Auto-eroticism

Flee before my might, earthlings!

It's been a while for Expecting Rain's biennial feature on cars, but this week we're reviewing the 2005 Ford Explorer. Once upon a time (1991), this first-generation SUV sat five, handled more like a car and flipped over with ease (just ask Chris Shim). Like most Americans in the ensuing decade and half, the Explorer has become heavier and less-agile, but is still fairly easy to flip. It now sits eight, or 4/5 of little Madison's soccer team.

This particular rental had the main purpose of transporting the majority of my possessions from Washington, DC to Brooklyn; let's see how it performed. The Ford's a junior monstrosity compared to the Sequoia, Excursion or Navigator, with a narrower trunk clearance than you'd think and deceptively little room for rear storage. That's the reason that I'm typing this on a converted Ikea bookcase and not a desk (desk last seen on the curb of Constitution Avenue).

Having driven a Honda Civic for the last three years, there's an alarming pleasure that this driver took ensconsed on high in the Explorer. The engine has a good deal of pick-up as well, and the ride is smooth, even through the many potholes that I just couldn't seem to avoid. I was starting to like driving this SUV, well on my way to becoming everything that is wrong with America. Part of this Zenlike sense of well-being stems from the feeling of impregnability in an automobile this size. With the cruise-control locked on 70, I moved up the New Jersey turnpike with the implacable presence of an Imperial starcruiser chasing that wimpy vessel Leia was on.

It was a difficult transition back to the underworld of the Civic, but the pain of giving up a vehicle the size of Sherman tank was somewhat tempered by the fact that the cost of gassing up the monster was nearly three times that of the rental itself. Despair.