Some days start with a coffee. Others start with a four hour ambulance delivery and a whole lot of road between here and wherever we’re headed. Today was the latter.
Colin and I loaded up early, two rigs, two routes, and a familiar kind of rhythm that only happens when you’ve done this more than once. Florida stretches out like a quiet canvas when you’re behind the wheel of something that large. And driving an ambulance? It’s not like driving a car. It’s not like driving a truck. It’s something in between, something heavier, something louder, but also something oddly peaceful once you get used to the hum.
There’s a strange intimacy to driving a vehicle built for emergencies. The sirens aren’t on, but the weight of what this thing could carry never really leaves your thoughts. You feel it in the corners, in the long empty stretches of highway, in the way people stare at stoplights. The world seems to move out of your way, even when you’re not asking it to. And in that stillness, you start to think about what these rigs have seen. Not as machines, but as witnesses. As rooms that moved through grief, panic, hope, and sometimes healing.
We stopped a few times to stretch and swap stories. Those quiet in between moments gave the day shape. I got a chance to sit in the back of the rig and walk through the layout. The stretcher mounts. The shelves. The feeling of space designed entirely for urgency. There’s something haunting about it when it’s empty, like standing in a room after the lights have been turned off but before the silence settles in. These vehicles were built for movement, for tension, for rapid response. But today, they were just steel and rubber cruising beneath the Florida sun.
Colin and I talked through the usual things. The quirks of driving something this size. How it feels different from the mini truck, the old vans, even the box trucks we’ve borrowed and broken in. We laughed about the turns, the weird blind spots, the way people react when they see two ambulances rolling side by side on the freeway. You learn to appreciate the road in a new way when you're piloting something like this. Every decision feels amplified. Every mile asks for a little more awareness.
But it wasn’t all heavy reflection. We had fun with it. Threw on some music. Debated which of us was the better driver, no official winner, of course. Played a few rounds of “what if” scenarios. What if we took it through a drive thru? What if we painted it matte black and called it a stealth rig? What if this became our daily commute? There’s a kind of ridiculous joy in that sort of banter. It keeps the miles light, even when the hours are long. And that’s what makes these trips what they are, not just deliveries, but stories in motion. Not just jobs, but memories that build quietly behind the scenes.
Marcus Aurelius once wrote, “You have power over your mind, not outside events. Realize this, and you will find strength.” I thought about that on the highway. The wind pushed against the sides of the rig, unpredictable in the open stretches. The traffic came and went. GPS signals dropped. But none of that mattered. What mattered was the rhythm, the focus, the ability to choose calm over frustration. You can’t control the road. You can’t control what the rig has been through. But you can choose how you move forward.
By the time we made our final stops, both rigs were parked and prepped for their next phase. The sun had already started its descent, painting the asphalt with streaks of orange and gold. Another delivery complete. Another chapter in this strange little side hustle we somehow keep saying yes to. It isn’t glamorous. There are no flashing lights. But there’s something beautiful in the absurdity of it all. Two guys, two trucks, one day at a time.
This vlog isn’t about sirens or emergencies. It’s about motion. It’s about friendship. It’s about showing up and doing the job, even when it makes no sense on paper. And in its own weird way, it’s one of the most grounded things we do.
You’re always welcome in this space.
Christopher
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