Bigger Trucks, Terrifying Agendas: The Intimidation of Everyday Drivers

How Pickup Trucks Are Redefining Power, Aggression, and Road Rage.

Photo by Bradyn Shock on Unsplash

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Is it just me, or does it feel like pickup trucks have taken on a more menacing presence on the road?

It's not just their size that's intimidating, although let's be honest, they're big enough to squash my mid-sized car with one tire. However, their drivers behave as if they own the whole damn road. It's as if every driver is auditioning for the role of the "alpha predator" of the highway.

Over the past several years, I’ve noticed an increase in the number of pickup trucks on streets and in parking lots. The scariest ones? The souped-up ones with loud pipes and over-the-top modifications. They seem to be everywhere, and lately, they’ve started to feel less like vehicles and more like a statement—like they're compensating for something… maybe the lack of a personality?

Take, for example, what happened on Saturday. My husband and I made a left turn onto a country road when, suddenly, a pickup truck appeared out of nowhere, right up behind us, beeping continuously. He laid on the horn like it was a personal vendetta, and didn’t let up.

We hadn't even seen the truck when we made the turn. This driver wasn’t just annoyed—he was angry, practically forcing us to turn just to escape him. It wasn’t the first time I’d felt the intimidating presence of a pickup on the road, and it seems like it’s happening more often now.

It’s hard to ignore.

A pickup is not just a mode of transportation—it's a weapon on wheels.

Every truck owner seems to be on a mission to assert dominance. Please pardon my feminine hysteria, although maybe that dismissive phrase is precisely the problem. Women who notice threatening behavior, who name the danger we sense in public spaces, are told we’re overreacting, being dramatic, letting our emotions cloud our judgment.

But the imbalance between the size of these trucks and my Toyota Camry mirrors the physical reality I navigate constantly. Unless I invest in jujitsu classes, I will never have the upper hand in a physical fight with a man.

Add America’s love affair with guns, and there’s another layer of possible violence thrumming beneath every interaction. I’m always aware of this undercurrent when dealing with men in public. Would I rather meet a man or a bear in the forest? I’m a bear person (I wrote about why I’d choose a bear any day-click here). At least the bear's motivations are predictable. Plus, I bet a bear wouldn’t follow me around honking his horn.

In a 2020 study, 88% of pickup buyers identified as male, with a disproportionate number being white.

A friend recently attended a No Kings protest in Toms River, New Jersey, where pickup trucks with twenty-something-year-old male drivers were attempting to disrupt the peaceful crowd with exhaust fumes and the revving of their engines. Classic douchebag moves.

Lately, pickups seem to be out for me.

Back-to-back, I had two up-close-and-personal experiences involving pickup trucks.

One involved a driver whose testosterone level could be seen from space, and the other involved me placating a man who had just rear-ended me. Turns out, the world of pickup trucks is full of surprises—some of them are just way more "in your face" than others.

My first encounter with a pickup truck driver occurred on a pleasant June evening, after a long day of driving, when I was overcome with a craving for a Wendy's Deluxe Cheeseburger. As I turned into the parking lot, I heard a beeping sound. As I wondered what had caused the ruckus, I missed the drive-through lane and pulled into a spot closest to the entrance.

Before I could leave my car, a black pickup truck pulled diagonally behind me, blocking my car. The driver opened the passenger window and started screaming.

I had no idea what he was screaming about.

"Was that you beeping?" I asked.

"Yes! You cut me off!" He glowered down at me.

"I did?" I paused, thinking back.

"You made a left turn from the right lane!"

I wasn’t even in the right lane. I crossed a shoulder, but then I remembered that the shoulder turned into an actual driving lane at some point on that road. Perhaps it was at Wendy's.

"Ah, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I crossed your lane."

"How long have you been driving?"

Wait, what?

I had just apologized, and now he was going to interrogate my driving history? Rage boiled up in me.

How dare he chase me down!

How dare he yell at me!

How dare he bully me for an accident that never even happened!

I kept my composure as I walked toward his front passenger door. Despite the massiveness of his truck, he was a small man, and I, at almost six feet tall, wasn’t about to cower in my Camry.

I studied his small frame behind the wheel, decked out all in black, with a matching belt featuring a big silver buckle, sitting in his shiny pickup. He was my age, with hair dyed the color of midnight. Even though I towered over most people, I understood my height meant nothing if this escalated.

Yet I refused to be diminished by a road-raging lunatic.

"Look, sir, I didn’t mean to cut you off. I just apologized."

But he kept right on going.

This whole thing was not ok.

