There’s a spot just outside the little town I grew up in—somewhere between Waco and Houston—where the pavement gives up and turns to caliche and crushed dreams. If you made it past that cattle guard without knocking your muffler loose, you were headed into my kind of country.
We didn’t have much growing up, but we had what counted. Big skies, hotter-than-hell summers, and enough bikes, BB guns, and mini bikes to keep a pack of wild kids entertained from sunup to supper. We knew every ditch, shortcut, and back road. And if you didn’t fall off something at least once a day, you weren’t doing it right.
Life was simple then. Your chores earned you freedom, and a good report card might earn you a new sprocket or set of pegs. We rode everywhere—church, the corner store, across pastures to get to a friend’s place. The rule was: be home when the streetlight flickered, or earlier if Miss Pam’s chihuahua started barking and snitching to the whole neighborhood.
And back then, things were just… different. In high school, we’d load up our trucks with a cooler full of warm beer, a couple of lawn chairs, and a Bluetooth speaker if someone’s older brother was home to “loan” it. We’d head out to a pasture, sometimes one of ours, sometimes a buddy’s cousin’s uncle’s. Didn’t matter. That pasture became our dance floor, our bar, our bonfire. And every now and then, the sheriff would roll up with those red and blues lighting up the hay bales. But they weren’t out to ruin our lives—they were friends of our parents. They’d call our moms or dads and tell us to pack it up. And believe me, we’d have rather gone to jail than face that ride home.
But you know what? That gave our parents a chance to parent. It wasn’t a social media call-out, or a court date. It was a moment to learn, to get straight, and to grow. And somehow, we all turned out alright.
We didn’t know what “blue collar” meant—we just knew our dads left early, came home covered in grease or sawdust, and drank a cold beer while we told ’em about the epic ramp we built from scrap wood and an old oven door.
That kind of upbringing sticks with you. Makes you see things different. Makes you want to build things that last, that matter.
Fast-forward to today and I’m one of the guys behind Revolution Outdoors. We build lifted luxury golf carts, off-road RVs, and outdoor gear that’s made for folks who still believe in family, freedom, and a full tank of gas. We’re not some corporate monster with a mascot and a marketing team—we’re just guys who used to fix up go-karts in the backyard and figured out how to turn that passion into a business.
This blog? It’s not just about the company. It’s about the dirt roads that made us. The pastures we partied in. The friends we lost. The memories that hit like a Hank Jr. song on a long drive home.
So buckle up. I’m gonna tell y’all how a 1979 Ford F-100 with a 351 Cleveland became a rite of passage. How I learned more about life through scraped knees and socket wrenches than any guidance counselor could’ve shown me. And eventually, how all of it brought me here—with a new family, a second chance, and a daughter who’s already giving me gray hairs.
REVO isn’t just a brand. It’s a story. Mine. Maybe it’s yours too.
See y’all next time.
— Doug
