The Unseen Swan Song: A Journey I Didn’t Know Would Be the Last

Introduction:

Exactly four years ago today, March 30, 2021, I embarked on a journey that was forever etched into my soul—a drive born from a random whim that, unbeknownst to me, would mark a seismic turn in my life. You see, driving isn’t merely a pastime for me; it’s a passion that rivals even my undying love for Hondas—and trust me, that’s saying something profound. For those who hear the road’s whisper, these arbitrary journeys are sacred—a chance to untangle life’s chaos, seize that elusive peace, and sit alone with my unvarnished thoughts.

There’s something almost holy about it: the music blasting through the speakers, drowning out the world, as I belt out lyrics with a passion that answers to no one—just pure, unbridled freedom. In those moments, I’m not just driving; I’m soaring, swept up in a stress free symphony of motion and melody. The places I pick have a pull—random yet heavy with meaning, often roads untraveled or unique landmarks. It begins with a whisper in my mind: I’ve never been there. What would it feel like to stand on that earth, breathe that air, say that I’ve been there? Then, like a spark catching fire, I’m off—chasing the horizon with nothing but instinct and a full tank of gas.

But here’s the twist, the part that separates me from the norm: I don’t linger. When I reach that random spot—be it a quirky landmark or a forgotten stretch of earth—I pause just for a moment. A few brief minutes to snap a photo, to pocket some small, odd keepsake—a tangible echo of my journey—then I’m turning back. It’s not about staying; it’s about the journey, the conquest, the excitement of checking another name off my invisible list of places that I have been to. Four years ago, I embarked on one such odyssey, and oh, what a tale it became—a drive that seemed routine (for me) yet burned itself forever into my memory.

Backstory:

My love for driving goes way back to 2001, and I can still picture the moment it really took root. I was a senior in high school, still living at home in Southern California, and had just scored my dream car: a 1995 Civic VX. One night, my buddy—let’s call him Dave, because why not?—and Angie, who wasn’t my girlfriend yet (spoiler: she’d wise up later), were sitting around, bored out of our minds. Out of nowhere, one of us—I’d love to take credit, but it was probably Dave—said, “Hey, let’s drive to Sacramento.” Why? Hell if I know. It was the most random idea we could pluck from the ether, and at 18, that was good enough.

I’d never even been north of Bakersfield at that point, so Sacramento might as well have been Russia to me. I was dying to see what was up there—probably just more highway and some cows, but curiosity’s a hell of a drug. My Civic, bless its little hatchback heart, didn’t have a stereo, which was a problem for a six-hour haul. So, in a move that screams “teenage ingenuity,” we yanked the stereo out of Dave’s car with some questionable wiring skills and jury-rigged it into mine. Picture it: three kids, some tools, and a dream, all so we could blast some scratched-up CDs and feel like road warriors.

Six hours later, we rolled into Sacramento—exhausted, a little delirious, and definitely proud of ourselves. I still remember beelining for one of those newspaper vending machines, fumbling with some quarters, and snagging The Sacramento Bee (local newspaper) like it was a trophy. That crinkled, ink-smudged thing was our proof—our holy grail to shove in our friends’ faces back home and say, “Yeah, we did that.” Looking back, it’s ridiculous how much that little trip meant to me, but damn if it didn’t spark something real. That Civic, that night, that absurd mission—it’s where my love for the open road was born, and I’ve been chasing that high ever since.

Anyway, this isn’t about that Sacramento joyride or the slew of other bizarre, spur-of-the-moment drives I’ve chased over the years—those odd little adventures that used to light me up. This is about the last one. The final stretch I took, not knowing then that it’d be the end of the road for a while—maybe even for good. I didn’t see it coming, didn’t feel the shift in the air as I gripped the wheel that night. It was just another drive, or so I thought—nothing to hint that fate was about to pull the plug on something I’d always counted on. Looking back, it’s bittersweet, you know? That trip was the curtain call on a chapter I didn’t realize was closing, and now I’m left wondering if I’ll ever get to turn the key and feel that rush again.

The Plot:

Here’s how it all started. Before I went into work on Monday, March 29th, 2021, I was scrolling through Instagram and came across a photo of a Prada store — not in some bustling city, but seemingly stranded in the middle of nowhere. Something about it grabbed my attention.

