IS IT A LIE OR TRUTH?

Not all Tacos are the same. I didn’t need CMC to fit 33”.

 

I hear your complaint. Let me ask you this regarding the "want" factor.

Does Toyota advertise their product doing things that would require 35" tires?

What Toyota considers "off road" may not necessarily match up to what you and I consider "off road". It is what it is.

I'm sure that even if the TRD Pro (or TRD Off Road) came with 35s from the factory, folks would still complain that they can't stuff 37s or 40s without hacking up their precious $40k truck to make them fit.

Sometimes we (including myself) have to face reality and level our expectations. From there we get to spend a lot more money and time getting our trucks closer to our needs.

BTW, you absolutely can stuff 33s on a stock TRD or Pro Tacoma without a lift, and without grinding/welding. I did it on mine with 255s. Fronts only touched the rear of the front fenderwell plastic on full stuff with wheels turned. A little heat gun action and problem solved.

 

37s. This is the way.

 

Not sure what you are referring to?

 

WTF is this stupid shit.

 

Yeah I can relate to this.
Couple of coworkers, both have good jobs and both born into very wealthy families. Both have purpose built rock buggies and tow said buggies and camp gear with their crappy American made $75k diesel 3/4 ton trucks. Sarcasm on crappy

 

Or, are they?

 

My Father in law has a “trail rated” badge on his grand cherokee. He has the ground clearance of a coke can.

 

Same shit, different flavor. It’s 2021 Toyota doesn’t build cars any better than the competition.

if the domestics still had shitty quality from the 90s they wouldn’t exist today.

 

They wouldn’t exist if they didn’t get government subsidies or bailouts.

Toyota has a much better philosophy on manufacturing than its competitors. They’re willing to shut down their manufacturing lines to fix a problem. Unlike Domestic who rather keep moving product with a fix later on. They know full well there is an issue but will still release the vehicles.

There is also a reason Toyota keeps the same parts/engine across multiple platforms. There is no need to reinvent the wheel.

 

I would have paid a couple grand more for my Tacoma to get the same transmission that's in the Wranglers. That 8 speed auto is one of the best in the world!

 

I think Toyota makes the TRD Pro for people who have an extra $9K or $10K and want to spend it on the flagship model. Nothing against anyone’s choices for what truck or trim level they want, but the Pro has a lot less to do with it’s capability (over a TRD Off Road), and a lot more to do with aesthetics and status. Anyone who is looking to build a true trail rig is going to replace the suspension on any model Toyota offers.

A world where Fords, Chevys and Dodges are made with the same quality and engineering as a Toyota sounds nice. It’s too bad that world doesn’t exist.

 

Lol, sure thing bud.

 

I sold my 2020 Wrangler and went back to Tacoma. I loved the top off, but not the quality. The dealer and I were getting quite friendly...several friends have them too, one had both ring gears come apart that took 6 weeks to fix at 35k miles and the other had a new v6 top end put on at 103k... Very fun to drive in town, the highway it was wandering all over. Other than that I loved it I now have all Toyotas...only one oil filter in the garage

 

I have a Rubicon and a Tacoma. HELL NO!! I love my Jeep and my truck, but no way is my jeep better than my truck. I find the Jeep hard to live with daily oh, more of a weekend toy. The only thing reliable is a check engine light on the Jeep.

 

My Rubicon never left me stranded in the three years I had it. In the last three years with the taco it’s left me stranded once a year faithfully. Usually when it’s cold af and I’m not at home. The F550 that tows it to the shop always works though. Taco also just got totaled from some fool, so now need something else. I also owned JKs. The JLs have had some weird issues since launch. I’m won’t be buying another of either though.

 

The thing is, you fellas are a very, very, VERY, small subset of Tacoma buyers. They sell nearly a quarter of a million of these trucks every year, and the vast majority of owners would never even consider changing tire size much less fitting 35's.

