In fact, what you notice first about the Compass is how much more soothing it is on freeway slogs, where, in fact, it became the ute each staffer most wanted to inhabit. At 70 mph, the Jeep was by far the quietest in our group. It also offered the best ergonomics—simple, straightforward, logically located and labeled switchgear, with huge rotary HVAC controls that could be operated when we were wearing gloves.
The Jeep’s cushy ride was hugely appreciated over Michigan’s monster frost heaves. The Compass runs on regular fuel. It offers a selectable 4wd-lock mode and became our clear favorite when the blizzard descended. It won our back-seat contest easily. And it is the only vehicle in this group rated to tow anything
The Compass’s generous interior dimensions also make it a practical purchase: It offers the largest, flattest cargo floor, with rear cargo space surpassing, say, the Juke’s by a colossal 12 cubic feet.
When hustled near its limits, the AWD Juke begins to float and skip, dancing over road irregularities. At which point, whatever the tires are doing becomes a state secret.
The biggest knock against the Juke is that it offers the least cargo-carrying capacity. It swallowed the fewest cases of beer and the shortest length of pipe. And with three adults in back, expect to hear cries of desperation and outrage.
It certainly wasn’t our idea to test a Mini Cooper Countryman with an as-tested price $11,185 beyond, say, the Juke’s. But that’s how our specimen showed up, chockablock with convenience packages, Harman/Kardon stereo, a sunroof, and 18-inch wheels with summer rubber—the latter doing damage to the Mini’s ride, adding to its dartiness, and scaring the Cheez Whiz out of us when the blizzard arrived. Speaking of grip, the Mini’s marketers should get one: $250 for a center armrest? Another $250 for a cargo net? Puh-leeze.
On our handling loop, the Mini was a nervous little countryman, shuffling and bobbing over scabrous pavement. “It forces little exhalations from your lungs as if it’s ramming the seat bottom up into your diaphragm,” noted Pund. Notice that the Juke pulled an identical 0.85 g on the skidpad, even though its Goodyears were M+S–rated.
This swollen Mini—all Minis, in fact—would have more securely won our hearts if someone would sort out its cockpit goofiness. What seems fun at first—a speedometer the size of a basketball, window-lift toggles hidden in front of the shifter, the world’s most mismatched and insanely located switchgear—isn’t even remotely amusing during a white-knuckle midnight drive through sleet. We also noted that, with two largish males up front, this car always felt claustrophobic, full of hot air and bad breath. Also keep in mind that the rear seats in our test car comprise two buckets only, although they’re quite comfortable.