First, I’ve always had a quiet fascination with high-end fashion. There’s a certain mystique to it — the designs are often so unconventional that understanding them feels like cracking a code. I suppose part of me wants to “get it,” to prove to myself that I have the intellect and awareness to appreciate that world of style, art, and creativity.

Second, seeing that lonely Prada store gave me a destination — a perfect excuse for one of my seemingly aimless car journeys. And lastly, it promised to break up the monotony of my routine. These road trips, as random as they may seem, have always been a kind of adrenaline rush for me. The moment I commit to going, the excitement starts to build. It’s that restless anticipation — knowing I’m about to hit the road, leaving behind everything familiar — that gives me a buzz stronger than any designer drug ever could.

That day at work, my mind danced with the delightful idea. By 6 p.m., it had settled like a cat curling up in a sunny spot — I was going to Prada Marfa, Texas. The plan was simple yet spectacular: clock out at 10:30 p.m., zip home to plant a kiss on Angie’s lovely face and whisper an “I love you,” then make a pit stop at the local gas station to fill up. With a full tank and a heart full of adventure, I’d hit the open road, headlights cutting through the night like a silver arrow chasing the horizon.

The Journey:

The time was 10:56 PM on Monday, March 29th, 2021, and I had just made my first fill-up of many at the gas station around the corner from my house.

A few weeks earlier, I’d swapped in the Tein FlexZ coilovers, bolted on the Enkei RPF1 wheels fitted with 245 Advan V601 tires—upgrades I’d made mostly for the satisfaction of it. An alignment followed, bringing everything to perfection, as if the car needed to be dialed in just right. I hadn’t sketched out any big plans, no long trip simmering in my thoughts. Still, there it was, sitting poised and capable, as ready as it’d ever be for the haul I’d soon set it on—a journey that seemed to come out of nowhere, perfectly timed for a machine I’d prepped without even knowing why.

By 11:34 PM, I had crossed the Arizona state line via U.S. Highway 93 South, just past the Hoover Dam, having started in Las Vegas. With my sights set on Kingman, Arizona, I planned to switch briefly to Interstate 40 East before returning to Highway 93 South. I followed 93 South to its end in Wickenburg, Arizona, where it becomes U.S. Route 60. After about an hour on Route 60, I reached the outskirts of Phoenix and turned onto the 303 Loop South. I stayed on the 303 briefly before merging onto Interstate 10 East for a few miles. Then, following my maps app, I took the 202 Loop South for a short stretch—likely to dodge some late-night traffic—before hopping back onto I-10 East.

By 3:55 AM, after traveling 356 miles, I needed to refuel. I pulled off I-10 in Casa Grande, Arizona, and topped off my 13.2-gallon tank at a Chevron station.

After filling my tank in Casa Grande, AZ, I got back on I-10 East and kept driving until I couldn’t ignore the need for a break. By 6:16 AM, just past Wilcox, AZ, I took Exit 355 onto Page Ranch Road. I found a quiet pullout there—a perfect spot to step out, stretch, and take a quick pee while holding onto some dignity in the early morning calm.

While I was there, the southwestern landscape hit me hard—sprawled out, rugged, glowing under the early morning sun like it was daring me to feel something. It was the golden hour creeping in before sunrise, and I couldn’t move. I just stood there, swallowing the quiet, the desert stretching endless and still, the light cutting through me. I snapped photos—maybe the best of the trip—clinging to it, as if some gut feeling told me I might never get this again.

After wrapping up the mini photoshoot, I wasted no time hopping back onto the 10E, devouring the final stretch of Arizona asphalt. By 6:46 AM, I’d crossed the New Mexico state line.

A few hours later, I had to pull off for my third fuel stop of the trip. This time, I wasn’t lucky enough to find a Chevron or a better option and had to settle for Love’s gas in Las Cruces, New Mexico.

Usually, I’m pretty particular about what gas I put in my car—Chevron is the lowest tier I’ll go for—but when you’re running out of gas in the middle of the New Mexico desert, you take what you can get.

