As someone who's spent a great deal of time in (or more accurately, underneath) British cars, I find the word 'Jaguar' to be synonomous with luxury, style and great suffering. Thankfully, my dad never expressed any interest in owning an XJ or XK, and it remained a sort of Holy Grail of mechanical difficulty. “At least,” I'd say to myself, when some important part of the Land Rover had gone fatally 'sproing', “At least we don't have a Jaguar.”
But that doesn't mean I don't drool all over an E-Type whenever I come across one in a parking lot. They're like automotive goddesses with the curves of Aphrodite and the mood swings of Shiva. And you have to remove the rear end just to change the brakes.
Actually, the E-Type is perhaps a bit too obvious a choice. Everyone loves that thing, even people with hemp pants and communists. If I had to pick a favourite Jag, it'd be the big saloons: the '66 Mark IIs and the '68 420s. For me, these big cats are all about flash cockney villains, jewel heists and Italian Jobs, Michael Caine and John Osborne. They're cool enough to turn a Roger Rabbit into a Roger Daltrey.
And here's the thing: when I see a big Jaguar on the street, I think to myself, “That's the business.” With the exception of the excreable X-Type, every Jag is a true icon, an undiluted expression of the marque.
Founded in the '20s as a motorcycle sidecar company, Jaguar began producing sports cars in the thirties. However, it wasn't until the late forties that Jaguar really came into its own with the XK120 sport-saloon. Developed during war-time fire watch on the factory floor, the XK120 was a revolution in speed and luxury.
For instance in 1952, during a high-speed trial, a team of three drivers lapped an XK120 for 168 consecutive hours at 210 km/h, covering over 27,000 kms and stopping only for fuel and driver changes. In a time when most British cars would have struggled to break 100 km/h, this was like driving non-stop at double the speed limit from Vancouver to St. Johns, Newfoundland, and back again, twice in one week.
It was this sort of ridiculous achievement and numerous racing victories that built Jaguar's reputation for speed, while their burled wood and leather interiors were building a reputation for luxury. Sadly, by the late sixties, the actual cars were being built by British Leyland, which had built a reputation on being bad at building things.
Still the indisputable character of Jaguars remained untouched, if a bit rusty, up until the Ford Motor Corporation snapped them up in 1989. Between '89 and 2007 Jaguar earned Ford a profit of nothing, zero, nada, while turning out beauties like the XKR coupe, and yawnfests like the Mondeo-based X-Type.
Jaguar is now owned by India's Tata motors, which is probably the best thing that could have happened to them. Modern Britain is all chavs and ASBOs, David and Victoria Beckham, lager louts and football hooligans. India on the other hand, is proably the greatest preserver of English culture in the world. The P.G. Wodehouse appreciation society has more members in India than any other nation.
Combine this with the recent modernization of the country, and you have the perfect ownership for a company that's always lived on a heritage of speed and old-world charm, combined with modern technology. Consider the new supercharged XKR with its classic long-nose short-tail profile and E-type oval grille. With over 500 horsepower and a trick suspension, it brings supercar speed to the table, but it does it with a refinement and character only an Aston-Martin could match (at twice the price).
With the current economic turmoil, Jaguar remains one of the only luxury automakers that doesn't have a cluttered, diluted lineup. BMW has nearly ten model lines with various trim levels, and cheap financing. Mercedes has three different SUVs and the A-Class entry-level vehicle. Lexus's I250 is a luxo-badge at a Toyota price.
If you're in a Jaguar though, there's none of that cheapness. You might not have the one with the biggest engine, but it's going to be something very special nontheless. Perhaps this excusivity will mean a rebirth for Jaguar, an upswell in sales and a return to profitability. Either way, any time you see an old XJ or XK on the road, be sure and give them a salute.
Saying a few Hail Marys for their powertrain wouldn't go amiss either.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Toyota
Well, it finally happened. This week, Toyota officially became the world's largest auto manufacturer with 2008 car and truck sales of 8.97 million besting GM's paltry 8.35 million units sold.
Most people consider Toyota to have surpassed GM last year when they produced the most vehicles in the world, but Detroit denial stipulated that the sales crown was more important. And now that crown rests upon the brow of a beige Corolla with one missing hubcap.
More bad news for GM then as their whopping 77 years of market domination comes to an end, but perhaps its better to see things in a more optimistic light and cheer Toyota for their success. Maybe if we're really nice to them, they'll bring back the Supra.
