Guzzling, Gorgeous & Grand: SUVs and those who love them.

Readers of Dickens may occasionally imagine what it might have been like to peer from the guillotine and see Madame Defarge knitting her Book of Sin. One would expect a look of terrifying certitude and ferocity, and while having one's head severed would constitute a profound setback on many fronts, one would at least be without her. As it happens, the old girl has many descendants in our own time, some of whom are glaring at me.

The indictment: Those of us who drive sports utility vehicles are guilty of crimes against fellow drivers, the environment, and world stability. We must be left horseless, if not headless.

This is a terrible turn of events. The fact is, we SUV drivers are peaceful, humble people of modest hopes and dreams, who happen to like driving around in large vehicles, often because they accommodate our heaving guts, which often reflect an infatuation with the handiwork of Harland Sanders and August Busch. Yet when we see ourselves denounced by our detractors, it is as if an alien race were being described.

We readily admit that our Big Rides use a bit more gas than the 48 horsepower vehicles (add 3hp when sails are raised) favored by those who would save the world from us. We are talking about the difference between the 27 miles per gallon average for regular automobiles and the 20 mpg rating of many SUVs. Because global warming is an article of faith among our critics, we're getting additional blame for melting icecaps, flooded coastlines, and the eventual appearance of palm trees in New York City.

We believe these charges are grossly exaggerated, and we also reject the assertion that our beloved tanks are killing machines. Official statistics tell us that around 4 percent of road fatalities are the result of SUV-auto crashes, which is of course terrible, but not all those accidents are our fault. Overall, SUVs are blamed for an additional 2,000 deaths per year, though as journalist Ken Smith has pointed out, that number is entirely speculative and must be taken very lightly.

Our critics are hardly inclined to do so. Sen. Dianne Feinstein, whose calmly sculptured coiffure cannot conceal what some call her Inner Inquisitor, calls us a subspecies of "energy gluttons" and backs legislation that would force us back into the slightly modified go- carts that pass for "mid-sized sedans." Ms. Geneva Overholser, whose placid first name cannot conceal a slightly hectoring personality, has denounced SUVs as "inexplicably popular extravagances" and "nonsensical, gas-guzzling behemoths." Geneva, who was once ombudsman for the Washington Post, even admitted that "I feel like a lunatic about SUVs and I hereby invite you to join me in raving."

A line quickly formed. A. J. Nomai said the SUV "fad" is "all the rage among yuppies, suburban families and seemingly testosterone unbalanced males." Columnist Ellen Goodman called SUVs "gas-guzzling, parking- space-hogging bullies of the highway." Bullying, as we have come to know, was the cause of the Columbine massacre, so this is a serious charge. Ms. Goodman also insists "the SUV backlash is growing so strong that today's status symbols may become the first socially unacceptable vehicle since cars lost their fins."

This all adds up to what crime specialists call a gang bang, and because we are suburban types who steer clear of that kind of activity, we're in shock. This is especially true when our kids join the fray. We understand, of course, that this kind of protest reflects our peaceful and prosperous times. The Cold War is over, and our youth, having had their molars sealed in infancy, have never even worried about tooth decay. As Bill Clinton (who goes around in very large vehicles) said after taking an egg in the ear, it's good for kids to be mad about something, and this is certainly a safe subject.

We can also chuckle over the fact that, for many of our critics, mass transit means taking an Airbus to Nice. We were especially gratified by recent news reports that DNC chief Terry McAuliffe drives a Cadillac SUV that gets about 10 miles to the gallon, while Dick Gephardt, currently on the warpath against "energy gluttons," drives a Ford SUV. These leaders, it was further reported, have garaged their Big Rides until the political assault on the president's energy policy is over.

Which, it seems, is what much of this criticism is about. We SUVers are mere pawns in a larger war. The people on the other side not only want us all to drive cars whose backseat passengers have to ride with their chins on their knees; they have a thing for windmills, solar panels, boarded-up nuclear-power plants, and kerosene lamps. They also tend to support mandatory-seatbelt laws, antismoking ordinances, and restrictions on home barbecuing. We understand that, in California, they went after weed whackers and leaf blowers-and won.

Now it is SUV drivers who are in the crosshairs of the new Defarges, and we're being demonized as irrational and "unbalanced" beings, making it all the easier to whack us. Yet we're not nearly the menaces we're cracked up to be, as perhaps my own story illustrates.

My first SUV was a 1989 Ford Bronco II. This was no bully machine, but instead a pathetic vehicle whose first engine went out at 52,000 miles (Ms. Goodman tells us she drives a Saab, which, of course, is just perfect). The Bronco passed into the nether world after a roll-over accident, which critics will find pleasing. That the 16-year-old driver was doing 45 down a 15-mile-per-hour stretch of Hairpin Alley, swerved into a steep ditch, and overcorrected, may have had something to do with the crash, though one hates to point fingers. In any event, the mangled Bronco was replaced by a Toyota 4-Runner, purchased with 138,000 miles on the odometer. The SUV community, as it happens, admires diverse peoples, the Japanese among them, especially since they build machines that last. This one should go 300,000 miles, and because of my relatively light driving schedule that means 20 years of service, by which time we may well have been forced into vehicles that pass muster with environmental activists, such as rickshaws. This is not a complaint. I have sent my wife into training in anticipation of this development, and should it arrive we will go quietly, save for the occasional crack of the accelerator.

Meanwhile, our aged 4-Runner performs its commonplace duties, such as hauling sound equipment for a variety of humble bands that entertain humble citizens at humble watering holes. It also provides a place to sleep during music festivals and road trips. Ms. Goodman, who no doubt snoozes in her Saab between speaking engagements, should be able to empathize. Indeed, if she would only reach out to SUV owners as she does to members of other victim classes, she might find we are merely her fellow men.

Doubtful. It sometimes seems that another major beef against the Big Ride is curiously sexual in nature. Ms. Goodman makes the point: "I am old enough to remember when the shape of a car was female, Detroit's sex appeal was all curves and cars were pitched to men with blondes draped over their hood. Now we're sold bivouac cars with brawn. It's no accident, one reader reminded me, that the Nissan Pathfinder was nicknamed the 'hardbody.' . . . If the minivan is the soccer mom, the SUV is the muscle man, even when it's driven by a woman."

Taken together with the observation about "testosterone unbalanced males," we start to sense that our critics are not merely out to park vehicles. They believe they're shutting down the four-wheeled version of the stag room. Many of us do not understand how people got such an idea, though we are somewhat comforted in knowing that perhaps we're not the only loons in this dispute.