By 10:00 AM, I was ready to enjoy one of my favorite fast-food delicacies. Yep, that’s right—I do love me some Whataburger. We’re not lucky enough to have it on the West Coast, and the closest one to me is in Phoenix, Arizona. That means anytime I venture east of Las Vegas, I always make it a point to stop at one.

After scarfing down some deliciousness, I was right back at it, hopping onto the 10 East with Texas in my sights. But first, I couldn’t resist snapping a shot—the Organ Mountains in New Mexico made for a strikingly dramatic photo.

By 10:36 AM, I was pulling off the interstate to snap this photo. I made it to Texas! And in just under 12 hours too.

After photographing proof that I was in Texas—again—I jumped right back onto the 10 East until I reached the tiny town of Van Horn, TX. There, I departed the 10 East, merging onto Highway 90 South for about 30 minutes until I finally arrived at my destination: Prada Marfa in Valentine, Texas. I rolled in at 1:00 PM and was quickly underwhelmed. I mean, really—it was neat for a split second, but then the surrounding nothingness started to sink in. You can only stare at the Prada store for a few minutes before realizing, “That’s it.”

Prada Marfa:

Prada Marfa is a permanent sculptural installation created by artists Michael Elmgreen and Ingar Dragset in 2005. It’s not actually in Marfa but sits about 37 miles northwest, just outside the tiny town of Valentine, Texas, along U.S. Highway 90. The structure mimics a small Prada boutique, complete with real Prada goods—shoes and handbags from the Fall/Winter 2005 collection, handpicked by Miuccia Prada herself. However, it’s not a functioning store; the door is permanently locked, and it’s designed as a commentary on consumerism, luxury branding, and the absurdity of placing high fashion in the middle of a desolate desert.

The installation was commissioned by the Art Production Fund and Ballroom Marfa, a contemporary art space in Marfa, and built with biodegradable adobe-like materials. The original plan was to let it decay naturally over time, blending into the landscape as a sort of “pop architectural land art project.” But that vision shifted after vandals broke in the night it opened, stealing the contents (six handbags and 14 right-footed shoes) and graffitiing the walls with words like “Dumb.” Since then, it’s been repaired and secured with shatterproof glass, alarms, and modified goods (purses with no bottoms, only right-footed shoes) to deter theft.

Despite its remote location—surrounded by scrubland and little else—Prada Marfa has become a cultural icon. It’s drawn visitors ranging from art enthusiasts to celebrities like Beyoncé, who famously posed in front of it, boosting its social media fame. The surrounding fence is now covered with love locks, a spontaneous tradition from travelers. Its meaning has evolved too; while intended as a critique of materialism, some argue it’s become a consumerist symbol itself, a selfie backdrop for influencers.

In 2013, the Texas Department of Transportation threatened to remove it, classifying it as illegal roadside advertising after a nearby Playboy bunny sign raised eyebrows. After debate, it was reclassified as a “museum” with itself as the sole exhibit, securing its place. Today, it stands as a quirky blend of art, fashion, and West Texas weirdness, about a 30-minute drive from Marfa proper—a town already known for its minimalist art scene, thanks to Donald Judd, and the mysterious Marfa Lights.

It’s a quick stop—five minutes to snap a photo and peek inside—but its isolation and oddity make it memorable. If you’re road-tripping through Texas, it’s a detour worth considering just to say you’ve been, especially at sunset when the light hits just right.

It’s wild how massive the mountains look in the picture below—I shot it with a 200mm lens. Compare that to the next one down, where I’m probably at 30 or 40mm, and they shrink right back. That’s the magic of focal length twisting perspective and magnification, bending what you see into something totally different.

A 200mm lens makes background subjects look larger than a 30mm lens because of its longer focal length. The telephoto 200mm zooms in, magnifies distant objects, and compresses the scene, making the background appear bigger and closer to the foreground. The wide-angle 30mm, with its shorter focal length, captures a broader view, shrinking background subjects and stretching out depth, so they look smaller and farther away. It’s all about magnification and perspective distortion.

The dust devil on the left side of the picture below captures the emptiness of the area, a solitary swirl in a sea of nothing. Beyond the mountains in the background lies Chihuahua, Mexico, just out of reach.

