Steve Marcus / FILE

Sun sports columnist Ron Kantowski checks out the race course for the Las Vegas Grand Prix last year in his Chevrolet S-10 truck, which was stolen Monday from the parking lot of the Las Vegas Sun in Henderson.

By Ron Kantowski

Thu, Nov 13, 2008 (2 a.m.)

To the thief or thieves who stole my truck out of the Sun parking lot Monday, I have only one thing to say:

I hope you’re not planning on going very far.

The best thing I could say about my 1996 Chevy S-10 pickup was that it was paid for. And that it got me where I needed to go — most of the time, anyway.

The thieves who swiped it are in for a rude awakening.

It’s like the guy in the movies who picks a fight in a bar — only to discover the guy he just sucker-punched is Chuck Norris or Billy Jack.

You do not want to steal a vehicle that belongs to a sports writer. You’d be better off trading leg kicks with Billy Jack.

It’s a known fact that vehicles belonging to sports writers depreciate at three times the normal rate.

The thieves who stole my truck may have noticed that the manual in the glove compartment has a thick layer of dust on it. This isn’t because the truck finished third in the last Paris-to-Dakar Rally. It’s because sports writers do not maintain their vehicles. Sports writers are why God created Manny, Moe and Jack. And wire coat hangers, which in a pinch, can be used to keep a muffler from dragging on the ground and setting off sparks.

See the maintenance log, with all those little unchecked boxes? Checked boxes, for things such as fan belts, hoses and brake fluid, cost money. Money can be used to buy beer and cheap cigars. And wire coat hangers.

After they hot-wired my rig, Pruneface and Flattop might have noticed the pungent aroma of Circle K gasoline filling the cab. They may not be able to trace its origin. Neither could Manny, Moe or Jack. Pruneface and Flattop should not light a cheap cigar, or a Bunsen burner, inside the truck. If they do, they will become another spontaneous combustion statistic, which is almost as bad as being a car thief.

The new “owners” will probably notice the rearview mirror is slightly off-center and listing like the Andrea Doria. That’s because I had to glue it back on myself. The mirror usually falls off when it gets really hot outside or when you drive over railroad tracks. My advice: Take the Charleston underpass instead of Wyoming Avenue.

Likewise, they should not remove the brown ribbon on the driver’s side sun visor. That keeps the visor from smacking you in the forehead on the days when the S-10 is clicking on all 3 1/2 cylinders.

That little hesitation before the engine begins to roar, er purr, er, cough like a Pennsylvania coal miner? That’s just another starter going bad. I think that’ll be the sixth one. That screeching noise that sounds like a cat getting its tail caught in an oscillating fan or the actress Fran Drescher? This is what happens to CV joints that haven’t been lubricated since the truck left Detroit.

I’m not sure what that clunking coming from under the hood might be. It wasn’t there Friday. I wouldn’t worry about it too much.

I almost forgot. Park uphill, or you will think the Exxon Valdez ran aground in your driveway.

Yes, there’s an XM radio receiver glued to the little plastic caddy thing where I keep a couple of Bic pens and a road map of British Columbia. It’s the cheapest one Best Buy had on the open box table. It doesn’t even have a remote. You have to turn the little dial to change stations, and unless you’ve got arms like an orangutan, you won’t be able to reach it when you’re driving.

Of course, if the alternator blows — again — you’ll be treated to sides one and two of Marcel Marceau’s Greatest Hits while you wait for your buddy to bring his tools.

The only thing I regret is that there were 10 dress shirts on the floor on the passenger side that I was supposed to drop off at the dry cleaners last week. Unless you have a size 16 1/2 neck and 34/35 arms, these won’t be of much use. But in the long shot the shirts are a perfect fit, be warned: The air conditioning system in my truck dumped its Freon in 1998, which would explain those perspiration stains.

Because of the reasons listed above (and others I’ve surely forgotten), I fully expect to see my truck parked alongside Boulder Highway on the way home from work tonight, sans the cheap XM receiver, the Bic pens and the map of British Columbia. They also are why I’ll probably tell the bus driver to just keep on going.

But in keeping with the spirit of our marriage, my wife gets the last word on the crime of the century, if you don’t count the Lindbergh baby kidnapping and Oregon’s football uniforms.

When I called to tell her thieves had made off with Ol’ Teal (even the color of my truck didn’t work), she had a totally appropriate response.

“Good thing we didn’t pay to have those brakes fixed.”