Toyota sprang into being in the mid-thirties as an offshoot of a manufacturer of automatic looms. Kiichiro Toyoda was the enterprising son who had been sent to America and Europe to examine automotive production there, and he brought home what he learned to a Japan hungry for domestic car production. Early models were sold as Toyodas and were so similar to Dodge and Chevy products that some parts were actually interchangeable.
The Toyota company was given its name largely as the result of superstition. The homonym “Toyota” requires eight brush strokes to write in Japanese, which is both lucky and visually simpler than the symbols for “Toyoda”. Additionally, the literal translation of Toyoda is “fertile rice paddies,” and the modern company was eager to distance themselves from old-fashioned farming, especially when you think about what fertilizes rice paddies.
Early small cars from the Toyota motor company were sold under the name “Toyopet,” which didn't go over very well when they went on sale in the U.S. in 1957. The name was changed back to Toyota for export models, and in what may have been foreshadowing, the first model to show up on North American roads was the Toyota Crown.
You can still buy a Toyota Crown today, as it's roughly equivalent to a Lexus E350. You couldn't buy one by 1960 though because the car was a major failure. Its puny four-cylinder engine was no match for its truck-based frame on the interstate highways of the United States, and on a publicity stunt coast-to-coast trip, it barely made it from L.A. to Las Vegas. Toyota pulled the car from the export lineup, leaving only the jeep-like Land Cruiser and the Tiara, which initially sold 318 units and was considered a runaway success. Eventually the Crown was re-launched in the mid-sixties with a six-cylinder engine and the Tiara (which soon changed to Corona) began doubling its sales every year.
Really though, all that sales figures stuff is incredibly boring. The moment anyone actually started caring about Toyota was the moment they saw Akkiko Wakabayashi roll up in a white Toyota 2000 GT open-top to help James Bond escape from the bad guys. Yes, You Only Live Twice was a pretty silly movie, and yes, Sean Connery's Japanese disguise was pretty laughable (“domo arrrigato, Mishter Rrroboto”), but the swooping Jaguar E-type lines and Porche 911 performance of the 2000 GT made everybody sit up and pay attention. That was a Toyota?
Proving they could build an interesting car helped Toyota's sales, but it was the '73 oil crisis that really kicked down the doors for Japanese companies and their small, fuel-efficient vehicles. By the early 80's there were Toyota badges everywhere, particularly the Corolla, which would go on to be the best selling car nameplate in the world.
For me, the 80's are really the time where Toyota's trucks came into their own with the nigh-indestructible Hilux (or Tacoma) and Land Cruiser. If only groups like the Taliban were forced to drive around in trucks produced by Fiat or Alfa-Romeo, all the hotspots of the world would be a lot quieter, as they'd spend most of their time either walking or pushing. With a Toyota pickup truck though, they can go pretty much anywhere, and it'll run pretty much forever even without maintenance.
In 1989 Toyota pulled another trick out of their bag: they introduced Lexus. The LS400 flagship was launched after years of prototypes and customer focus groups, and it was a smooth-riding success. BMW and Mercedes sneered at the idea of a Japanese luxury car, dismissing it as nothing more than a fancy Camry, and suggesting that no Toyota product would ever be a threat to the high-end German marques. Look how well that prediction worked out.
By the 90's things were in full swing with the outrageous twin-turbo Supra, the pocket-rocket Celica GTS and the if-it-were-any-slower-it'd-be-a-Ferrari Turbo MR2. All fun to drive, but the most interesting vehicle Toyota launched wasn't. In 1997, Japanese roads were introduced to the bulbous, slow, and incredibly important Prius Hybrid.
Toyota has championed its Hybrid-Synergy drive over the last decade, making it available in everything from the SUV Toyota Highlander to their flagship sedan Lexus LS600h. In typical Toyota fashion, it spent millions on research even before the market existed for the vehicles it was intending to build.
Toyota now comprises three companies: Lexus, Toyota, and the “Youth” brand Scion. It also has its tentacles in Subaru, Yamaha and Isuzu. But even with its huge resources, great management and high sales volume, Toyota is still slowing or stopping production. They've killed the idea of bringing back the Supra, and a new Lexus supercar which was in the works also faces the axe.
Whether or not they retain their crown, it'd be nice to borrow Toyota's crystal ball for a while and see what they think the future has in store for us. Hopefully it's not just another shade of beige for that Corolla.
