The 22RE Restoration

I had wanted a project car for a long time, but I never imagined it would find me like this. An early-’90s Toyota Pickup had always been one of the dream candidates. It’s simple, timeless, deeply tied to Hawai’i’s local and surf culture, and somehow still one of the most reliable and best looking little trucks ever made.

I could have searched Craigslist or Facebook Marketplace, found a clean one, handed over some money, and started with something that needed a lot less work. But this truck isn’t really about finding the easiest project.

It belongs to my father-in-law, and its history with him goes back much further than the years it has spent parked outside his house in Hilo. He has spent more than 35 years working as a Toyota salesman. Over the years, he has regularly been recognized as one of the dealership’s top salespeople, but what stands out to me more than the awards is the way he has built those relationships.

He genuinely tries to do right by people. He takes care of his customers, remembers them, and treats their interactions as something more than a transaction. After more than three decades, that has created a whole network of people whose connection to him extends well beyond the day they bought a car. This truck seems to be one of those stories.

He originally sold it early in his career. I don’t know every detail of the relationship he had with the original owner, and maybe I never will, but I know enough to understand that it meant something. Years later, after the owner passed away, the truck found its way back to my father-in-law. That detail has always stuck with me.

Cars are sold every day and usually disappear into someone else’s life. Decades later, that family still remembered the salesman who had originally put the keys in their hands. He must have been more than just a salesman because when it came time for the truck to leave their family, they thought of him. I think that says a lot on its own.

I know that this particular truck became very special to him. Part of that is surely the personal story behind it. But he also knows exactly what he has. He has spent his life around Toyotas, and he knows the reputation of the legendary 22R-E under its hood. He knows what these older pickups are becoming, and he knows that a remarkably low-mileage example like this is not something you stumble across every day.

It is not tucked away as a museum piece, or abused like a standard work truck. It is part of his life. Once a week, he takes it out for a drive, sometimes just to the rubbish dump but other times with my mother-in-law to get coffee and take a cruise through Keaukaha, past the beaches, a small routine they have kept for years.

There is something quietly special about it and I love that part of the truck’s story almost as much as anything else. In fact, those are probably the best miles on it.

It has lived outside in the elements for a long time, and time has left its mark. The paint is now faded and sunburnt. The fuel tank is rusted through and needs to be replaced. The sagging bumpers are tied on with ropes. There will undoubtedly be hoses, seals, bushings, fluids, and other pieces that have aged even while the odometer barely moved. But my father-in-law has done what he can to look after it, with basic maintenance and taking it out regularly rather than letting it sit. And it still runs perfectly fine. In fact, apparently almost every time he drives it, somebody asks if he wants to sell it.

I understand why. I have admired the truck for a long time too. I would have happily bought it from him, but I never asked. I have seen firsthand how often other people do, and more importantly, I know how much it means to him. It never felt like my place to ask.

So when he offered it to me, I was genuinely surprised. When he told me he wanted to give it to me, I was even more surprised. But more than anything, I felt honored.

I know that part of the timing is practical. He’s been thinking of getting another car for work for years and doesn’t have the space to keep it. My parents have room for it under their carport (thanks, Mom and Dad), and I can take over the registration, insurance, maintenance, and responsibility that come with owning it. But I don’t think that is the only reason why he chose me.

I think he knows that I will take care of it. Not erase its history. Not turn it into something unrecognizable or impractical. And not restore it into such a perfect object that everyone becomes afraid to actually use it.

I want to make it healthy again. I want to fix the fuel system, make sure the brakes and suspension are right, take care of the rust and age-related issues, repair the things that have slowly worn down, and give the truck the attention it deserves.

Eventually, I want to make it mine too. I’ve spent countless hours pouring over toyota listings and builds and I can picture this one sitting a little lower on the right wheels with a clean, understated OEM-plus feel. I don’t think I’ll keep the original red color, but keep imagining what it would look like repainted silver, navy, or charcoal. And somewhere on the back will be a sticker that says “Slow Down, I’m Listening to Kalapana”.

But the more I think about this project, the less the finished truck even matters.

What I am most excited about is working on it with my son, Noah.

He is still young enough that working on a truck with Dad is probably more important than whatever part we happen to be fixing. That is exactly why I want to start now.

There will be plenty of things I leave to professionals. I am not trying to prove that we can rebuild an entire truck ourselves in a carport. Anything safety-critical or beyond my abilities will go to people who know what they are doing.

But an old Toyota gives us a thousand smaller opportunities to work with our hands together.

We can change filters. Remove trim. Replace weatherstripping. Clean old parts. Learn what things under the hood actually do. Take something apart, get confused, look at it again, and figure out how it goes back together.

At first, maybe Noah mostly hands me tools. Then he learns which socket I am asking for. Eventually, maybe he is the one using it. I want him to learn the things you only really learn by doing. That a bolt does not always come out just because you want it to. That forcing something usually makes the problem worse. That sometimes you have to stop, think, and try another way. That there is a particular kind of satisfaction in fixing something with your own hands and knowing that it works because you made it work.

I want him to experience the frustration of a repair that takes three times longer than we expected and the pride of finally getting it right. I want us to make mistakes together. I want us to figure things out together. And I want him to look at the truck someday and feel like a piece of himself is in it because he helped bring it back.

That is what makes this project feel much bigger to me than fixing up a cool old truck.

This truck already connects generations.

I keep imagining what Noah might remember.

Maybe he will remember being six or seven years old in Hilo, holding a flashlight while I fought with some impossible bolt. Maybe he will remember the smell of old oil and hot metal. Maybe he will remember having grease all over his hands and being incredibly proud of some tiny repair nobody else would ever notice. Maybe he will remember the first thing on the truck that he fixed by himself.

And hopefully there will be days when we finish whatever we are working on, close the hood, climb into the truck, and take it for a drive.

Maybe we will take it to Honoli’i when I teach him how to surf. Maybe we’ll take it down to bayfront to go fishing and fire up the hibachi right on the sand. Maybe we’ll take it to deliver homemade laulaus to friends and family. Maybe we’ll just go for a cruise through Keaukaha along the water, just like Grandpa and Nani did.

And years from now, I hope the truck is still around. I hope Noah remembers working on it with me. I hope he remembers its story and why Grandpa loved it. Maybe by then the rusty fuel tank, faded paint, and sagging bumpers will be just stories we tell about what it looked like when we got it. Maybe it will still be sitting on the wheels Noah helped pick. Maybe the Kalapana sticker will still be on the back window. Maybe someday I will get to hand him the keys and it can be his.

That is really what I want out of this project. Not a perfect restoration. Not a show truck. Not something whose value I am afraid to ruin by driving it.

I know that the most valuable thing about it isn’t the 22R-E, its low mileage, or what a vintage Toyota pickup happens to be worth to enthusiasts. It is the stories it holds and will continue to help build for my family. I’m so excited to get started and to record this journey so we can look back at it one day and remember it all.