Rebel Talk: Backroads

There’s something about an old truck rumbling down a country backroad that just strips life down to its truth. My "cabin cruiser", a 1990 F250 may not turn heads at a car show, but out there, on those quiet stretches of cracked pavement and gravel dust, it becomes my reset button. Windows down. Wind in my face. No notifications. No expectations. No noise except the hum of an engine that refuses to quit.

That’s where my mind finally settles.
That’s where the clutter falls away.
That’s where I actually hear myself think.

There’s a truth you only find on the backroads — the kind of truth that doesn’t show up when life is loud, rushed, or packed wall to wall with obligations. It’s the kind of truth that waits for you in the places most people pass by without a second thought.

For me, it starts with that old 1990 F250. No touchscreens. No Bluetooth. Just FM radio humming through a single speaker, windows down, and that little push-button high beam switch on the floor that takes you straight back to a simpler world. You stomp that pedal, the road lights up, and suddenly everything in front of you is yours again.

Out there, cruising at your own pace, wind blasting through the cab, it’s like the whole world finally stops talking long enough for you to hear your own thoughts. That’s when everything sharpens. That’s when the fog clears. That’s when the real you steps back to the front of the line.

And here’s the thing — those backroad moments aren’t just about the drive. They’re a mirror for life itself.

Most people try to live on the highway. Fast. Flashy. Loud. They want every mile to look impressive, every move to be seen, every part of their journey to be validated by someone else. But the truth?

The meaningful stuff… the strong stuff… the stuff that actually builds the person you become?

That gets built on the backroads.

Not the smooth, easy stretches — but the unpaved ones.
The slow ones.
The ones without shortcuts.
The ones where nobody’s cheering you on.

The backroads are the early mornings when no one sees you grinding.
They’re the private battles you don’t post about.
They’re the doubts you work through alone.
They’re the miles you put in when quitting would be a hell of a lot easier.

Backroads are where you rebuild after heartbreak.
Backroads are where you hear the ideas that get drowned out in the chaos.
Backroads are where you figure out what matters and what doesn’t.
Backroads are where your grit gets shaped.
Backroads are where your values get forged.

Every time that old truck rattles over gravel, I’m reminded of something:
Backroads are where grit is born.

That’s where you figure out what you’re made of.
That’s where you rebuild after life hits hard.
That’s where you learn patience, resilience, humility — the stuff no fast lane will ever give you.

You’ve had your backroad seasons. Or you will have them.

You’ve had stretches where the path wasn’t pretty, wasn’t easy, and sure as hell wasn’t glamorous.

But those stretches? They will change you. They will toughen you. They will carve out the strength that carries you through everything else.

So maybe this is your reminder —
Don’t run from the backroads.
Don’t avoid the slow miles.
Don’t resent the parts of your journey that nobody applauds.

Because the highways might make you look successful.
But the backroads?
They make you unstoppable.

And sometimes all it takes is an old truck, a crackling radio, the wind in your face, and a few quiet miles to remember that.

I miss that old girl. It's November in Minnesota, she's tucked away for the winter. And why is it we (guys) call an old truck, a girl? 

Stay Relentless,

Ryan