You in the Rolling Fortress, Give the Little Guy a Break!

On one of the darkest days of El Nino--sheets of rain lashing against my little white Miata, visibility about one car length--I gingerly picked my way down the No. 3 lane of the freeway at a prudent 45 mph.

Suddenly, zooming out from the gloom behind me and impatiently careening into the next lane--just missing my left-rear fender--came the enemy.

Now, I’ve endured all sorts of grief from all sorts of drivers--among them callous truckers, kids who believe they’re immortal and testosterone-fueled jerks in muscle cars. But this was the Enemy of the Big Shoulders: a hulking sport-utility vehicle. It threw out a mighty cascade of water as it dashed past, momentarily giving my windshield a blinding carwash effect.

Lifted high above the lowly race of ordinary cars and evidently sublimely confident in the speedy response of their braking systems, SUV drivers are a breed apart. Traveling alone in their spacious fortresses on wheels, they pounce hungrily on small cars of prey.

On sunny days, when I’m doing my normal 65 to 70, I can usually spot an SUV in my rearview mirror gobbling up the space until it bears down inches from my tailpipe.

This makes me very nervous. Edgy snippets of dialogue crowd my brain. I don’t drive much faster than the speed limit, pal, and you’re not going to change that. So I’ll slow down j-u-u-u-s-t a little, in an effort to nudge your big shoulders off my case and into the fast lane.

I used to be utterly content with my Miata. As a small person who almost always drives alone, I enjoy the way the rounded body of the minuscule two-seater--heir to a late, lamented Karmann Ghia--fits around me as cozily as a shell encloses an egg.

But now that so many other vehicles have assumed bullying proportions, my eggshell feels almost as fragile as the real thing. I feel too threatened even to put the top down, irrationally clutching at the morsel of extra security a few millimeters of fabric affords.

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Frankly, I think there’s more to the SUV craze than merely wanting to drive a reputedly “safer” vehicle. It strikes me as part of a bigger problem: a widespread refusal to acknowledge that freeway driving involves entering into a brief but meaningful social contract.

Stuck in our cars, with miles and miles to go before we sleep, we are a community bound together by a set of rules and a common goal. Like square-dancers listening to a caller (“Allemande left and right!”), drivers ideally keep up the rhythm by knowing the “steps” and anticipating one another’s moves.

Unfortunately, motorists are becoming increasingly aloof and unseeing, confusing a group dance with a solo jig.

If your car rides high above normal sedan level, forcing you quite literally to look down on the stream of traffic, aren’t you likely to care less about cutting off others?

If you have deeply tinted windows--making it impossible for other drivers to catch your eye and signal their intentions--aren’t you really raising a middle finger to the rest of us?

If you insist on driving very fast no matter what the prevailing speed of the traffic or the weather conditions--or whether you realistically left enough time for the journey--aren’t you confusing rugged individuality with sheer selfishness?

If you talk on the phone while negotiating a double lane change, aren’t you more involved with your unseen audience than with the fate of the people in the next car?

I think what’s tripped us up is the hoary Road Warrior image: vrooming down the pike with rock beats crashing out the window. But in commuter traffic, the only kind of Road Warrior you can be is an angry one with mounting blood pressure.

So couldn’t you Type A people in your SUVs start going with the flow and paying more attention to us little people? Maybe you could buy some more mellow cassettes or CDs, for starters.

For SigAlert meltdowns, Indian ragas lend a relaxed, philosophical outlook (you find yourself visualizing the stream of traffic as the peaceful flow of a real river). For brisker traffic, I’d recommend jazz or romantic vocal music. Or perhaps you could relax by letting part of your brain fantasize about dream vacations, sex, great meals or winning the gold at the next Olympics.

But just don’t confuse the heat of sports competition with the more genial do-si-dos we need to make as members of the freeway community. And please don’t forget that friendly little wave of thanks when you cut in front of me. That’ll make my day.

Times staff writer Cathy Curtis

can be reached via e-mail at cathy.curtis@latimes.com.