For such a desolate spot, capturing photos proved unexpectedly challenging. When I arrived, a couple was already there, snapping clichéd selfies and portraits, so I waited patiently for my turn. No sooner had they finished than two more groups pulled up, eager to photograph the obscure Prada Marfa art installation. Adding to the chaos, a semi-steady stream of traffic—likely using Highway 90 as a shortcut to or from Interstate 10—rumbled by, a detail I hadn’t anticipated for such a remote backroad.

Here’s a picture of me from when I first got there and was patiently waiting. This shot does a great job of showing the total emptiness around the whole area.

When it was finally my turn, I awkwardly rolled my bland Honda Civic into place, hell-bent on nailing some killer pics in front of the building. I could feel the side-eye from people watching—like, ‘Why’s this guy so into a Civic?’—while I fussed around, tweaking it to get it just right. In my mind, I was crafting these epic shots to prove how materialism worms its way into everyone’s life, no matter who you are. To me, they’d shout that you don’t need some flashy Prada fashion to feel like you matter. Most of us regular folks know a Ferrari’s a pipe dream, so we pour our hearts into souping up our Civics instead. It’s proof materialism doesn’t give a damn about your bank account or status—it’s got its hooks in all of us.

I thought the picture below—ruined by a passing 18-wheeler—perfectly captured how, despite the area’s desolation, I still had to struggle to snap a clear shot. And this was on a Tuesday afternoon in 2021 during COVID! I can’t imagine the chaos on a Friday, Saturday, or Sunday, especially now since we are all free to travel and mingle again.

I tried shooting up close to avoid the traffic issues, but these shots left much to be desired.

Shooting with a fixed 200mm lens meant I had to walk far from the subject to capture the full emotion of the area. As you can see below, this shot is too close—and by then, I’d already passed the two other groups waiting their turn. You can imagine their confusion as I kept walking farther away while leaving my car in place.

With the patience of the people waiting their turn running thin, I decided to push my luck. I darted back to my car and rolled it about 10 feet back to what I thought would better capture the moment. It still looked kinda off with the 200mm lens, though. For this spot, I think the 200mm is just too long—the 28-70mm lens ended up being the sweet spot for what I was trying to pull off.

See example below shot with the 28-70mm at about 40mm

Compared to the 200mm telephoto shot that just makes it all look a bit fake or AI created.

Once again, I wielded the 28-70mm lens, shifting positions to nail the shot, but the crowd waiting their turn pressed on me—too much pressure to get it right.

The 28mm focal length captures this spot perfectly, delivering the raw drama I was chasing.

Here’s a shot from the Prada side, capturing the stark desolation all around.

After wearing out my welcome at the Prada location, I grew curious about what lay a little farther south on Highway 90. As it turns out, about 1.5 miles down the road sits a small town called Valentine, Texas. It’s your classic dilapidated Southwest town, with shuttered businesses preserving a snapshot of its more hopeful, bustling past.

Valentine, Texas:

It was 2:06 p.m. when I tripped over this abandoned gas station—some relic of a convenience store from decades past—and hands down, it rivaled the Prada spot for a photoshoot. Which just proves social media’s a con artist, hyping up garbage that’s not even worth the gas to get there. People schlepp from all over the planet to gawk at that Prada box like it’s the Holy Grail, but a few minutes down the road’s this grimy gem, totally ignored because it didn’t get the Instagram crown. That’s the scam—social media’s all smoke and mirrors, turning a fake-ass storefront into a pilgrimage while the real stuff rots in the shadows.

Valentine, Texas, like many small towns in the Southwest, experienced a slow decline tied to economic shifts and changing travel patterns. Founded in 1882 as a railroad town along the Southern Pacific Railroad, Valentine initially thrived as a stop for trains passing through the region. However, as rail travel declined and highways like I-10 diverted traffic away from smaller towns, Valentine’s economic vitality waned.

Over time, businesses closed, and much of the town’s population moved elsewhere in search of better opportunities. Today, Valentine is a quiet community with fewer than 200 residents. While it’s no longer the bustling town it once was, Valentine still holds a certain charm — its weathered buildings and faded signs tell stories of its past.

