Today I set Norman free. I adopted him at birth from his parents, Dodge and Dakota. He is 16 years old—the age when trucks are supposed to start driving themselves and become terrified of getting other trucks pregnant.

I named him Norman because, early on, he made a repetitive shrieking noise that sounded like the shower stabbing scene in Psycho. We got through that together. It was a learning moment, though I resented him a little bit for it. The best nicknames have at least a little shame.

I remember the day I first saw Norman, beheld his glory. A family friend managed a car dealership and agreed to shepherd me through the process. He’d make sure I bought a sensible car and didn’t get taken advantage of in the financing process. I met him on the lot, pointed at Norman and said, “I’ll take that one.”

“The display truck?” he laughed. “Oh buddy. We tricked it out to it to lure people in. Wayyyyy overpriced. No one buys the display truck.”

“Great,” I said, “I’ll take it.”

And so they backed Norman off the display riser and the family friend called my father to apologize and ask if there had been any red flags in my test scores.

I didn’t want a big truck. I’d rather politely apologize for my small manhood than finance it at 5% over six years. The dealership was full of battleship-sized trucks built for construction professionals. Next to those giants, Norman had looked sensible, smallish, urban. As soon as I got him off the lot among the Priuses and Hondas, I realized this was not the case. For the next 16 years, I would pilot a penis pump on wheels.

Norman drank a full tank of gas like a tequila popper. Every time I turned on the engine, Saudi Arabians sought shelter from all the money falling from the sky.

Norman had four-wheel drive. That’s important in San Diego, where all the flat roads are paved with sunlight. All those wheels driving together gave me the same sense of security as a bulletproof vest at a water balloon fight. I reasoned I’d need his off-roading capabilities for my many trips surfing in Baja, Mexico. For all the adventuring and beard-growing he would inspire me to do.

In 16 years, Norman and I made approximately three trips into Baja. The only time I put his big tires to the test was when I couldn’t make a full U-turn—on account of Norman’s turning radius being about three miles—and casually went up the curb. Off roading is fun you should try it.

If I invest in Norman, he could run another 100,000 miles. But it’s time to set him free. It’s time to sell him to someone with a ranch, someone with a beard, someone who knows what a transmission is and can rehab him into the dirt-roaming, free-range animal he was always destined to be.

Goodbye, Norman.