Most people consider Toyota to have surpassed GM last year when they produced the most vehicles in the world, but Detroit denial stipulated that the sales crown was more important. And now that crown rests upon the brow of a beige Corolla with one missing hubcap.
More bad news for GM then as their whopping 77 years of market domination comes to an end, but perhaps its better to see things in a more optimistic light and cheer Toyota for their success. Maybe if we're really nice to them, they'll bring back the Supra.
Toyota sprang into being in the mid-thirties as an offshoot of a manufacturer of automatic looms. Kiichiro Toyoda was the enterprising son who had been sent to America and Europe to examine automotive production there, and he brought home what he learned to a Japan hungry for domestic car production. Early models were sold as Toyodas and were so similar to Dodge and Chevy products that some parts were actually interchangeable.
The Toyota company was given its name largely as the result of superstition. The homonym “Toyota” requires eight brush strokes to write in Japanese, which is both lucky and visually simpler than the symbols for “Toyoda”. Additionally, the literal translation of Toyoda is “fertile rice paddies,” and the modern company was eager to distance themselves from old-fashioned farming, especially when you think about what fertilizes rice paddies.
Early small cars from the Toyota motor company were sold under the name “Toyopet,” which didn't go over very well when they went on sale in the U.S. in 1957. The name was changed back to Toyota for export models, and in what may have been foreshadowing, the first model to show up on North American roads was the Toyota Crown.
You can still buy a Toyota Crown today, as it's roughly equivalent to a Lexus E350. You couldn't buy one by 1960 though because the car was a major failure. Its puny four-cylinder engine was no match for its truck-based frame on the interstate highways of the United States, and on a publicity stunt coast-to-coast trip, it barely made it from L.A. to Las Vegas. Toyota pulled the car from the export lineup, leaving only the jeep-like Land Cruiser and the Tiara, which initially sold 318 units and was considered a runaway success. Eventually the Crown was re-launched in the mid-sixties with a six-cylinder engine and the Tiara (which soon changed to Corona) began doubling its sales every year.
Really though, all that sales figures stuff is incredibly boring. The moment anyone actually started caring about Toyota was the moment they saw Akkiko Wakabayashi roll up in a white Toyota 2000 GT open-top to help James Bond escape from the bad guys. Yes, You Only Live Twice was a pretty silly movie, and yes, Sean Connery's Japanese disguise was pretty laughable (“domo arrrigato, Mishter Rrroboto”), but the swooping Jaguar E-type lines and Porche 911 performance of the 2000 GT made everybody sit up and pay attention. That was a Toyota?
Proving they could build an interesting car helped Toyota's sales, but it was the '73 oil crisis that really kicked down the doors for Japanese companies and their small, fuel-efficient vehicles. By the early 80's there were Toyota badges everywhere, particularly the Corolla, which would go on to be the best selling car nameplate in the world.
For me, the 80's are really the time where Toyota's trucks came into their own with the nigh-indestructible Hilux (or Tacoma) and Land Cruiser. If only groups like the Taliban were forced to drive around in trucks produced by Fiat or Alfa-Romeo, all the hotspots of the world would be a lot quieter, as they'd spend most of their time either walking or pushing. With a Toyota pickup truck though, they can go pretty much anywhere, and it'll run pretty much forever even without maintenance.
In 1989 Toyota pulled another trick out of their bag: they introduced Lexus. The LS400 flagship was launched after years of prototypes and customer focus groups, and it was a smooth-riding success. BMW and Mercedes sneered at the idea of a Japanese luxury car, dismissing it as nothing more than a fancy Camry, and suggesting that no Toyota product would ever be a threat to the high-end German marques. Look how well that prediction worked out.
By the 90's things were in full swing with the outrageous twin-turbo Supra, the pocket-rocket Celica GTS and the if-it-were-any-slower-it'd-be-a-Ferrari Turbo MR2. All fun to drive, but the most interesting vehicle Toyota launched wasn't. In 1997, Japanese roads were introduced to the bulbous, slow, and incredibly important Prius Hybrid.
Toyota has championed its Hybrid-Synergy drive over the last decade, making it available in everything from the SUV Toyota Highlander to their flagship sedan Lexus LS600h. In typical Toyota fashion, it spent millions on research even before the market existed for the vehicles it was intending to build.
Toyota now comprises three companies: Lexus, Toyota, and the “Youth” brand Scion. It also has its tentacles in Subaru, Yamaha and Isuzu. But even with its huge resources, great management and high sales volume, Toyota is still slowing or stopping production. They've killed the idea of bringing back the Supra, and a new Lexus supercar which was in the works also faces the axe.