Interestingly, Valentine has gained some modern-day fame thanks to the Prada Marfa art installation I’d come to see. This quirky landmark draws photographers, tourists, and art enthusiasts from all over, breathing new life into Valentine as a cultural pit stop along Highway 90. You’ve got to venture south past the installation to catch it, though—otherwise, you’d totally miss out on this hidden gem.

Despite its faded appearance, Valentine embodies that enduring Americana feel — a reminder of simpler times and the resilience of small-town spirit.

I do love me some Americana. There’s something special about those nostalgic reminders of simpler times — old gas stations, weathered diners, and forgotten roadside landmarks — that feels grounding, especially in a world so heavily focused on technology and social media. Americana captures a raw, unfiltered slice of history, showcasing the charm of small-town life, the spirit of local businesses, and the stories that once thrived in these now-quiet places.

In an age where digital ties often eclipse face-to-face bonds and trends race by, Americana stands firm—a testament to authenticity and endurance. It calls us to pause, embrace the flaws, and cherish the character etched into weathered walls and fading signs. Every rusted truck, neon glow, and hand-painted storefront whispers a tale of resilience and hard work, a piece of the American dream now distorted and diluted in today’s blur.

There’s comfort in that nostalgia — a reminder that despite all the noise of modern life, some things remain timeless.

The town’s post office peeks out in the background of the photo below—proof of just how tiny this place really is.

While writing this post currently in 2025, I found myself researching the town of Valentine, Texas — something I always do when working on articles for my blog. I have a deep dislike for misinformation, and I go to great lengths to ensure everything I write is accurate so my readers can always take away something new.

Anyway, during my research, I stumbled across a fascinating read about the town’s unique lore — stories that left me wishing I’d explored Valentine more thoroughly. Instead, I stopped at the first closed-down building I saw — though, to be fair, it turned out to be a fantastic spot to capture that classic West Texas Americana feel.

You can read the article by clicking the link below.

The How, Where and Why of Valentine, Texas

See more

Heading Back Home:

With the impromptu photoshoot in Valentine wrapped up, I jumped back onto Highway 90 — this time heading north, retracing my steps from about an hour earlier. I passed the Prada Marfa one last time and set my sights on Van Horn, Texas. There, I’d not only rejoin Interstate 10 — this time heading west — but also stop for gas at the Pilot (another subpar gas station).

By 2:45 p.m., I had finished brimming the tank for the fourth time in the last 16 hours.

The Pilot station was a madhouse—cars stacked up like it’s Black Friday at the pumps—so my sacred gas station photoshoot streak got cut. No room for my usual artistry with a line of fuming drivers behind me, probably ready to riot if I’d dared say, ‘Hang on, folks, gotta snap pics of my sick Civic flexing at this glorious gas stop.’ I could see it now: pitchforks raised, honks blaring, all because I held up their precious fuel stop for a masterpiece they’d never see.

After hopping onto Interstate 10 westbound, I hit El Paso by 4:00 p.m., then blasted through Texas and back into New Mexico. By 6:00 p.m., I rolled into Lordsburg, NM, pulling off at the Chevron Food Mart for a fuel stop—decent gas, thankfully!

Here are some pictures.

Just look at that quintessential Southwestern landscape — dirt, dust, and desolation stretching as far as the eye can see. Not a single tree in sight for hundreds of miles. People on the East Coast can’t truly grasp what the West looks like until they experience it firsthand — endless horizons, scorched earth, and an emptiness so profound it feels almost deafening.

Four hours later, around 10:00 PM, nearly 24 hours after first embarking on this journey, I was pulling off the 303 loop in Arizona to get some gas at the Circle K on Bell Road. This was now my 6th fill-up of the trip so far and would be enough to get me the rest of the way home.

I didn’t just fill up the car’s tank — I filled mine too, thanks to the Jack in the Box next to the gas station. I can never resist their deep-fried tacos, curly fries, and, of course, a large Dr Pepper to top it all off. Honestly, it’s my road trip go-to.

After devouring the tastiness, I hopped back onto the 303 Loop North with 275 miles to go. Four hours later, I rolled home at 2:00 AM on March 31st, journey complete.

Phew! What an adventure.

