Every now and then, someone comes into Y!A with a question along the line of “Will I fit in a [make and model]?” My answer is always the same: try it on for size. This is mostly because I’ve been burned by the one-size-fits-all statistics they always give out: fiftysomething cubic feet up front, maybe forty in the back, and legroom figures that assume everyone’s the same five-foot-nine person above whose head Consumer Reports measures headroom.
On the other hand, I can see this Toyota Yaris in my mind’s eye with superior resolution, thanks to the descriptive powers of Jack Baruth:
I … used the little Toyota to take a friend to dinner, said friend being a young lady approaching six feet tall and possessed of a thirty-six-inch inseam. Remember that, it’s relevant later, I promise. Finally, I tossed the car seat in the back and obtained my son’s opinion on the thing.
Oddly enough, both my four-year-old son and six-footer friend said the same thing about the Yaris: it’s not roomy. The two of them wouldn’t have been able to coexist in the thing; moving the passenger seat far enough forward for my scion (as opposed to the Scion, which this Yaris emphatically is not) to be able to fit his legs between the end of the child seat’s thigh support and the back of the front seat would have rendered said front seat completely uninhabitable for the Dutch girl. But even with the front seat moved all the way back, it was impossible for Miss Thirty Six Inch Inseam to cross her legs in the car. She was forced to sit flat-footed and upright in the thing. “Not,” she pronounced, “as roomy as my Civic.” Well, that’s okay, it’s a class below the Civic.
You couldn’t get that into a Road & Track data panel, I suppose.
Disclosure: While the sheer length of my lifetime has made it possible for me to have known several women who met most of this general description — “Dutch” is a data point I did not obtain — I have never been able to lure any of them into any car I was driving, let alone get them to cross their legs therein.