Denise McCluggage explores the qualities that distinguish real trucks from mere pickups.

Exactly what makes a pickup a truck — something righteous and real — is hard to pin down. The problem is not unlike that facing the Supreme Court justice trying to define pornography. He finally said: “I know it when I see it.”

That’s how truck people know a truck: It has a certain stance, a certain attitude, a certain way of going. It sounds a certain way, has a certain look. It just is a truck.

And most certainly, since the beginning, a real truck has been American. Like jazz. The pickup began in 1925 when Henry Ford’s Model T appeared with a useful flat space in the back. An open bed. Three years later, the Model A pickup had an enclosed cab. And in 1933 the Aussies came up with what they called the “ute,” short for “coupe utility.” This started as an awkward marriage between the front end of a car and an open bed in the rear so that farmers could get by with one vehicle for both weeklong work and for weekend trips with the family. (And incidentally get a bank loan thanks to the half that was utilitarian.)

This uniquely Australian vehicle sells well to this day, whereas American buyers only ever could choose between the Ford Ranchero and Chevrolet El Camino up until the late 1980s. But those were never “trucks,” at least not in the sense we are here today to discuss.

The battle begins

From its early start, Ford has led the way in trucks. For many years, the F-150 has been not only the best-selling truck but the best-selling vehicle in all of these United States — over cars and all. Try to convince a New Yorker, for instance, of that fact: “A truck! No way.” On the other hand, Santa Feans know a four-door sedan with a trunk is the rarity.

Since trucks are what keep American manufacturers anywhere near solvency, the competition is fierce — and even bragging rights are contested. Ford is the best-seller — but only, says General Motors, because GM sales are divided between Chevy and GMC models (Silverado and Sierra), which are essentially the same and together outsell the F-150.

In the pickup wrestling pit, Dodge had faded to an almost inconsequential third until 1994 and the controversial redesign of the Ram. It was muscular and fierce, rather like a mini Peterbilt. And not all that mini when it filled your rearview mirror. Truck people either loved it or hated it, which delighted Bob Lutz, whose baby it was when he was with Chrysler. “No one buys their second choice,” he said.

That Dodge Ram went on to win Motor Trend’s Truck of the Year award.

Japan starts small

But all American truck purveyors, admit it or not, had a wary eye on Asia. The conceit that only an American could make a real truck was strong, but was that really just whistling past the graveyard? Japanese-brand compact pickups were darting about the American landscape, making themselves as useful as elves. City, countryside, college campuses — and lots of young women took to them as if they were a trendy fashion statement. Small pickups became the new sport coupe.

But Toyota and Nissan, most assuredly, intended more. They were studying the large truck and the American market. Toyota’s Tacoma was a more grownup pickup, sort of a teenager. The company was edging ever closer to the iconic full-size truck. Toyota people were fanning out all over the West, observing pickup users, interviewing ranchers — and wearing cowboy hats.

But, for all their efforts, the 1993 T100, Toyota’s first step into the sacrosanct land of the full-size pickup, just didn’t get it. A good vehicle to be sure — useful, reliable — but it didn’t have enough assertiveness, enough audacity, enough … well, truckness.

The Japanese culture is classically divergent from this truckness idea: diffidence, reticence, politeness — whatever truckness is, these traits aren’t represented. But the Japanese, certainly when it comes to international commerce, are tenacious and relentless. The drawing boards grew warm with more activity, and Toyota came back with a bigger truck, called Tundra, that would be built in America.

And Nissan was having a go, too. Indeed, its Titan — big and bold (perhaps thanks to its California design studio) — was as close to being an American truck as any had been when it was introduced in 2004. Mixed with its good beginner’s sense of truckness were some very good ideas: slotted tracks in the bed for various ways of securing a variety of cargo, for instance.

And the rear doors on the extended-cab version, with the hinges to the rear, just kept opening all the way back, instead of stopping at 90 degrees as on other trucks. One of those palm-to-the-forehead ideas. Why didn’t we … never mind, we did. GM grinned and opened its doors wider, too.

Alas, as close as the Titan came, it was plagued with problems and annoyances and earned the dreaded fully filled-in black dot in reliability from Consumer Reports.

Honda, typically thinking just slightly out of kilter with everyone else, dreamed up the Ridgeline — an offbeat maybe-pickup that does so many things a pickup can do, neatly and efficiently, and some other endearing things, too — like hiding an under-bed lockable storage space. A truck with a trunk? And its tailgate can either open flat like most tailgates or swing open like a refrigerator door. No, not a truckness pickup but a remarkable, handy-dandy tool.

So how go the truck wars? Toyota has filled in a vast expanse of Texas scrub near San Antonio with a giant new factory, appropriate for its latest 2007 Tundra. A Thrundra Tundra. Earth-shaking and muscle flexing. Can the Japanese do bold? They did this time.

The Tundra drivetrain is a dandy. The engine choices are strong, with a 5.7-liter V-8 outdoing the competition in either horsepower or torque. (Head-to-head comparisons are readily available on the Internet.) That this truck is larger, the product of the American side of the Toyota family, is sure as shootin’. Clearly the design team benchmarked every element of truckness that could be codified. Size, growling good looks, power, payload, towing ability, performance.

Did Toyota succeed? Ah, remember truckness is ineffable, indefinable, inexpressible. But this is Toyota’s best shot and an admirable try.

The current benchmark

For me, however, the latest Chevrolet Silverado, with its Audi-esque new interior — the sort of rich you really should call wealthy — and its new, calmer self-assuredness speaks of a settled-in, ingrained truckness. A cool mastery of being a truck. I can understand why Motor Trend, after testing them all, named the Silverado its 2007 Truck of the Year.

And then recently I had for a week a truly serious Silverado, the 2500HD (for heavy duty) with the optional Duramax turbodiesel V-8. It produces 365 horsepower and 660 pound-feet of torque. Any stumps to pull? Four-wheel drive in case they’re in a muddy place. Newly standard is a six-speed automatic transmission, which means shifts tend to be smoother and fuel economy better. And diesel, remember, is always better than gasoline.

The Duramax engine is far less clattery than truck diesels have traditionally been, but not as silent as car diesels like the Mercedes-Benz CDI BlueTec engines. Listening to the Duramax is like having a pleasant chat with someone with loose dentures. I didn’t tow anything, but this truck would have pulled up to 13,000 pounds.

For such a serious truck, the Chevy 2500HD had rather good city matters. The turning circle is pretty good and allowed easy parking at supermarkets, not a typical HD-truck thing. What still makes me sad is that GM jettisoned its four-wheel-steering system, which could ease parking even more and make towing so much easier and safer.

Anyway, I relished the comfort, ease and corner-office interior glow of the Silverado 2500HD. The wonderful immediacy of the Duramax was equally a pleasure (dear GM: spread the dieselness, please, more widely across your line). With this Silverado, I didn’t have to fret over defining truckness. I knew it when I saw it.

Santa Fean Denise McCluggage is a world-renowned automotive journalist and a columnist for AutoWeek Magazine. E-mail her at herself@denisemccluggage.com.