By the time I finally stumbled through my front door, I’d been awake for nearly 40 hours straight — if you count the time I was up before heading to work on the 29th (don’t tell the DOT… though technically, I’m not a CDL-carrying commercial driver, so no foul there).

In total, I spent 27 hours on the road and clocked 1,800 miles, kicking off around 11:00 p.m. on March 29th and limping home at roughly 2:00 a.m. on March 31st. Let me tell you, by the end, I was utterly wrecked—running on fumes and energy drinks.

Those last few hundred miles after devouring Jack in the Box? Brutal. I was hanging on for dear life, running purely on adrenaline and an absurd amount of caffeine — my energy drink intake climbing in direct proportion to my exhaustion.

Looking back, I’m not sure what kept me awake more — the caffeine or the sheer determination to make it home safely, completing another aimless wild adventure. Either way, I made it… barely.

Reflection:

Never had I ever tackled such an ambitious drive, a journey etched in my memory forever. Back then, I had no clue it’d be my last spontaneous escape for years. It’s been four years since that trip, and with a little one in tow, it might be another four before I hit the road like that again. In 2021, Angie and I were thriving DINKS— dual incomes, no kids, no plans for a baby on the horizon. Life, though, had other ideas.

Not long after this trip, I picked up my 2021 Civic Type R, and went off the deep end into modifying and tracking it.

After that last drive to Prada Marfa, downtime just didn’t exist—I was too busy chasing the next thrill with my Type R. If I wasn’t tracking it on my days off, I was tinkering, upgrading it, making it better. That’s how life rolled until July 2022, when we learned Angie was pregnant. Suddenly, everything changed. At 40, after a wildly fulfilling life, we saw this as fate. We took an oath to dive headfirst into parenthood, trading the roar of my automotive hobby for a new kind of adventure.

Our baby was due in March 2023, so through the rest of 2022 and even a little into the new year, I squeezed in every track day I could. I wasn’t ready to let go of that rush just yet. Then, in late February 2023, our beautiful girl, Madison, arrived—a perfect, life-altering gift. Somehow, I even managed one last track day in April that year, a final spin before the dust had settled and everything shifted. Since then, life’s been a whirlwind I can barely wrap my head around. Angie left her job to become a full-time mom, pouring her heart into Madison, and I’ve felt this deep, unshakable responsibility settle over me. It’s not just about me anymore—it’s about them. I can’t justify tearing off for a wild drive, leaving them behind at home. It doesn’t feel right, picturing Angie holding down the fort alone while I’m out chasing that old freedom. They deserve more than that, and honestly, so do I.

As cliché as it sounds, having a baby changes everything. It flips the way you think, reshuffles your priorities, and rewrites what you’re even planning for. Honestly, I catch myself feeling guilty just thinking about carving out some ‘me time’—like a quick drive to clear my head—when I know the real joy is in those moments with Madison. And I mean that; being with her lights me up in ways I never expected. But don’t for a second think you can just sneak out for a drive once the baby’s asleep. Oh no. She’s up at all hours, stirring the night into chaos, and it hits me hard—leaving Angie to handle that alone after she’s been with Madison all day while I’m at work just isn’t fair. She’s pouring everything into this, and I can’t put that burden on her just to chase a fleeting thrill.

“Me time” just isn’t a thing anymore—and I mean that; some days, that cuts deeper than I can even convey. It’s not to say it can’t come back someday, but right now? It’s a ghost, and that’s how it should be. The hardest truth for new parents to swallow is this: to truly have it all, you’ve got to give it all up. Don’t waste your energy clinging to the old you or how things used to be—it’s gone—it won’t ever be that way again. Keep your passions and hobbies tucked in your soul, yes, but don’t you dare let them define you anymore—not when there’s a little heart beating beside you, needing you more than you ever needed those momentary thrills. Being a good parent isn’t just time spent—it’s pouring your whole self into every second, soaking in their laughter, their tears, because that’s where the real joy lives. If you can’t embrace this choice with every fiber of your being—if you can’t feel the ache and the beauty of it—then why did you choose it? Eventually, as they grow, some ‘me time’ will inevitably creep back in—but don’t kid yourself, it’ll never be what you remember, and I’m slowly coming to terms with this.

