ROANOKE TIMES
Copyright (c) 1996, Roanoke Times
DATE: Friday, July 12, 1996 TAG: 9607120029
SECTION: CURRENT PAGE: NRV-2 EDITION: NEW RIVER VALLEY
TYPE: COMMENTARY
SOURCE: RAY COX
Word from the National Weather Service is that a particularly oafish and ill-mannered hurricane is scheduled to make landfall somewhere in North Carolina soon.
When Bertha, as it has been so named, gets here, no doubt somebody in a four-wheel drive truck with tires only slightly smaller than the rings of Saturn will be waiting on the beach for it.
Of course, law enforcement officials may have other ideas for this particular breed of sightseer and will attempt to turn him (or possibly her) toward a less blustery locale.
Frankly, you might not want to be the lawman charged with such duty. Those who drive huge vehicles to which any terrain is an invitation occasionally have difficulty taking no for an answer. A roadblock, one of these modern-day kings of the blacktop may sneer, well I'll just roll right over that sucker and crush it flatter than an empty beer can.
Sport utility vehicles, they're called by the automobile industry. What these carbon monoxide belching behemoths have to do with sports, I don't know. There's about as much connection between these chariots and sports as there is between sports and the column you're now holding with increasingly ink-stained hands.
Be that as it may, some of us are a little intimidated by these vehicles. It used to be alarming enough for the small car driver to deal with the 18-wheeled rolling warehouses that navigate the highways of this blessed land. Now there are all these four-wheelers, as their fire-breathing owners lovingly call them, to inspire terror as they fill a rearview mirror with a portrait of pure, unadulterated power, power, power.
They're liable to be spotted anywhere, but nowhere more so than the beach. A recent journey to the North Carolina coast confirmed that. Every second or third vehicle spotted on the road looked as though it could traverse the Sahara, the Baja and the mountains of the moon without so much as spinning a tire.
The driveway of the richly appointed new house at which we stayed was woefully inadequate for the vehicular bulk there parked. The house owner drove one of those massive Chevrolets that can comfortably seat the U.S. equestrian team in the front row and their mounts in the back. That and air-condition each and every one with individualized vents while blasting them with the squalls of Melissa Etheridge emanating from stereo speakers as big as the Lincoln Memorial.
But I digress.
Our transportation, a Ford, is also four-wheel drive, but considerably smaller than the bruiser of a Chevy belonging to our hostess. Any occasion that required both vehicles to depart or arrive at the same time constituted a traffic jam.
Speaking of which, that may be the whole beauty of these four-wheeling beasts. We were reminded of that when on the way home we passed the garage for one of those showy monster trucks, the infamous ``Grave Digger,'' which was parked beside the highway to glower at its puny-by-comparison mechanical brethren passing by.
Driving the Grave Digger must be great. Wouldn't it be marvelous to see a traffic jam and roll right over it like a tank?
A tank. Now there's a idea. My pitiful little four-cylinder vehicle will need to be replaced soon. The next hurricane that comes along, it would be nice to have a more suitable viewing platform. I'd like to see the cop who will try to stop me from doing it, too.
LENGTH: Medium: 67 linesby CNB