I thought back to all the people who’d done me wrong on the highway. Never would I have followed them to berate them. Everyone makes driving mistakes—hell, I’ve probably made worse ones—but no one chases down a stranger to yell at them unless something deeper is going on.

I started to wonder why it had become my responsibility to calm his anger. I was the victim of his road rage, and yet I was stuck doing the emotional cleanup work, the one thing that always seems to fall on women to do.

I waited for him to take a breath.

"Sir!" My voice is police-officer firm now.

"Even you, SIR, make mistakes driving."

In the strangest moment yet, he fell completely silent. Then he thanked me and took off.

Just like that, he disappeared.

I didn’t get my Wendy's burger, but I drove home instead. I talked to myself for the rest of the night, reliving what happened and strategizing what I could have said to shut him down sooner.

What I really wanted to say was, "GO FUCK YOURSELF, BUDDY.” Part of me wishes I had, though I knew that outcome could have gone south quickly. I was so full of rage that I had been assigned the task of calming him down, of being the emotional regulator in a situation where I was a road rage victim.

While I carried this mental burden through the night, he probably drove home and forgot the whole thing.

The next day, I was stopped at one of New Jersey's many traffic circles.

It was lunchtime, and everyone and their brother were in that circle. I was waiting for my turn when the car behind me banged my bumper.

Oh no, I thought and jumped out to survey the damage. Then I saw it: a puncture from the front hook of the white pickup truck behind me.

We both pulled out of the circle into an abandoned fast-food parking lot. This time, it wasn’t Wendy's but Cluck-U. The universe is funny that way.

Was this the zombie apocalypse or another kind of cosmic joke playing out before me? Standing next to me was a small man in a big GMC Sierra. He politely asked, "First, are you ok?" I nodded.

"Can you believe it? Someone hit me from behind last week."

I could believe it.

"Should we skip calling the police since we already exchanged our information?" His voice was hopeful.

I was on the fence about it, so I rang my husband instead. I explained the situation about the nice man who hit my bumper and who was also listening to me speak.

My husband urges me to report it. After calling 9-1-1, the two of us waited in an uncomfortable silence. It’s broad daylight, but I’m in an empty parking lot with a built-like-a-brickhouse stranger.

I started worrying about how long it was taking for the police to arrive. The words, "I'm sorry," begin to float up to my lips. I want to apologize to the guy who hit my car, as I am now making him wait. The instinct to make someone else feel at ease, to smooth over even minor disruptions, was kicking in.

What was wrong with me? The rage from the day before began to percolate. Why did I feel compelled to placate a stranger for a situation that wasn’t my fault?

I knew exactly what was wrong with me.

Apologizing and being the voice of reason was my modus operandi. Smooth things over and make others comfortable, even if it’s at my expense. Growing up with a mental illness and co-dependence in the family, I had honed my spidey senses to detect trouble. Managing someone else’s emotional state was a survival skill. I had been conditioned to be an emotional janitor, cleaning up messes I didn’t make. Now, I was applying that same strategy to a guy in a pickup in a weedy parking lot.

Even though this man showed no signs of anger, I was worried he might lose control.

He never said he was sorry. How many times had I apologized, not even 18 hours earlier, to a madman?

The police came, and a report was filed. I left carrying the weight of that near-apology, the automatic impulse to make him feel better about damaging my property long after he’d driven away in his truck.

The proximity of these events made me wonder: there are no coincidences and no mistakes, so what were those pickups supposed to teach me?

These pickup truck moments weren't just about impaired driving or frustrating encounters; they're about the way power is wielded in everyday life. The silent message we women receive from these interactions—whether it's a pickup truck blocking our way, a man's rage directed at us, or the constant dance of trying to avoid conflict—is that we are expected to take on the emotional labor of others. To smooth things over, to take responsibility for situations that we didn't cause, and to absorb aggression without pushing back.

It's the subtle, often unspoken way that the world teaches women to be caretakers of other people's feelings, to regulate the chaos of the world around us, even when we are the victims.

What struck me the most after these incidents wasn't so much the aggression of the pickup drivers, but how easily I fell into the role of emotional mediator. I felt unsettled that even at 62, I instinctively wanted to apologize, not make a scene, and avoid further escalation—even when it was clear I was the one being wronged.

The real lesson here isn't about avoiding the trucks. It's about learning to stop taking on the emotional burdens of others and reclaiming the space we deserve to exist unapologetically.

How about you? Do you feel pickup trucks are polluting our highways?

Have you been a victim of road rage?

Are you exhausted from the toil of cleaning emotional messes, too?

Please let me know in the comments below.

Stay safe out there!