The Road Doesn't Lie

Today I want to tell you about a friend.

Over the years, I have met many remarkable people, each leaving their mark on my life in one way or another. But few have had the impact of a friend I'll call Joe.

For the sake of privacy, I'll use a different name, but everything else is true.

Joe is much younger than I am, yet he is one of the most vibrant, intelligent, and resourceful people I have ever known. I often tell him that if the average person lives 50 years, then by the time Joe is 50, he'll have lived a hundred. He simply lives life at double speed. Every day seems packed with experiences most people spread over years.

But that's not the story for today.

Back in 2019, both of us were fighting our own battles. I had just begun my sobriety journey, and Joe was struggling with sobriety too. We were both trying to rebuild our lives and figure out what came next.

Being the resourceful person he is, Joe decided there was money to be made in logistics. He leased a small cargo van from Penske and signed up with a freight company. Before long, he landed a load from Kansas City to San Diego—a journey of well over 1,500 miles.

He completed the trip successfully.

Then Joe did what Joe sometimes does best: he acted on impulse.

After arriving in San Diego with a little money in his pocket, he decided it was time to celebrate.

A few days later, my phone rang.

"David," he said, "I have a problem. Can you fly to San Diego and drive the van back to Kansas City?"

Kansas City sits almost at the geographical heart of the continental United States. San Diego is tucked into the far southwestern corner, right next to the Mexican border. That's no small drive.

I flew out, picked up the van, and started the journey home.

Along the way I stopped in Corona, California, picked up another load, and delivered it to Nebraska before continuing back toward Kansas City.

Somewhere along that journey, a thought occurred to me.

Maybe this was more than just helping a friend.

Maybe this was an opportunity.

At the time, I had more time than money, and trucking seemed like an honest way to put both to good use. Before long I was driving regularly—starting with small cargo vans before graduating to a 16-foot box truck.

Those miles across America became some of the most formative miles of my life.

Not because of the places I visited, but because of what the road taught me.

One lesson has stayed with me ever since.

When you're driving from Boise to Kansas City—or any two places separated by a thousand miles—there is no shortcut.

Every mile has to be driven.

You cannot wish away the distance.

You cannot negotiate with it.

The only way to reach your destination is to keep moving.

Some days you cover 700 miles.

Some days only 200.

But every mile driven is one less mile remaining.

The only time no progress is made is when the wheels stop turning.

That lesson followed me long after I parked the truck.

Life works the same way.

You don't have to move fast every day.

You don't have to have everything figured out.

You simply have to keep moving.

Even slow progress is still progress.

The only guaranteed way not to reach your destination is to stop altogether.

How have I applied that lesson to the rest of my life?

That's a story for another day.