Toyota could certainly make it easy to do so, but it would negatively affect something else (mpg, safety, cost, etc depending on the route they take). In the end, Toyota is in this to sell trucks and make money and fitting big tires stock is near the bottom of their list on priorities.

 

They've made them too expensive.

In 2009 I test drive a brand new Wrangler Sport, 2 door, 3.8L 6MT. It was $24k. Same thing today is a bit over twice as much in my region.

I would buy a brand new Suzuki Jimny if it was available here.

 

When a man is asleep, he has in a circle round him the chain of the hours, the sequence of the years, the order of the heavenly host. Instinctively, when he awakes, he looks to these, and in an instant reads off his own position on the earth's surface and the amount of time that has elapsed during his slumbers; but this ordered procession is apt to grow confused, and to break its ranks. Suppose that, towards morning, after a night of insomnia, sleep descends upon him while he is reading, in quite a different position from that in which he normally goes to sleep, he has only to lift his arm to arrest the sun and turn it back in its course, and, at the moment of waking, he will have no idea of the time, but will conclude that he has just gone to bed. Or suppose that he gets drowsy in some even more abnormal position; sitting in an armchair, say, after dinner: then the world will fall topsy-turvy from its orbit, the magic chair will carry him at full speed through time and space, and when he opens his eyes again he will imagine that he went to sleep months earlier and in some far distant country. But for me it was enough if, in my own bed, my sleep was so heavy as completely to relax my consciousness; for then I lost all sense of the place in which I had gone to sleep, and when I awoke at midnight, not knowing where I was, I could not be sure at first who I was; I had only the most rudimentary sense of existence, such as may lurk and flicker in the depths of an animal's consciousness; I was more destitute of human qualities than the cave-dweller; but then the memory, not yet of the place in which I was, but of various other places where I had lived, and might now very possibly be, would come like a rope let down from heaven to draw me up out of the abyss of not-being, from which I could never have escaped by myself: in a flash I would traverse and surmount centuries of civilization, and out of a half-visualized succession of oil-lamps, followed by shirts with turned-down collars, would put together by degrees the component parts of my ego.

Perhaps the immobility of the things that surround us is forced upon them by our conviction that they are themselves, and not anything else, and by the immobility of our conceptions of them. For it always happened that when I awoke like this, and my mind struggled in an unsuccessful attempt to discover where I was, everything would be moving round me through the darkness: things, places, years. My body, still too heavy with sleep to move, would make an effort to construe the form which its tiredness took as an orientation of its various members, so as to induce from that where the wall lay and the furniture stood, to piece together and to give a name to the house in which it must be living. Its memory, the composite memory of its ribs, knees, and shoulder-blades offered it a whole series of rooms in which it had at one time or another slept; while the unseen walls kept changing, adapting themselves to the shape of each successive room that it remembered, whirling madly through the darkness. And even before my brain, lingering in consideration of when things had happened and of what they had looked like, had collected sufficient impressions to enable it to identify the room, it, my body, would recall from each room in succession what the bed was like, where the doors were, how daylight came in at the windows, whether there was a passage outside, what I had had in my mind when I went to sleep, and had found there when I awoke. The stiffened side underneath my body would, for instance, in trying to fix its position, imagine itself to be lying, face to the wall, in a big bed with a canopy; and at once I would say to myself, "Why, I must have gone to sleep after all, and Mamma never came to say good night!" for I was in the country with my grandfather, who died years ago; and my body, the side upon which I was lying, loyally preserving from the past an impression which my mind should never have forgotten, brought back before my eyes the glimmering flame of the night-light in its bowl of Bohemian glass, shaped like an urn and hung by chains from the ceiling, and the chimney-piece of Siena marble in my bedroom at Combray, in my great-aunt's house, in those far distant days which, at the moment of waking, seemed present without being clearly penned, but would become plainer in a little while when I was properly awake.

