Confessions of a Cybertruck Driver
I drive a Cybertruck.
To be very clear—I don’t think I’m better than anyone because of that. It’s just a fact. One that’s relevant to the rest of this post.
Hang with me.
I got one of the first trucks off the line, so I’ve been driving it for about a year now.
Why did I buy a Cybertruck? Simple.
Because I wanted to systematically villainize myself by offending diesel truck drivers, rattling traditionalists, and triggering anyone on the far left who assumes driving one makes me both the world’s biggest Trump supporter and a Nazi sympathizer.
Kidding.
I bought it long before all that noise.
I got a Cybertruck because I thought it was cool.
Because my kids thought it was cool.
And sometimes I just like to have fun.
I’m not sorry I bought it.
Without a doubt it's the most incredible vehicle I've ever driven.
It’s a tank.
It’s fast.
It’s safe.
It drives itself.
It’s bulletproof and can cruise through three feet of water.
All highly essential for a 39-year-old dad running errands in suburban Missouri.
But there's one thing I didn’t expect.
The number of people who flip me off.
Not kidding—middle fingers everywhere. Unprovoked. Just for existing in traffic.
At first, I was confused.
Then I started paying attention.
And then I started tracking.
Over the past year, I’ve documented nearly one hundred of the middle-finger salutes I’ve received—using a few simple data points: vehicle make, gender, and even license plate numbers (don’t worry, I won’t share those).
Of the 96 interactions I’ve documented to date, here’s a breakdown of the data:
Vehicle Make:
Subaru — 33%
Volkswagen — 20%
Mercedes — 18%
Ford — 15%
Nissan — 8%
Honda — 6%
Gender:
Male — 39%
Female — 61%
Also worth noting: a statistically significant number of these vehicles had three or more bumper stickers. Which, in my experience, is usually a red flag.
And because I’m both deeply curious and slightly stubborn, I’ve turned around more than a few times to ask a calm, simple question:
“Hey, did I do something to offend you?”
The answers have ranged from honest to hostile:
“I wasn’t flipping you off—I was flipping the truck off.”
“I don’t like people like you.”
“F*** you, Trump supporter.”
“Elon Musk is a giant a**hole.”
“I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” (That one ended with a heartfelt handshake.)
Now, before you paint me into a political corner—this isn’t a post about politics.
It’s a post about projection.
Because what I’ve learned is this:
People aren’t actually mad at me.
They’re mad at what they think I represent.
Some see the Cybertruck and assume:
Tech bro.
Trump supporter.
Elon fanboy.
Poser.
Others see me behind the wheel and assume:
Wealthy.
Arrogant.
Privileged.
“One of them.”
From my perspective, the truck has become a rolling Rorschach test. A moving mirror that reflects more about others than it does about me.
And that’s where it gets interesting.
Because I believe we do this all the time.
Maybe not with Cybertrucks, but with everything else:
What someone wears.
Where they live.
How they talk.
What we think they believe.
We assume.
We judge.
We react.
And sometimes, we flip people off—literally or metaphorically—without ever asking a single question.
I’ll be the first to admit: I’m still growing here.
My wife tells me I should stop confronting people on the road.
And she’s probably right.
To be fair, there’s certainly a part of me that wants to make them feel a little uncomfortable—because I think their reaction is ridiculous. That’s a flaw. I’m working on it.
But the bigger part of me just genuinely wants to understand.
The irony is rich. A truck that’s silent, battery-powered, and engineered for sustainability has triggered both the far right and the far left—for completely different reasons.
At some point, we’ve got to step back and ask:
Are we really angry at the person in front of us?
Or are we just looking for somewhere to aim our outrage?
Because if we keep judging each other by brands, politics, or whatever echo chamber we’re sitting in, we all lose. It's a zero-sum status game. And it's a race to the bottom.
I don't know if this post will do any good. But I am pretty sure that no one ever changed their mind because someone flipped them off.
To those who flip me off because of the vehicle I drive, here’s my suggestion (said with all the love I can muster):
Take a deep breath.
Relax.
It’s just a truck.
It doesn’t mean what you think it means.
And I’m probably not who you think I am.
My genuine hope is that maybe one potential offender will read this, slightly shift their approach, and I won’t have to explain to my three-year-old why some knuckleheads choose to wave at us with just one finger. But hey—who knows?
What I do believe is this:
Empathy means making space for someone else’s story—even when it stretches your own.
You don’t have to like my truck.
But maybe—just maybe—we can still like each other.
That’s all for today.
Godspeed.
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PS — Also worth noting, not all of the reactions have been hostile.
Many have been incredibly kind—and honestly, hilarious.
I regularly have kids ask for rides, parents ask for tours, and strangers stop me in parking lots just to talk. I’m always happy to oblige.
But my favorite moment?
A gentleman once walked up and said, “Hey, my 92-year-old grandma is too nervous to ask, but she really wants to see your truck.”
I said, “Absolutely!”
She got out—with her walker—and slowly circled the vehicle.
Then she looked me dead in the eyes and said:
“You wouldn’t give an old lady a ride, would ya?”
We took a few laps around the Sam’s Club parking lot together.
There’s still a lot of good in the world.
We just have to make space for it.
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