Late last month, a lightning storm fried the electronics in my Silverado. After weeks of back-and-forth between my mechanic and the insurance company, the verdict came yesterday: total loss. I’ll get the replacement value of the truck, about what I would have been able to get if I sold it. But I hadn’t planned to sell it. I planned to drive it until it wouldn’t run anymore, probably into retirement, then replace it with something smaller. Now I have to decide what to replace it with early.

Origin Story

I never intended to buy a big pickup truck. In 2016, my 12-year-old Ford Ranger was on its last legs, and I planned to get something similarly sized. Ford was no longer making the Ranger, so I looked into the Chevy Colorado. But because the new model-year trucks were coming soon, the local dealership made me a price on a sparkling red Silverado. It was lower than I would have spent on a similarly equipped Colorado. And advances in engine technology meant the highway mileage rating was better than the Ranger’s. How could I refuse?

I liked that it would give me more hauling capacity. My wife buys a lot of plants, so I transport them home and frequently haul plant and tree debris to brush disposal. Plus, I’m a woodworker, and I could lay full-size sheets of plywood flat in the bed. It also came with running boards, which meant my mother-in-law would be able to get in and out of the back comfortably. Sure, it was hard to parallel park downtown, but other than that, it was the truck I never knew I needed. The weekend after I bought it, one of my friends called it “Clifford the Big Red Truck,” and the name stuck.

My wife and I drove Clifford all over Florida in the first 6 months. It was big, it was roomy, it was comfortable, and it was reliable. Neither of our vehicles had been any of those things for several years. We loved it.

Life with Clifford

When it was still basically showroom new, a guy in an older model Silverado pulled up next to me at a light, rolled his windows down, and told me, “That’s a beautiful truck. Now it needs a few dents and scratches.” I laughed and said I hoped not. After a few years, I changed my view. Clifford’s accumulation of small defects was a badge of honor. This was a working truck, regardless of what I did for a living.

Not everyone was so admiring. About a year later, while I was filling up, a guy pulled up in a tan Camry at the pump opposite me, looked at Clifford, and said, “Sorry about your small penis.” I laughed and said, “Sorry about your small imagination.” What was I going to do, get in a screaming match with this dumbass?

The worst experiences were when someone would say something racist in my direction, assuming that a white-presenting guy with a big truck must be a bigot, too. I always shut those conversations down by telling them I didn’t appreciate it. Twice, it led to screaming matches at a gas station. Once, I was afraid the screaming match might come to blows.

I tried putting a sticker for a yoga studio on my back window, hoping it would discourage that kind of thing, but it was too small, too subtle, and, frankly, I know there are idiots who go to yoga studios too.

Big Truck Guy

I was learning that being a “big truck guy” came with cargo I didn’t want to haul, and I did my best to counter the stereotype. You know the one. Big truck drivers drive aggressively, park across multiple spots, and act like tough guys even when they don’t transport anything heavier than coffee and a laptop bag to their air-conditioned office job. For me, Clifford was practical, and I tried to be a responsible driver. I stuck more or less to the speed limit. I stayed in the right lane unless I needed to pass. I didn’t park across multiple spaces, even though it took me months to learn to back into a spot squarely between the lines.

When my dad decided to give up driving, it also made me happy to be able to chauffeur him in comfort to his doctor’s appointments, back and forth to the hospital, and to take him grocery shopping. Yes, I know I could have done those with a smaller vehicle, but this was the vehicle I had, and Dad loved it as much as I did.

I also took pride in being the kind of truck guy who was there to help other people. I moved furniture, hauled dead appliances to the dump, and once I rescued a bicyclist caught in an unexpected downpour. After Hurricane Milton destroyed a friend’s vehicle, I was so happy I could offer her Clifford so she could move out of her damaged home while it was repaired.

Big Truck Consequences

On the other hand, sometimes I felt guilty driving Clifford. During the COVID crisis, I went from commuting across Tampa Bay five days a week to working from home. City driving gets worse gas mileage than highway driving. A lot worse. I consoled myself by using my wife’s much more fuel-efficient vehicle for errands that didn’t require a big payload. Nevertheless, the ecological impact of driving Clifford gnawed at me.

I seriously considered selling it at one point when I realized the value was still very high. I reasoned that I could rent a truck when I needed one and make do without the rest of the time. A one-month trial of that idea showed me that while it was financially feasible, it was impractical in too many other ways. And when I looked at what I might replace it with, the few small trucks on the market were too expensive. Clifford was paid for. Why take on more debt? And buying a new vehicle wasn’t without ecological concerns either. I hoped I could drive Clifford for at least another ten years.

What’s Next?

Knowing that it’s impractical to go without a vehicle, especially in Florida and given my hobbies and activities, I have to replace Clifford. I haven’t decided what I’ll replace it with. But used or new, I won’t buy another big truck. The last couple years, every new Silverado I saw seemed to dwarf Clifford. How would I wrestle one of these land barges into a spot? After a decade of being a big truck guy, I’ll have to re-learn how to be a small truck guy. I really am going to miss Clifford.