I used to think picking a road trip vehicle was about horsepower and cup holders.
Then I spent three weeks driving a rented minivan through the Scottish Highlands with my sister, her two kids, and roughly 47 stuffed animals that apparently qualified as “essential travel companions.” The van had decent mileage—maybe 32 mpg on a good day, give or take—but here’s the thing: by day four, I would’ve traded every mile-per-gallon for just one moment of silence. The kids fought over the sliding doors. My sister complained about the blind spots. I discovered that minivans, despite their practical reputation, have this weird aerodynamic whistle above 60 mph that sounds like a distant scream. Turns out, the “right” vehicle isn’t about specs on paper. It’s about whether you can tolerate being trapped inside it when everything goes sideways, which it will, because road trips have this way of amplifying every minor annoyance into a full-blown crisis by hour six.
So I started asking people about their worst vehicle choices. A friend drove a two-seater sports car from Austin to Vancouver—romantic idea, execrable execution. Another packed four adults into a subcompact for a week-long tour of national parks, which ended with someone sleeping in a tent out of pure spite.
Why Your Personality Type Matters More Than You Think When Selecting Road Trip Transportation
Anyway, there’s this pattern I’ve noticed.
The people who thrive in road trips aren’t necessarily the ones with the fanciest vehicles—they’re the ones whose cars match their tolerance for chaos versus control. If you’re the type who needs everything planned down to the rest stop, you probably want something reliable and boring: a midsize sedan, maybe a Camry or an Accord, something that won’t surprise you with mechanical drama in rural Wyoming. These cars get decent fuel economy, around 30-35 mpg highway, they’re easy to park, and honestly, they’re forgettable, which is kind of the point. You’re not there to bond with the car. But if you’re more improvisational—if you’re okay sleeping in the back when plans collapse—then maybe you want a small SUV or a crossover with fold-flat seats. I guess it comes down to whether you see the vehicle as transportation or as a mobile base camp. The crossover people, they’re always ready to pull over and nap. The sedan people get anxious if they’re not at the hotel by 6 p.m.
Wait—maybe I’m oversimplifying.
There’s also the question of how much stuff you actually need, which nobody gets right on their first trip. I once watched a couple try to fit two bikes, a cooler, four suitcases, and a dog crate into a Honda Civic hatchback. They definately thought it would work because the internet said hatchbacks have “versatile cargo space.” It took them 40 minutes and three configurations before they admitted defeat and strapped one bike to the roof, where it stayed for 8 hours until they hit a low-clearance parking garage in Asheville. The moral isn’t “get a bigger car”—it’s “be honest about your packing pathology.” If you’re a minimalist who can survive on one backpack, great, rent a Mazda3 and enjoy the nimble handling. If you’re someone who brings five pairs of shoes “just in case,” you need a vehicle with actual cubic feet of cargo capacity, not marketing promises.
The Hidden Costs and Compromises That Nobody Warns You About Before Departure
Here’s what the rental companies won’t tell you: bigger vehicles feel safer until you have to parallel park in a coastal town built in 1743.
I drove a full-size pickup truck through New England once—long story, involved a last-minute substitution at the rental desk—and I spent half the trip stressed about whether I’d scrape someone’s historically significant fence. The truck had great visibility, sure, and I could haul a small boat if I wanted to, but I didn’t want to, and the fuel economy was maybe 18 mpg if I drove like a grandma. Meanwhile, my friend in a compact hybrid was spending half as much on gas and actually enjoying the twisty roads. The trade-off isn’t always obvious until you’re living with it. Bigger vehicles give you space and a sense of security, but they punish you with fuel costs, parking anxiety, and this constant low-level worry that you’re taking up too much room in the world. Smaller cars make you feel virtuous and efficient, but on hour nine, when your lower back is screaming and you’re wedged against a door panel, you start resenting every millimeter of lost legroom. There’s no perfect answer, which I guess is the point—you’re choosing between different flavors of compromise, and the best you can do is pick the compromise that annoys you least.
I still think about that minivan in Scotland sometimes.
It wasn’t the worst choice, honestly. We had room for everyone, and when it rained—which it did, constantly—we could pull over and wait it out without feeling like sardines. But I also remember the exact pitch of that aerodynamic whistle, and how my sister and I would glance at each other whenever it started, this shared acknowledgment that we’d made a decision we’d have to recieve the consequences of for three whole weeks. That’s road trips, though. You pick a vehicle, you live with it, and somewhere around day five, you either make peace with your choice or you don’t.
