When I drive the Cruze, the defining word I would use is zip. It zips down the highway and down narrow city streets. You can make a last minute stop if the light turns red. You can whip it around an unexpected turn.
In Jan’s truck. I must plan each stop in advance because even after you jam on the brakes, the vehicle just keep going due to the weight in the back propelling it forward.
The truck has such a wide wheel base that you take up the entire street to make a turn into it. If there are cars parked on both sides of a residential street, you probably just need to go around the block and come at it from a different direction.
And I hate the truck’s seatbelt notification. The Cruze is non-confrontational. It gives you a soft melodious ding as a reminder “hey, don’t forget your seatbelts.” If you choose to ignore it, as I usually always do when I’m driving in town, it will tell you one more time but you can almost hear the little “I’ve-warned-you-twice-whatever-happens-now-is-on-you” shrug in its voice.
But, the red truck is a bully and a dictator. It doesn’t ding so much as loudly blare “get those blankety-blank seat belts on NOW!” It’s not a reminder but a threat. And it keeps it up. So I go down the street having a power struggle with the truck “the heck with you,” I say, “I’m the boss here!”
Jan is home now and I gave her vehicle back. Now I have nothing to drive — but even nothing is better than the red truck.