Parenting’s brutal because only good parents feel the weight—only we lie awake, hearts pounding, wondering if we’re enough. Anyone can have a baby and let the world raise it—grandparents, daycare, nannies, screens—sure, that’s the easy road, a coward’s way out. But they’ll never know the gut-wrenching, soul-filling love that floods you when that tiny hand grabs yours. They’ll never feel the wonder in those eyes, the trust that rips you open. You’re their everything—their safe harbor, their truest friend—and they lean on you with a faith so pure it breaks your heart. It’s on you, every trembling step, to be there, to give them all you’ve got, because no one else ever will.

As much as it stings to think this wild, random drive might’ve been my last, that sadness doesn’t hold a candle to the joy I feel now. I’m a million times happier—given this incredible gift of a beautiful baby girl who’s captured my heart and soul. Pouring myself into her, into this life, it’s everything I never knew I needed. I couldn’t be more content with where we’ve landed, with the beautiful family we’ve become. Our home’s overflowing with love—so much it spills out, infectious and warm, wrapping us all up in it. Do I miss the pre-baby days? Sure, I won’t lie—life back then was awesome, a thrill I’ll always carry. But now? Now I’m living my best life, truly shaped by this little addition, and I cherish every single moment. I’ll always have a soft spot for those material things—the roar of a Type R, the gleam of a JDM part—but Madison’s smile outshines them all, a treasure worth more than anything I could bolt onto a car. Maybe that’s me growing up, or maybe it’s just seeing the world through a new pair of glasses. Isn’t that what parenting is, after all? We’re still us—goofy, full of life, chasing the fullest days—but now we do it with a different lens, one that makes every laugh, every tiny victory, hit deeper and shine brighter.

So Why Did I Wait Four Years to Post This?

Four years ago, I took this trip, snapping photos along the way to capture it all. Back then, I didn’t think they mattered enough to share on the blog. The blog had a purpose then—a clear, unwavering path—and these shots and the whole journey felt like a detour, so I buried them in a folder on my computer labeled “Prada Marfa” and let them sit. That was that. But in the last two years, my life has flipped upside down, and now I find myself aching to pay tribute to that final drive before everything changed—before the baby, when the world was a different place.

I’ll say it again, louder just for the people in the back: everything shifts when you have a kid. Everything. If it doesn’t for you, I’d argue you’re not all in—not truly invested in what parenthood demands. To those without kids yet: don’t sleep on the now. Savor every reckless, unscripted second because—look at me—life can turn on a dime. Angie and I were dead-set: no kids, ever. Then came our daughter, and the ground gave way. As you age, the changes stack up, and yeah, maybe The Breakfast Club was onto something—when you grow up, your heart doesn’t die, but it shifts. It’s not a death; it’s a redirection, a quiet reordering of what matters.

I used to think I’d chase wild, irresponsible dreams forever—my next car an M4, my life a blur of speed and spending frivolously. That spark hasn’t gone out, not completely, but it’s on hold, tucked away for at least the next fifteen years. Two years into parenthood, I already feel the weight: swim classes, gymnastics, the relentless climb of costs that only steepens as she grows. But here’s the truth I’ve landed on—no, your heart doesn’t die when you grow up. It takes a long, indefinite pause, and it’s on you to guard that ember, to keep it smoldering deep inside so you can fan it back to life when the moment’s right. The tragedy is most of us don’t. We settle into the new rhythm, let complacency creep in, and slowly forget the fire we once carried so fiercely.

Wrap It Up Already!

Here’s my soul, laid bare—thanks for riding shotgun through this one. That 1,800-mile blur four years ago was my last dance with the wild me, and writing it now keeps that flame alive, even as the garage gathers dust. I can’t pour cash into much right now, but these words bridge the gap, tethering me to the journeys I’ve loved until I can get back out there. Family’s my world now, no question, but I’ll be damned if I let that fire go out.—my biggest fear is forgetting what once burned so bright.

This post cut deeper than most, so I’d love your thoughts—good, bad, or brutally honest. Hit me up at Billy@functiontheory.com, DM me on Instagram @Functiontheory, or drop a comment below. I’ll be there.