Why Classic Car Restoration Suffering Leads to the Best Adventures

Buddhists believe that life is suffering. Most of humanity would likely agree. For me, though, classic-car ownership is suffering. And that’s what I like most about it.

I recently spent $30,000 and 13 months rebuilding a 1976 International Scout Traveler. In that time, I suffered an existential crisis, dangerously diminished my bank account, and endured dozens of lacerations and countless weld-slag burns. The Traveler’s refurbishment culminated last June in a 575-mile overland adventure along one of Oregon’s hardest off-road tracks, the McGrew Trail. It was a shakedown trip of sorts and not without its problems, any one of which might have soured the mood for a sane person. I, on the other hand, was in heaven.

Deafened by the truck’s V-8 and lacquered in a sheen of coolant, sweat, and gear oil, I reveled in the most rewarding experience of my life. To properly explain why, I need to take you back to May 2024 and Bend, Oregon, where this whole thing started…

Nick Jaynes

I bought the Traveler sight unseen, something every knowledgeable car buyer knows not to do—and something I have always advised others not to do. So that should tell you a little something about my judgment.

It was posted on Craigslist and eBay simultaneously with a few crappy photographs, and the listing stated it had a new radiator, new carburetor, and new dual exhaust system. I spoke to the seller and tried to beat him up on the phone. He wouldn’t budge much, but we settled on a price, and I drove three hours south to Bend to collect a truck I had never touched and knew very little about.

It came with a two-wheel car dolly, which should have been another warning sign. The electronics didn’t work, but I had known that going in. I could handle that and whatever else this thing threw at me, I thought.

I loaded up the Traveler and drove a few blocks through Bend en route to a food cart pod for lunch. Something felt off with the load balance, though, so I pulled over to readjust it. To do that, I needed to shift the Scout’s transfer case out of neutral and into two-wheel-drive high. I reached for the lever, yanked it. It felt oddly rubbery, so I yanked it backward to get a sense for where it was in the case. It went slack in my hand, and a metallic clatter rang out from beneath the truck.

The linkage had disintegrated, and the Traveler was now locked in 4-Low, which prevented me from towing it. I was standing in a Bend parking lot with a truck I couldn’t transport.

I called the seller, who, predictably, gave me the “Oh man, that’s crazy. Well, good luck with that!” routine. With my tool kit I was at least able to pull the Traveler’s rear driveshaft, and after tossing it behind the back seat, I towed the new and increasingly problematic rig home on its front wheels only, rear axle.