Whether or not they retain their crown, it'd be nice to borrow Toyota's crystal ball for a while and see what they think the future has in store for us. Hopefully it's not just another shade of beige for that Corolla.
The Future
As the year draws to a close, I can't say that there's a great deal of Christmas cheer in the automotive industry. Subaru and Suzuki can't afford to go rally-racing anymore. Honda just cancelled their V10-powered NSX supercar, even as it was in undergoing final trials at the Nürburgring. Toyota has been laying off contract workers in Japan by the hundreds, and has halted construction on a new US plant that would have built more Priuses for the North American market.
And if things are bad for foreign automakers, they're even worse for the home teams. GM is so starved for cash that they've just announced their intention to sell off rare and collectible cars from their museum collection. Chrysler has shut down all production for at least a month. Ford is looking to unload Volvo. Parts suppliers are witholding orders until they're paid in cash.
But it's not all Grinchiness and doom. In fact, gazing into our crystal ball-joint, it's possible to just make out the faintest few glimmers of hope on the horizon.
The Tesla Roadster
Up to this point, battery-powered transportation has failed to be, pardon the pun, electrifying. Basically every form of electric alternative transport was little more than a slightly oversized golf-cart; driving them was about as much of a hoot as licking a 9-volt battery. But not the Tesla.
Based on a Lotus chassis, the Tesla roadster has a lithium-ion battery pack that'll hold a charge good for a nearly 400-km range. Efficient? Yes. Exciting? Not so much.
Ignore the green stuff then, and check out the performance: 0-60mph takes just 3.9 seconds. On a recent British motoring program, the Tesla outran its gasoline-powered Lotus Elise cousin around a track, and ended up posting a better overall lap time than a Porsche 911.
Setting aside the fact that this sports coupe has been in development about as long as cold fusion, the production models are poised to appear at any moment, and it sounds as though they just might work.
The Chevy Volt
If GM does go under, it'll be especially painful as they have a car in development that'd probably have saved them, given a bit more time.
Possessing both a gasoline engine and an electric drivetrain, the Volt may appear to be like many hybrids on the surface. However, rather than using the gasoline engine to provide propulsion when engine loads are high, the Volt actually operates principally as an electric vehicle, one designed to be recharged periodically.
On pure electric power, the Volt will have a range of about 65kms. Once the batteries are depleted, a small 4-cylinder gasoline engine acts as a generator to extend the range to over 1000 kms.
Expected to enter production in 2010, if we don't see the Volt as a Chevy product, we're sure to see the technology in another form.
The Honda Insight
For a long time now, the Prius has had it all its own way. If you wanted to show that you were hip and environmentally concious, you bought a Prius. Actually, if you really wanted to show that you were green, you bought a bicycle and a bus-pass, but for those who couldn't live without a car, the Prius was pretty much the only game in town.
But here comes Honda, a little late to the party, but with an offering that will be much, much cheaper. By reducing the premium that hybrids demand over conventional small cars, Honda will undoubtedly contribute to a huge increase in the number of gas-electric powertrain vehicles on the road.
More hybrids on the road doesn't necessarily mean less pollutants in the air, but an increased demand for the technology would lead to more efficient production lines, less reliance on shipping over local manufacturing and better battery recycling programs.
The Nissan Denki Cube
Canadians will be able to get the Nissan Cube next year in conventional gasoline-powered form, and the funky little box on wheels should be a hot seller. Portland, Oregon residents will get an even better version (if you're a city dweller) as Nissan has announced a partnership with the State of Oregon based around electric vehicles.
The Oregon Department of Transport will be responsible for providing the recharging infrastructure, principally in densely-developed areas, and Nissan will provide the electric vehicles. Nissan CEO Carlos Ghosn has mentioned a need for electric SUVs and Minivans for the plan to succeed, but you can pretty much guarantee there will be some version of the lithium-ion powered Denki Cube concept that was revealed at the 2008 New York Auto Show.
The Toyota/Subaru Coupe
The new Dodge Challenger SRT8 produces 425 horsepower. The BMW M3 now has a 420hp V8. The Corvette ZR1 churns out a whopping 638 horsepower. All excellent if you're trying to use up the oil reserves faster or melt those pesky polar icecaps.
But is all this brute force necessary if you just want to have something fun to drive? Subaru and Toyota don't think so, so they've been working on a new project that favours lightness over large-displacement, forced-induction engines.
