I have always believed that the only place where American cars make more sense than in the USA, is the Middle East. Not because of marketing, not because of heritage, but because of geography and psychology. The roads here are wide and unapologetic. The distances between Emirates are long enough to demand commitment. The skyline is so vertical that it quietly shrinks you as a human being, forcing you to reclaim physical presence in other ways. There is valet parking instead of tight European humiliation. There is desert instead of decorative gravel. If there is any place where a large SUV feels less like excess and more like alignment, it is here.

And yet, I don't own one. I am an owner of an old fragile beauty — not a car, but an artefact. It is romantic, temperamental, theatrical. It barely fits my tiny dog, let alone a bicycle. It is a statement about aesthetics, not logistics. When I drive it, I am not thinking about cargo space or torque distribution. I am thinking about proportion, silhouette, nostalgia. It is irrational, which is precisely why I love it.

But love and lifestyle aren't always compatible.

Whenever we escape to the mountains with our bikes, we rent a GMC Yukon. And every time I sit in that enormous machine, something shifts in me. The height, the width, the sheer volume of it — I feel unreasonably powerful. As if I could point it toward Oman and continue until continents run out. The Yukon isn't subtle. It doesn't negotiate space; it occupies it. And in a city of glass towers and overstimulation, there is something deeply stabilising about that kind of physical dominance.

The problem is that the Yukon is too much for everyday life. Even in Dubai, where “too much” is often the baseline.

So when the 2026 GMC Acadia AT4 appeared on my radar, I approached it with a specific curiosity: could this be the middle ground? Big but not gigantic. Capable but not theatrical. Powerful without being wasteful.

Under the hood, the numbers are reassuringly serious: a 2.5-litre turbocharged engine delivering 328 horsepower and 442 Nm of torque, paired with an 8-speed automatic transmission and an Active Torque Control all-wheel-drive system. On paper, it promises competence. On the road, it delivers composure. In Normal mode with two-wheel drive engaged, fuel consumption settles around 7–8 litres per 100 kilometres on longer drives, which for a vehicle of this scale feels almost restrained. In the city, switching to AWD and Sport mode sharpens the response immediately. The car tightens itself. It becomes more decisive in traffic, less floaty, more alert. It doesn't feel heavy; it feels planted.

There is a psychological phenomenon attached to driving something elevated. When you sit higher, you anticipate more. You see further. You feel less threatened by chaos around you. SUVs are often dismissed as symbols of suburban complacency, but I am starting to think they are actually symbols of cognitive relief. You aren't trying to be the fastest anymore. You are trying to be the most prepared.

The Acadia AT4 carries that preparedness in its stance: lifted suspension, underbody protection, all-terrain confidence. It looks slightly aggressive, slightly overconfident, as if it would prefer sand over asphalt but tolerates both. And I like that duality. One day I am commuting between art galleries and coffee shops; the next I want to disappear into the desert. It is comforting to know the same vehicle can absorb both versions of the day without complaint.

Practicality, which I used to treat as a boring word, suddenly feels liberating. Fold the third row, and two or three bikes slide into the back without acrobatics. The second row remains spacious, almost indulgent, separate adjustable seats giving passengers the sense that they are travelling somewhere significant, not just moving between errands. The panoramic roof stretches overhead like a reminder that you aren't confined, even when you are enclosed.

And then there is the technology — a topic I usually approach with suspicion. I am an old soul when it comes to cars. I prefer tactile controls. I distrust giant screens. But here, the 11.3-inch infotainment display and fully digital cluster don't feel invasive. They feel proportional. The cabin is large enough to justify them. The interface is intuitive rather than theatrical. Everything is there — climate, navigation, tyre pressure, oil life, brake monitoring, ambient lighting — not as an overload of buttons, but as a coherent system. It feels less like a gadget and more like infrastructure.

What ultimately won me over, however, wasn't horsepower or screen size. It was a vibration.

The driver’s seat pulses gently when you attempt to change lanes without signalling, when a car hides in your blind zone, when a pedestrian edges too close. As a cyclist and motorcyclist, I know how catastrophic a lazy manoeuvre can be. Indicators aren't decorative; they are ethical. The Safety Alert Seat doesn't scold you; it reminds you. That subtle physical feedback — combined with blind-zone assistance, adaptive cruise control, automatic emergency braking systems — creates a sense of shared responsibility. The car isn't replacing your awareness. It is amplifying it.

Perhaps falling in love with an SUV isn't surrendering to practicality but graduating into it. You stop chasing speed as proof of vitality. You start valuing stability as proof of wisdom. You are less interested in impressing strangers at traffic lights and more interested in knowing you could leave the city at any moment without logistical panic.

For me the Acadia AT4 represents something quiet, but strong: the desire to be capable. And in a landscape as vast and vertical as the Middle East, capability might be the most seductive quality of all.