Do not fear the SuperDuty 😱

There is a strange, quiet tension in owning a big ol’ F-350 SuperDuty. For two weeks, mine has sat in the driveway, an expensive monument to potential. I find myself avoiding the driver’s seat, almost as if I’m trying to freeze time and keep the truck “new” in my mind for just a little longer. It even smells of the assembly line—a sharp, chemical reminder of the industrial manufacturing process that birthed this beast.

When I look at it, I don’t just see a vehicle; I see the weight of it. I think about the gallons of fuel it thirstily consumes and the heavy footprint it leaves on an already cooking planet. Then there’s the reality of the road: the aggressive enforcement waiting behind highway medians and the distracted motorists, eyes glued to phones, ready to collide with my pristine investment. In the city, a bicycle, a pair of boots, or a bus pass feels more honest. They are lighter, kinder ways to move through the world.

But a truck isn’t meant to be a driveway ornament, and I didn’t spend this kind of money just to admire the paint job. There is a conflict there—the guilt of burning expensive gasoline for no reason versus the desire to use the tool I paid for. I refuse to waste it on pointless trips to Walmart or aimless loops around town. That’s not what this machine is for.

I’m waiting. I’m waiting for the camper shell to arrive and for the spring sun to bake the mud off the back country roads. That is the SuperDuty’s true North: the remote country, the places where the pavement ends and the air is clear.

Ultimately, I have to remind myself not to let fear steal the experience. It’s mine, it’s paid for, and these days are fleeting. I’ll drive it when the destination deserves the journey, because in the blink of an eye, the truck will be gone, a victim of time, miles and rust.