Then would come up the memory of a fresh position; the wall slid away in another direction; I was in my room in Mme. de Saint-Loup's house in the country; good heavens, it must be ten o'clock, they will have finished dinner! I must have overslept myself, in the little nap which I always take when I come in from my walk with Mme. de Saint-Loup, before dressing for the evening. For many years have now elapsed since the Combray days, when, coming in from the longest and latest walks, I would still be in time to see the reflection of the sunset glowing in the panes of my bedroom window. It is a very different kind of existence at Tansonville now with Mme. de Saint-Loup, and a different kind of pleasure that I now derive from taking walks only in the evenings, from visiting by moonlight the roads on which I used to play, as a child, in the sunshine; while the bedroom, in which I shall presently fall asleep instead of dressing for dinner, from afar off I can see it, as we return from our walk, with its lamp shining through the window, a solitary beacon in the night.

These shifting and confused gusts of memory never lasted for more than a few seconds; it often happened that, in my spell of uncertainty as to where I was, I did not distinguish the successive theories of which that uncertainty was composed any more than, when we watch a shitty Jeep running, we isolate the successive positions of its body as they appear upon a bioscope. But I had seen first one and then another of the trucks in which I had slept during my life, and in the end I would revisit them all in the long course of my waking dream: rooms in winter, where on going to bed I would at once bury my head in a nest, built up out of the most diverse materials, the corner of my pillow, the top of my blankets, a piece of a shawl, the edge of my bed, and a copy of an evening paper, all of which things I would contrive, with the infinite patience of birds building their nests, to cement into one whole; rooms where, in a keen frost, I would feel the satisfaction of being shut in from the outer world (like the sea-swallow which builds at the end of a dark tunnel and is kept warm by the surrounding earth), and where, the fire keeping in all night, I would sleep wrapped up, as it were, in a great cloak of snug and savory air, shot with the glow of the logs which would break out again in flame: in a sort of alcove without walls, a cave of warmth dug out of the heart of the room itself, a zone of heat whose boundaries were constantly shifting and altering in temperature as gusts of air ran across them to strike freshly upon my face, from the corners of the room, or from parts near the window or far from the fireplace which had therefore remained cold—or rooms in summer, where I would delight to feel myself a part of the warm evening, where the moonlight striking upon the half-opened shutters would throw down to the foot of my bed its enchanted ladder; where I would fall asleep, as it might be in the open air, like a titmouse which the breeze keeps poised in the focus of a sunbeam—or sometimes the Louis XVI room, so cheerful that I could never feel really unhappy, even on my first night in it: that room where the slender columns which lightly supported its ceiling would part, ever so gracefully, to indicate where the bed was and to keep it separate; sometimes again that little room with the high ceiling, hollowed in the form of a pyramid out of two separate stories, and partly walled with mahogany, in which from the first moment my mind was drugged by the unfamiliar scent of flowering grasses, convinced of the hostility of the violet curtains and of the insolent indifference of a clock that chattered on at the top of its voice as though I were not there; while a strange and pitiless mirror with square feet, which stood across one corner of the room, cleared for itself a site I had not looked to find tenanted in the quiet surroundings of my normal field of vision: that room in which my mind, forcing itself for hours on end to leave its moorings, to elongate itself upwards so as to take on the exact shape of the room, and to reach to the summit of that monstrous funnel, had passed so many anxious nights while my body lay stretched out in bed, my eyes staring upwards, my ears straining, my nostrils sniffing uneasily, and my heart beating; until custom had changed the color of the curtains, made the clock keep quiet, brought an expression of pity to the cruel, slanting face of the glass, disguised or even completely dispelled the scent of flowering grasses, and distinctly reduced the apparent loftiness of the ceiling. Custom! that skillful but unhurrying manager who begins by torturing the mind for weeks on end with her provisional arrangements; whom the mind, for all that, is fortunate in discovering, for without the help of custom it would never contrive, by its own efforts, to make any room seem habitable.

 

Huh?