Modified exhausts, three pedals, and driver's cars are my world. But when it comes to daily driving, nothing beats Tesla's stainless-steel spaceship.
I hate my Cybertruck.
Not because it's bad. In fact, it's the best daily driver I've ever had. And I've driven extensively: an E63 Wagon, a Ferrari Lusso, a BMW M5 CS, an Alpina XB7, an Audi RS6. Out of all of them, the Cybertruck wins for real life.
It's absurdly practical. I can haul landscaping gear, throw a dirt bike in the bed, or make a Home Depot run without a second thought. It's whisper-quiet inside. The stereo slaps. The tech is lightning-fast... it's like an Apple product on wheels. My kids love the rear screen and games. My family actually prefers riding in it. And in traffic? It drives itself well enough that I can sit back and think instead of staring at a bumper.
So no, the truck isn't the problem. The problem is how the world sees it.
The Part That Makes Me Uneasy
Yesterday, I pulled into my daughter's school drop-off lane, and for the first time in my life behind the wheel of a car, I felt… uneasy. Not because the truck is weird-looking (though it is), but because of what people assume it means.
With most cars, people judge you for taste, money, or maybe a midlife crisis. With the Cybertruck, it's different. Suddenly, you're not just a person in a car, you're a statement. A walking headline. For some, the Cybertruck has stopped being a vehicle and started being a symbol.
And when you add a company name on the side, like I have? That symbol gets even louder. I catch myself wondering: do people now see me as part of something bigger, something they don't like? The truck stops being a tool and starts being an identity. And that's the part I hate.
The Disclaimer
I should be clear: I'm an internal combustion junkie. My other cars have modified exhausts. I enjoy three pedals. I love a real driver's car. That's what I reach for when I want to drive.
The Cybertruck is not a substitute for that. It's not a driver's car. It's not fun in the way an RS6 or M5 CS is fun. It's terrible at towing. It can't plow snow. If you buy one expecting a super-truck, you'll be disappointed.
But that's not why I drive mine. When I'm sitting northbound on the expressway or stuck in Cape traffic, the last thing I want is to wrestle with a "driver's car." I want something quiet, stress-free, capable, and smarter than the gridlock around me. And for that? Nothing touches the Cybertruck.
The Fix
Here's the twist: I run Q Car Care. We wrap cars. Which means I can take the most polarizing-looking vehicle on the road and make it something else entirely. Matte black. Satin white. Neon camo. Anything that dials down (or cranks up) the statement.
Until Tesla decides to release a softer, more approachable design, wrapping is the only way to enjoy a Cybertruck without the baggage that comes with its look.
Because here's the irony: the best daily driver I've ever had is also the only car I've had to think twice about driving.
I hate to love my Cybertruck.