It’s not really explainable, this love affair some of us have with trucks. Sure, we could describe the view, the thrill of riding up high, the rush of being literally “above it all”. We could gush about all the space we have to spread out in and store stuff. We could point to the toys we can haul, to the goodies we can carry in the bed. We could talk confidently about the power! The torque! We could even sit back, gaze adoringly at our rig, and sigh at the sheer beauty of the thing. But none of these makes a complete argument.
This is not to say that I don’t fully appreciate cars. I have enjoyed the handful Butler’s allowed me to “test”. I’ve even owned one (Just one. A loooong time ago). But driving a car feels to me like wearing someone else’s shoes; they get the job done but they don’t fit quite right.
Science would prove me wrong but, I’m convinced “truck love” is in our DNA. Not everyone is born with it and, if you don’t have it you never will. Yes, to *drive* a truck is to make a choice. To *love* a truck is simply a state of being.