Ford Model AA Trucks

There are a few things in life that’ll test a man’s patience: waiting in line at the DMV, trying to reason with a teenager, and changing a tire on a 1930 Ford Model AA truck. I’ve done all three—and I’ll take the teenager any day.

Now, for those unfamiliar with the mighty Model AA, let me set the stage. This isn’t your dainty little coupe or roadster, no sir. The AA is the brute of the Model A family. Twice the springs, twice the weight, and seemingly twice the stubbornness. The tire alone looks like it came off a Sherman tank, and the wheel is held on with enough bolts to build a small bridge.

It all started, as these things usually do, with a flat. I was feeling rather proud of myself, cruising down the road at a blistering 35 miles per hour (downhill with a tailwind) when the truck began to wobble like a penguin on roller skates. I pulled over, and sure enough—one of the rear duals on the passenger side was flatter than my enthusiasm.

Dad always said, “Son, changing a tire on an AA builds character.” I now realize that’s his polite way of saying, “You’re about to make some poor life choices.”

First, I went to grab the jack. Now, this isn’t one of those sleek hydraulic ones you see at Pep Boys. This is the original, Ford-issue screw jack—a prehistoric piece of iron that looks like it was forged by Vikings. You don’t so much “lift” the truck with it as you negotiate.

I positioned it under the axle and started cranking. The jack groaned. The truck groaned. I groaned. The only thing that didn’t groan was the rusted nut holding the wheel in place—it just laughed at me.

After 20 minutes of creative language and some persuasion involving a three-foot cheater bar, the lug finally surrendered with a metallic PING! that nearly sent me sprawling into the ditch. That was progress, or at least it felt like it.

The next challenge was getting the wheel off. See, in the 1930s, Ford engineers apparently decided the perfect fit between wheel and hub should be “microscopic.” After several rounds of tugging, rocking, and one brief prayer, I resorted to Dad’s favorite trick: the “precision hammer technique.” That’s where you hit it until it gives up.

When the wheel finally came free, I caught it just before it could roll downhill and take out a mailbox. I felt victorious—momentarily. Because then came the real fun: mounting the spare.

Now, my spare tire had been living under the truck since Eisenhower was in office. I dragged it out, dusted it off, and noticed it was about as round as a potato. But hey—it still held air, so that made it a winner in my book.

Getting it onto the hub required a combination of brute force, questionable physics, and what I like to call the “AA Shuffle”—that delicate dance of grunting, balancing, and muttering under your breath until the holes line up.

Finally, I tightened everything down, lowered the truck, and stood back to admire my handiwork. I was covered in grease, missing some skin on my knuckles, and smelled faintly of 90-year-old gear oil—but the truck was upright and rolling again.

As I climbed back into the cab, Dad’s words echoed in my mind: “A man who can change a tire on an AA can handle just about anything life throws at him.”

I thought about that as I drove home, proudly wobbling along. And wouldn’t you know it—half a mile later, I remembered the jack was still on the side of the road.

That’s when I decided maybe character-building was overrated.