The Truck That’s a Time Machine

There’s a stretch of Route 16 in Tazewell County, Virginia, that feels like it’s been there forever. From Mudfork to Bishop, through Horsepen to Falls Mills Lake, it’s a road that doesn’t just take you somewhere—it takes you back. Back to the places and moments that shaped you. Back to the people who taught you what mattered.

For me, it’s the truck that does it. My old ’66 isn’t just a vehicle. It’s a time machine. The smell of oil and worn leather, the creak of the bench seat, the way the engine hums just right when you hit third gear—it all pulls me back. Back to summers riding shotgun with my grandfather, his calloused hands on the wheel, the windows down, and the air thick with the scent of fresh-cut hay and mountain pine.

That truck taught me more than how to drive. It taught me how to listen. Three on the tree isn’t something you can rush. It’s a rhythm you have to feel, a patience you have to earn. And every time I shift gears, I hear my father’s voice, steady and calm, reminding me to ease off the clutch, to let the truck come to me instead of forcing it.

The road itself holds memories, too. Route 16 isn’t just asphalt and gravel—it’s a scrapbook. The sharp curve where I learned to respect the brakes. The pull-off where we’d stop to skip rocks in the creek. The stretch of straightaway where my uncle once let me take the wheel, grinning as I white-knuckled my way to 115 miles per hour.

Every mile carries a story, a lesson, a reminder of where I come from.
Out here, the past isn’t something you leave behind. It’s something you carry with you. It’s the smell of spirit hit dirt. In the sound of gravel under the tires. In the way the mountains seem to hold you close, like they know your name. And every time I drive that stretch of Route 16, I feel it all over again—the pride, the patience, the quiet joy of knowing exactly where you’re from.

A truck like mine doesn’t just get you from point A to point B. It takes you back to the moments that made you. It reminds you of the hands that taught you, the roads that tested you, and the places that still feel like home.

Because sometimes, the best way to move forward is to remember where you’ve been.