From 1999 to 2017, the number of Americans killed by opioid overdoses increased nearly 600 percent, from 8,048 deaths annually to 47,600, according to the National Institute on Drug Abuse. In 2017, opioid overdoses accounted for 67 percent of all deaths from drug overdoses of any kind in the U.S. That year, for the first time, opioids killed more Americans than car accidents.

The sun was fading behind Afghanistan’s Hindu Kush mountains the evening of June 27, 2005, as a team of four US Navy SEALs walked up the ramp and into the back of US Army Capt. Matt Brady’s MH-47 Chinook helicopter on Bagram Air Base. Tasked with inserting the SEAL special reconnaissance (SR) team deep into enemy territory in unforgiving terrain, Brady knew the SEALs — Lt. Michael Murphy, Petty Officer 2nd Class Danny Dietz, Petty Officer 2nd Class Marcus Luttrell, and Petty Officer 2nd Class Matthew Axelson — had a difficult mission ahead. Marines in the area knew it was an extremely dangerous place filled with Taliban fighters. Brady had no way of knowing at the time, but it would be the last time anyone at Bagram would ever see three of those four Americans alive.

There is pain when it comes to riding a motorcycle. On a bike, exposed to the elements, the little things are painful. At 75 miles per hour, raindrops batter exposed skin. A piece of road gravel kicked up by a passing car feels like a pellet fired straight into your nipple. On a motorcycle, the world hurts — sore butt, aching back, fingers cramping from gripping the constantly vibrating clutch and throttle. From frigid conditions to scorching heat to random gusts of wind trying to knock you off of the bike, everything is trying to kill you. Maybe that’s why riding more than 1,000 miles on a motorcycle is good for the mental health of combat veterans. The possibility of death at any moment was our normal. Insurgent IEDs, mortar and rocket fire, the distinct sound of an AK-47. On a bike it’s the gravel in the next bend of the highway that could make the rear tire slip. It’s the heat of the day. It’s the ice on the road. Isolated within the helmet, listening to the road noise and wind and living in the seconds as they slap your helmet like Texas grasshoppers is a strange catharsis. That’s motorcycle therapy.

Dan Schilling’s 30 years in special operations are evident in the ease with which he ascends the steep path. After spending half of his life operating in some of the most austere environments in the world, he’s comfortable being uncomfortable.

Alexander’s army left behind new cities and legends of blue-eyed progeny. The British left behind their garrisons and the Durand Line. And when we arrived, we found what the Soviets had left behind and put it to our use. We lived on their bases and used their runways and drove on the roads they’d built. We observed evidence of the Soviets’ defeat — the rusted tanks and trucks and picked-apart planes — and shook our heads in awful wonder at the fate of our former enemy.