The odd thing about SUVs is that what all the tonnage is ultimately about is usually nothing more than images and perceptions.

An SUV gives the driver an illusion of security, sitting high above the hubbub encased in his mountain of steel.  It’s only in real life, in typical swerves to avoid highway hazards, that SUVs prove so likely to roll over and seriously injure their occupants.

Likewise, most SUVs have long since abandoned any pretense of literally being off-road vehicles.  To the extent that some are still portrayed as “outdoorsy,” this is understood to be predominantly a matter of branding and product persona.

Probably the only thing today’s SUVs consistently excel at is projecting a fearsome countenance to other denizens of the public rights-of-way.  From the threatening scowls of their grilles, to the bolt-on fender flares and running boards that visually “bulk them up” to such massively intimidating proportions, to the increasingly military character of their materials and surfaces, they send a clear and unmistakable message: I could hurt you.

Personally, I’ve decided the name “SUV” is inadequate, and have opted instead for the term “doomsday battle wagon.”  I’m counting the days to when these behemoths start sporting Ben Hur-style wheel-cutter hubs.  Can accessory packages featuring rocket launchers be far behind?

What’s behind all this fearsome spectacle is another story, however.

There was a time when cars, like dogs, tended to resemble their owners.  A rumpled “Oscar” type typically drove an equally disheveled-looking car, while a fastidious “Felix” sat behind the wheel of something appropriately tasteful and immaculate.  Likewise, while little-bitty cars tended to be driven by little-bitty folks, great big heavy cars were typically the property of great big heavy people.

For anyone steeped in these traditions, it would seem only reasonable for a massive, snarling bruiser of an SUV to be slung around the highways by an equally massive, snarling, knuckle-dragging bruiser of a guy.  But disconcertingly often, a thinly-disguised assault vehicle turns out to be piloted by some poor lost soul with an overly vague and tentative driving style: putter-putter-putter... maybe I’ll—oops—no, maybe I’d better… and so on (often to the exasperated consternation of anyone unfortunate enough to be attempting to travel on the same road).

What kind of odd disconnect has occurred here?  The net effect of one of these encounters can be as strangely disorienting as seeing a kindly little grandmother walking a spike-collared Rottweiler.

Things only really begin to make sense once we realize that for most people, the whole SUV business was never about anything other than perceptions in the first place.  In this context, especially if you’re an overly tentative sort of person who has to contend with the great urban automotive jungle, doesn’t it seem well-advised to get your own personal scary-looking giant to guard and protect you?

It’s just a shame how all those tons of carefully-crafted illusion can ultimately roll over and crush you.