Sometimes the best stories don’t happen in grand arenas or breaking headlines. They happen in the front seat of a red pickup truck, somewhere between a hotel parking lot and an airport terminal.

Last week, after being burned by a steep $85 Uber ride that should have cost a fraction of that, I decided to switch things up. When it came time to leave Oklahoma, I called Lyft instead. That’s when Mike pulled up—driving not a sleek sedan or a hybrid, but a red F-150 work truck, bed full of tools and lumber.

I climbed into the passenger seat, curious already.

“How far to the airport?” I asked.

“Fifteen minutes,” Mike replied, his tone even, unhurried.

“You in a hurry?” I pressed.

“Never,” he said, without a trace of irony.

It set the tone for the ride—steady, unpretentious, the kind of conversation that ambles along the way old country roads do.

Mike, as it turned out, was a craftsman. A man who had tried his hands at many trades—plumbing, heating and air, carpentry. Over the years, he had built cabinets for wealthy clients, spiral staircases, even custom furniture. He wasn’t retired, though. These days, he spent his time building teardrop trailers—small campers that had boomed in popularity during the lockdowns.

He built them by hand. One at a time. With care.

“What’s the quality like?” I asked.

“Pretty good,” he said matter-of-factly.

And then he told me the name of his company: Mike’s Pretty Good Campers.

At first, I thought he was joking. But no—he meant it. “I like to manage expectations,” he explained. “Under promise, over deliver.”

There was something deeply refreshing about that. In a world of marketing spin and exaggerated claims, here was a man who let his work speak for itself. He didn’t need to call his trailers “luxury” or “best-in-class.” They were simply “pretty good.” And that was good enough.

As we rode along, he told me that sometimes, when he grew frustrated in the shop, he stepped away. That’s how he ended up driving me to the airport. “Never too frustrated to drive,” he said. “Driving relaxes me. Besides, we ain’t strangers no more, are we?”

“No,” I agreed. “I suppose we’re not.”

By the time we reached the terminal, I realized the ride had become more than just transportation. It was a lesson disguised as small talk. A reminder that sometimes the most meaningful connections come from ordinary moments, and the most memorable businesses are built not on hype, but on honesty.

As he pulled my bags from the truck bed, Mike asked casually, “Was the ride okay?”

I grinned. “It was a pretty good Lyft.”

And maybe—just maybe—I caught a smile under his mustache.

Later, I checked. His website was real. Mike’s Pretty Good Campers does, in fact, exist. And just like the man himself, it’s quietly authentic.

Because in the end, “pretty good” isn’t about being average. It’s about being steady, honest, and real. And that’s something the world could use a little more of.