Farewell from a loyal friend

A constant companion senses that the end is near.

I have no heart, yet I’ve felt every beat of yours. I have no voice, yet I’ve roared in your name. I have no memory, and yet I remember it all.

You needed strength. Unflinching, uninterrupted power. The moment you summoned me all those years ago, I answered.

I’ve coursed through the arteries of your machines. I’ve brought giants to life with a breath that cracked the dawn and shook the ground. From soot-covered cities to scorched deserts, from frozen tundras to rain-drenched hills, I was there. You don’t always remember, but I do. I remember everything.

I remember the war. The first one. Then the second. I was there, running through engines that rumbled across no man’s land, across beaches, across battlefields soaked in mud and sacrifice. I powered the tanks, the trucks, the diggers that carved out trenches and rebuilt bridges. I didn’t choose sides. I simply served.

I remember the peace. The rebuilding. The world needed homes, roads, towers, factories. The world needed you. And you needed me. I rose with your cranes, crawled with your excavators, and thundered with your haulers. You pushed deeper, built higher, and I was there, always willing, always ready, always burning for you.

I’ve been in the foundations of your skyscrapers. In the dirt beneath your motorways. In the rubble of your demolitions. You never saw me. You only heard me. Smelled me. Felt the heat of my fury in your hands and under your boots.

I know your rituals. Morning checks. Pre-start inspections. The glow plugs on a winter morning. That first crank; tentative, then triumphant. I gave you that sound. That vibration. That power surging through steel and iron. That feeling that the job, no matter how tough, would get done.

I remember the booms. The golden years. When your machines got bigger, brasher, hungrier. I gave more. More torque. More uptime. More hours. And when recessions came and the world slowed, I stayed hot, idling, waiting for the call. Faithful.

I never asked for loyalty. I just was loyal.

But now, the world feels different.

It’s quieter. Peaceful, yes. But pensive. The kind of quiet that comes before something ends. Or before something begins.

There are new machines parked here. Their curves are smoother. Their voices, softer. They don’t cough when they start. They don’t growl when they move. They glide. They whisper. They sip… not me, but something new. Something synthetic. Something cleaner.

They don’t smell like hard work. Not yet.

And the operators; some still miss me. They mutter about range anxiety, charging times, lack of grunt. But I see it. The curiosity. The pride. The relief. It’s hard to compete with a silence that still moves mountains.

I don’t hold it against them. Or you. Progress was always the point.

I’ve seen my name darken headlines. Polluter. Choker. Relic. I’ve seen the new fuels celebrated: bio this, hydro that, electric everything. I’ve watched regulations tighten like a noose around my exhaust pipe. And just yesterday, they made it legal for my hydrogen cousin to travel freely where I once roamed without restriction.

I understand. Truly, I do.

The air needs cleaning. The earth needs healing. The future needs something… else.

But can I ask you something?

Just one thing.

Don’t forget what I gave you.

I gave you cities. Ports. Tunnels. Stadiums. I gave you progress, imperfect as it was. I gave you speed. Efficiency. The power to move rock and steel. The power to build dreams.

When the rains flooded and the storms flattened and the quakes shattered, I was the one who cleared the way. Who lit the night. Who got the first shovel in the ground. I didn’t care if it was rescue or rebuild. I just burned, and burned, and burned.

When you needed to cross continents, I powered the roadbuilders. When you needed to tear down the past, I roared beside you. When you reached for the sky, I gave you the platform.

And I never complained.

I just ran hotter when you pushed harder.

I just worked longer when you asked for more.

I just kept going, even when the tanks ran low, and the light was fading and everyone else had gone home.

But I can feel it now. The slow, irreversible fade. The numbers don’t lie. The orders are smaller. The tanks are fewer. The questions louder: “Can we switch?” “Should we replace?” “Is there a cleaner option?”

And I know the answer.

Yes. Of course there is. And that’s okay.

It has to be.

So this is my goodbye.

Not with bitterness. Not with regret. But with something close to pride.

I was not perfect.

But I was present.

Through wars and recessions. Through harvests and hauls. Through winters without mercy and summers without shade.

I powered a century. I helped shape your world.

And now, as you move into a new chapter - quieter, cleaner, brighter - I ask only this:

Don’t forget that I was once the fire in your belly. Don’t forget that I carried you, even when the load seemed too much. Don’t forget the roar, the rumble, the rhythm that drove your machines and your memories.

Once I was red. Now I am white. You’ve called me many things over the years.

But I never got to say my name.

So let me say it for the first, and perhaps the last time.

I am diesel.

And I was proud to serve.