When I was an 8-year-old riding in the back seat, anything longer than an hour felt like torture. Motion sickness hit at the 25-minute mark, and I spent most rides staring at the floor mats with the stale, slightly metallic scent of the car's interior clinging to the air. The nausea, a churning in my gut, faded only when I moved to the front seat and, eventually, behind the wheel.

On my 16th birthday in 2014, Mom drove me to the Department of Motor Vehicles for a learner’s permit. I practiced in her 2013 Ford Fusion, encouraged by her gentle commentary. A few months later, I graduated to Dad’s 2013 Ford F-150 XLT. The sturdy, almost oversized steering wheel felt substantial in my hands, and the deeper rumble of its engine was a comforting sound, a stark contrast to the Fusion’s quieter hum.

Dad, a former Army infantryman and a 25-year veteran of the New York State Police, taught me differently. His critiques came fast and direct, sharp like a drill sergeant’s bark, but that never dampened my obsession with the truck that rested in our driveway while he drove a patrol car.

Its forest-green silhouette was steadfast as it braved the frigid Upstate New York winter, anxiously waiting for a chance to see the open road. I could almost smell the faint scent of oil and gasoline clinging to its frame. The F-150 felt robust and reliable — exactly what a teen with an explorer’s mindset wanted. After I earned both my license and Dad’s trust, I all but claimed the truck as my own.

I drove the pickup everywhere during high school. The deep green of its paint shimmered under the beating sun along Route 9 beside beautiful Lake George. The familiar thrum of the engine and the lone CD in the truck — The Highwaymen — became the soundtrack to my teenage years.

Then, in 2016, I parked it before leaving for the U.S. Military Academy. First- and second-year cadets can’t keep vehicles at West Point, but I already knew no showroom purchase would top Dad’s old truck. It still had miles to give.

When I was selected to study at the Royal Military College of Canada in 2018, this truck was the only familiar face I had in an entirely new environment. And when I graduated in 2020 and reported to flight school at Fort Rucker, Alabama, the truck finally gained its name: the Green Bastard, or GB for short — a nod to an episode of “Trailer Park Boys.”

The humid, thick air of the South clung to everything, but inside GB, I felt a sense of freedom.

By the time I left Alabama, GB and its rhythmic thump-thump of tires on asphalt had carried me through the endless stretches of highway to every state from Maine to Florida.

Next came a harder assignment: Alaska.

In April 2022, I steered through the Midwest, over the Rockies and up the Alaska Highway to Fairbanks. Snow and subzero temperatures couldn’t stop GB. I remember the biting, dry cold that seeped into the cab despite the heater, the crunch of tires on packed snow, and the vast, silent expanse of the Alaskan wilderness stretching out before us.

Together, we reached the end of the Kenai Peninsula in Homer and the oil fields at Deadhorse, the northernmost point of the United States. Friends rotated through the passenger seat, our shared stories of good times gone by filling the space, but GB was the constant partner. As rust spots, rough and orange, began to appear on the body, leaving a faint metallic tang, I felt the first twinges of a clock ticking.

After nearly three years up north, I faced a choice: buy something new or double down on the decade-old truck for the 7,800-mile drive back to southeast Alabama. I chose GB — and my black Lab, Iggy.

At minus 12 degrees, the windshield frosted with intricate patterns and the sharp, invigorating sting of the subzero air biting my cheeks, we pulled out of Fairbanks for another adventure, the faint, comforting scent of Iggy, a mix of dog and road dust, a constant presence beside me.

Like a cowboy’s horse, GB never faltered. My girlfriend joined us in Seattle, and in the span of 22 days, we crossed two Canadian provinces, 15 states and 11 national parks. The kaleidoscope of landscapes blurred past the windows, accompanied by the symphony of the road — the distant roar of other vehicles, the steady hum of GB’s engine, the occasional click of the turn signal.

Since then, GB has made several 1,300-mile hauls to its hometown in New York’s Adirondacks, where the crisp, pine-scented air always feels like coming home. This Fourth of July, it completed a symbolic run to Key West, Florida. With the salty, humid air thick around us, GB staked its claim as one of the few vehicles to touch both the southernmost and northernmost points of the nation — nearly 46 degrees of latitude apart.

Now, as I notice my first gray hairsand younger pilots running faster PT times, GB turns slower beneath a growing lace of rust, the faint creak of the aging suspension a quiet reminder of our journey. We’re aging in tandem. The feel of the worn steering wheel under my hands is smooth from countless miles, a familiar comfort. Whatever happens next, the kid who once dreaded long car rides is grateful. Dad’s old truck taught me to love the open road — and gave me a lifetime’s worth of miles along the way.

Brody Rocque is an Apache helicopter pilot and captain in the U.S. Army. With a passion for adventure and new experiences, he hopes to inspire others to explore the beautiful world around them.