen gallons of fresh, non-ethanol gasoline.

The more I thought about that idea, the more I realized it was probably even dumber than using an electric wire brush while wearing shorts and flip-flops.

Besides…

Chaos has enough hobbies already.

Fortunately, YouTube also taught me that fiberglass cloth and resin make remarkably durable repairs that can last for decades when done correctly.

Problem solved.

Better yet, this would allow me to learn an entirely new skill in a place no one would ever see, giving me permission to make beginner mistakes before attempting visible repairs somewhere farther down the road.

Win-win.

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Three coats of rust encapsulator later, I was once again making the familiar pilgrimage to O’Reilly’s.

Before I go any further, let me say the instructions clearly stated:

“Use in a well-ventilated area while taking all appropriate precautions.”

The garage door was open.

I considered that box thoroughly checked.

However…

Once I’d finished applying the fiberglass cloth, resin, and hardener, I temporarily lost all knowledge of where the door into the house was located.

When I finally found it, I wasn’t entirely sure who Buttercup was, why she was inside my house, or why she appeared to be walking in slow motion.

She mentioned being in some pain.

I replied, “Go stick your head inside the trunk of that Fairlane for about fifteen minutes. You won’t know pain…

…or anything else.”

I think she rolled her eyes.

She may have muttered something while heading back toward the bedroom.

I honestly couldn’t tell you.

But I can tell you the floor of that Fairlane was stronger than it had been when it rolled off Ford’s assembly line in May of 1960.

It was ready for Phase Two.

That involved six cans of Dupli-Color Speckled Trunk Paint.

“Six cans?” Buttercup asked.

“Seems like a lot.”

“I don’t want any bare spots.”

“But aren’t you covering the whole thing with that new trunk mat you ordered?”

I looked at her carefully.

“Have you taken all your medication? Let me help you back to bed.”

In fairness…

Four cans probably would’ve done the job.

But it’s a big trunk.

And if I’m being completely honest, I think part of me was chasing another resin-induced spiritual experience.

By the time the sixth can was empty, the trunk looked spectacular.

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The neighbor’s dog, who’d spent the first three cans barking furiously through the fence, had fallen asleep somewhere around Can Number Four.

When he finally woke up, tucked his tail between his legs, and wandered away looking like he’d just attended Woodstock, I happened to glance upward.

The underside of the deck lid looked absolutely pitiful.

The weatherstripping was hanging loose.

Rust spots had appeared.

It reminded me of seeing someone wearing a brand-new tuxedo with an old sweat-stained baseball cap.

Back to O’Reilly’s.

A few hours later the rear of the car was carefully masked off, leaving only the areas requiring attention exposed.

I called Buttercup out to admire my handiwork.

I thought perhaps she’d appreciate the metaphor.

She did not.

Rust was neutralized.

The surfaces were sanded.

Primer went on.

Then fresh Wimbledon White.

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The instant the neighbor’s dog heard another spray can rattling, he wandered back over to the fence and started taking deep breaths like he’d found his favorite candle shop.

He was unconscious somewhere between the primer coat and the second coat of paint.

After everything had cured, and after the neighbor carried his unconscious dog back inside for what I assumed had become a weekly occurrence, it was finally time to install the reproduction trunk mat from Dennis Carpenter Ford Reproductions.

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I’m not generally an emotional fellow.

But I might have teared up just a little.

The final surprise came when I installed the spare tire, jack, and tire iron correctly.

At some point around 1968, I’m convinced someone had simply thrown everything into the trunk in random fashion and called it good.

Apparently nobody since then had assembled everything the way God and the Ford Motor Company intended.

It took an embarrassing amount of internet searching before I finally discovered the proper arrangement.

There is exactly one correct way all those pieces nest together.

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Once you see it…

It’s one of those glorious little “Aha!” moments.

It honestly makes me want to pull over every 1960 Fairlane I ever encounter, inspect their trunk, and then proudly show them mine.

Fortunately for everyone involved…

I’ll probably never see another one.

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The only remaining task was installing the reproduction weatherstripping from Steele Rubber Products.

Can we all agree that’s a confusing company name?

It’s like opening a business called “Wood Plastic Products.”

Which one is it?

Anyway…

I gladly paid the extra thirty dollars for the version with genuine 3M adhesive already applied.

Peel.

Stick.

Press.

Done.

I won’t lie.

The neighbor’s dog and I were both a little disappointed by the complete lack of intoxicating fumes.

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So there we are.

A completely restored trunk.

Or, as our friends across the pond would say…

…a proper new boot.

What started as replacing a questionable spare tire before heading out on some Texas touring adventures somehow turned into a complete restoration of everything behind the back seat.

Funny how these projects snowball.

One little decision quietly leads to another, then another, until one afternoon you step back, wipe the sweat off your forehead, admire your work, and wonder how on earth replacing one tire turned into rebuilding half a car.

Then again…

That’s classic car ownership in a nutshell.

The Fairlane 500 and Buttercup both ended up getting brand-new back ends at exactly the same time.

One of them appreciated the comparison a whole lot more than the other.

Now, if I have to stop on the shoulder somewhere between Fredericksburg and Llano, at least I won’t be wondering whether the spare will make it to the next town.

Buttercup isn’t quite up to riding in the Fairlane just yet. The doctors say she needs a little more time before testing the limits of a sixty-six-year-old suspension system.

The neighbor’s dog, however, has already spent enough time passed out beside the garage that he probably considers himself part owner.

If I leave one can of primer sitting on the passenger seat, I bet he’ll jump right in.

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