It was lovingly washed and polished more times than my first car ever was, but all that effort was instantly undone the moment it met the red outback dust. That stuff is like glitter’s evil twin—gets everywhere, never leaves, and I’ll be rinsing it out of every nook, cranny, and air vent for ever.
And to think I once worried the kids and their dirty cement bucket might ruin the paint job. Ha! That was child’s play compared to the trail of tree branches and bushes we casually flattened.
This wasn’t the toughest test, but the truck passed with flying colours—and a few scratches. After towing the caravan 800 km like a champ, she was finally unhitched and let off the leash. And let me tell you: she flew like a bird… a big, noisy bird with torque.
Finally, after almost a year of chauffeuring groceries and grandkids around—racking up a mere 6,000 km of inner-city glory—our pristine, showroom-fresh truck has been liberated. It’s no longer just a glittering suburban chariot. It’s now a proud, dust-coated warrior of the wild.
Of course, the onboard computer lost its digital mind every time we got cozy with a bush. Beeps, flashes, and alerts like we were trying to land a space shuttle instead of just doing some enthusiastic off-roading. I’m going to need a crash course (figuratively, I hope) on turning off all the “helpful” technology.
The Patrol? That beast wouldn’t notice if you drove it through a forest fire. The D-Max? A bit more refined, a bit more concerned for its paint, but still more than capable of getting wild when it needs to. Just with a few more complaints along the way.