Gonzo Farming: Speed, Chaos, and the Legendary Parts Run

FFT #55

Sep 07, 2024

The Almighty Parts Run

You know that moment when your phone rings, and you don’t even need to check the screen? You already know what’s coming—a job so urgent that everything else fades into the background.

This isn’t your run-of-the-mill request.

No, this is something bigger. Something urgent.

The objective is clear:

Get the part.

Bring it back.

Jam that sucker into the machine and save the day.

It’s like being an action hero with a spanner wrench instead of a gun.

No, this is not Burning Man. It’s not the Catalina Wine Mixer.

It’s the Almighty Parts Run.

Cue the Madness

The second you hang up, it’s game time. You morph into something else—a caffeinated speed demon with one mission: retrieve the part. Forget rules, laws, and human decency. You’re on a parts run now.

Speed limits? Gentle suggestions for people who aren’t on a parts run.

Stop signs? Decorative suggestions at best.

Mailboxes? Casualties of war, friend.

Casualties. Of. War.

Because once you’re on a parts run, it’s all about the part. You become a man possessed. Everything else in the world becomes nothing more than obstacles between you and victory.

No room for distractions. No space for delays. Get the part. Bolt it back into the machine. Get the whole damn operation rolling again. If you’re not driving like you’re in a Mad Max chase scene, buddy, you’re doing it wrong.

Born and Raised in the Chaos

Let me tell you, chaos wasn’t just an occasional visitor in our household—it was a long-term houseguest who never paid rent. My old man, bless his speed-demon heart, lived like every drive was the last lap of the Daytona 500.

Even when we weren’t on an official parts run, he tore through backroads and highways like the devil himself was tailgating us. He had this 1987 Chevrolet Silverado—a silver-and-red beast the locals swore was souped. The thing had the aerodynamics of a laundry basket but moved like a rocket on rails.

It didn’t matter where we went—whether to work or the gas station—Dad drove like a cash prize was waiting at the finish line. A regular Tuesday with him felt like a rollercoaster, and I’m not talking about the fun kind. I’m talking about the kind that makes you question your life choices before breakfast.

We were on one of those high-speed, life-flashing-before-your-eyes sprints, heading west toward the swamp.

And when I say “swamp,” I mean an actual mosquito-infested hellhole. It wasn’t some romantic wetland. This was the kind of place that older generations, with equal parts determination and denial, drained and bulldozed to make usable for farming.

Spoiler alert: they failed. Farming that ground was like trying to grow corn on a soggy sponge. You’d have better luck planting crops in quicksand.

Glory Days Gone By

So there we were, hurtling toward the swamp, when we passed the old Bonanza farm. Back in its heyday, the place was a big-tyme operation (BTO)—a shining example of what you could achieve if you played your cards right in farming. Rows of grain bins stood like soldiers, quonsets packed with equipment, and a house that looked plucked straight out of Little House on the Prairie 6: The Future Ain’t What It Used to Be.

But now?

Well, let’s say the glory days were long gone. The place had turned into a graveyard for rusted-out trucks and decaying dreams. It was like seeing a washed-up rock star squeezing into leather pants at 70.

Sad, sure, but you couldn’t look away.

Lift-Off

That’s when it happened.

I spotted Betty and Laura—two local ladies out for a morning walk, probably enjoying the quiet. That is until we roared into the picture like a comet with a grudge. Dad didn’t slow down, not one bit. We hit a T-crossing—a natural ramp made by some cruel twist of road design—and before I knew it, we were airborne.

Time slowed to a crawl.

While we were suspended mid-air, hovering like dandelion fluff in a gust of wind, Betty and Laura stood there, gawking at me through the passenger window, wide-eyed and stunned, like cats caught in the throes of laser pointer addiction.

We flew by so fast that I half expected their clothes to peel right off.

Then, boom.

Gravity snapped back. We slammed into the ground with a thud that rattled my teeth, and the truck shook like we’d hit a herd of buffalo.

And Dad? He let out this high-pitched, schoolgirl giggle—like he’d just ramped over two dozen school buses with a roaring crowd cheering him on—pure Evel Knievel. No hesitation, no second thoughts. He floored it again, leaving nothing but dust and chaos in our wake.

Even now, when he tells the story, he laughs so hard he nearly keels over. It’s one of those tales that gets better with time, like a fine wine—more embellished and hilarious with every retelling.

Parts Run Flashbacks

That’s precisely what the Parts Run reminds me of—ripping around with my dad, who fancied himself a twisted mix of Richard Petty and Donny Schatz. He had Petty’s need for speed and Schatz’s dirt-slinging finesse, always driving like he had something to prove.

A Parts Run is a race against time, where the only rule is that there are no rules. The only time I’ve driven faster was when I smashed my thumb with a 16-pound lead mallet and drove myself to the emergency room for a fresh set of pins and staples, bleeding like a stuck pig.

One Thing Stops Me

Now, I know I just said nothing can stop a parts run. But I’m a complicated man with complicated needs, and there is one thing that can make me slam on the brakes.

Ice cream.

We all have our vices. For some, it’s bourbon. For me? Dairy Queen. If I spot a DQ, that Parts Run pauses quicker than you can say “Dilly Bar.”

I’ll tear through ditches, baseball fields, and maybe a few mailboxes to taste that sweet soft-serve. Don’t tell John, though. If he learns about my detours, my days as a parts run operator might be over.

That, my friends, would be a Midwestern tragedy.

Mailboxes and Chaos

Speaking of mailboxes, let me tell you about my first farm job. Picture a 13-year-old idiot behind the wheel of a John Deere 4440, towing a rotary hoe wider than a barn door…

Not the sleekest of machines, the 4440 was the kind of equipment you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy. And for the uninitiated, a rotary hoe is this medieval contraption, all blades and spikes, designed to aerate soil. Ours was 22 feet wide—a ridiculous size for a kid who didn’t know east from west.

So, there I was, cruising toward the beet field, oblivious that my rotary hoe was hanging way past the tractor. Then, bam—mailbox shrapnel exploded into the ditch like fireworks at a redneck Fourth of July.

I knocked out three mailboxes in a row, one after the other, like some agricultural demolition derby.

And what did I do about it?

Absolutely nothing. Just crossed my fingers and hoped the evidence would disappear into the ditch along with the debris. And, somehow, it did. Not a word was ever spoken about those poor mailboxes, and I’ve kept that little misadventure under wraps for 27 years.

With any luck, the statute of limitations has come and gone.

Parts runs are like that—full of silent mayhem, collateral damage, and a lot of crossing your fingers, hoping the mess you leave behind never catches up with you.

Parts Run Philosophy

And here I am, mid-parts run, multitasking like a one-man circus, voice-texting this piece as I barrel down the highway at speeds that’d make a NASCAR driver blush.

Because here’s the truth: a parts run is the Wild West of farming—where rules are mere recommendations and time nips at your heels.

The madness? Oh, it’s real, alright. But I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Nothing fuels the adrenaline quite like the frantic scramble for that part, driving like the road is on fire and racing back just in time.

Sure, I might veer off for a soft-serve cone—because even in the chaos, there’s always time for a sweet detour.

So here’s a tip of the cap to the Parts Run—chaos on wheels, dipped in dust, and, if you’re lucky, with a side of soft serve.

City slickers? They have no idea what they’re missing. Out here, the open road, the wild scramble, and the thrill of the chase—it’s something they’ll never understand.

And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.