Rumored to have a 2.0-litre, 200hp engine with rear-wheel-drive, a six-speed manual transmission and a 2400lb curb weight, the two-seater coupe is sure to be a smash. It may be launched under Subaru brand in North America only, or under Toyota's youth-oriented Scion brand. Best of all, it's projected to be competing at a price-point just over $20,000.
The European Ford Focus
I've long said that if Ford of Europe ever bring their cars over to North America, I'd be among the first in line at the dealership.
Well it looks like they're going to do it, so it's time to break out the camping chairs and sleeping bags and get in line. Ford will be releasing their Transit utility van, their Fiesta sub-compact car and the European Focus should arrive by 2010. Forget everything you ever thought about Fords, the Focus is more fun to drive than a Miata, more reliable than a Civic, and more practical than a minivan.
If they don't bring the 300hp Focus RS though, I may have to Take Steps.
The Honda FCX Clarity
Honda's already got a mention in this list, but their Fuel-Cell powered clarity is truly a vision of the future. This car is the one to watch if you'd like to know what you'll be driving when the oil runs out.
No it doesn't hover or fly or (disappointingly) have laser beams attached to the front fenders to blast rush hour into molecular dust.
What it does have is four doors, above-average roominess, a willing 134 horsepower engine, miserly fuel economy, and excellent brakes and handling. It feels like a glimpse at the next Honda Accord. The futuristic part is the powerplant.
The FCX Clarity runs on hydrogen. Its vertical-flow fuel cell charges a 288V lithium-ion battery and runs the electric motor. No gasoline required.
Several FCX Clarities have been leased at a Honda-subsidized $600USD/month to specific customers at dealerships where hydrogen refueling stations are close by. Obviously the cost of manufacturing hydrogen and the fuel-cell cars is still far too high to be commercially viable, but Honda has proved that they can build a practical daily driver around the technology, and it's only a matter of time before we see more fuel-cell cars on the road.
And if things are bad for foreign automakers, they're even worse for the home teams. GM is so starved for cash that they've just announced their intention to sell off rare and collectible cars from their museum collection. Chrysler has shut down all production for at least a month. Ford is looking to unload Volvo. Parts suppliers are witholding orders until they're paid in cash.
But it's not all Grinchiness and doom. In fact, gazing into our crystal ball-joint, it's possible to just make out the faintest few glimmers of hope on the horizon.
The Tesla Roadster
Up to this point, battery-powered transportation has failed to be, pardon the pun, electrifying. Basically every form of electric alternative transport was little more than a slightly oversized golf-cart; driving them was about as much of a hoot as licking a 9-volt battery. But not the Tesla.
Based on a Lotus chassis, the Tesla roadster has a lithium-ion battery pack that'll hold a charge good for a nearly 400-km range. Efficient? Yes. Exciting? Not so much.
Ignore the green stuff then, and check out the performance: 0-60mph takes just 3.9 seconds. On a recent British motoring program, the Tesla outran its gasoline-powered Lotus Elise cousin around a track, and ended up posting a better overall lap time than a Porsche 911.
Setting aside the fact that this sports coupe has been in development about as long as cold fusion, the production models are poised to appear at any moment, and it sounds as though they just might work.
The Chevy Volt
If GM does go under, it'll be especially painful as they have a car in development that'd probably have saved them, given a bit more time.
Possessing both a gasoline engine and an electric drivetrain, the Volt may appear to be like many hybrids on the surface. However, rather than using the gasoline engine to provide propulsion when engine loads are high, the Volt actually operates principally as an electric vehicle, one designed to be recharged periodically.
On pure electric power, the Volt will have a range of about 65kms. Once the batteries are depleted, a small 4-cylinder gasoline engine acts as a generator to extend the range to over 1000 kms.
Expected to enter production in 2010, if we don't see the Volt as a Chevy product, we're sure to see the technology in another form.
The Honda Insight
For a long time now, the Prius has had it all its own way. If you wanted to show that you were hip and environmentally concious, you bought a Prius. Actually, if you really wanted to show that you were green, you bought a bicycle and a bus-pass, but for those who couldn't live without a car, the Prius was pretty much the only game in town.
But here comes Honda, a little late to the party, but with an offering that will be much, much cheaper. By reducing the premium that hybrids demand over conventional small cars, Honda will undoubtedly contribute to a huge increase in the number of gas-electric powertrain vehicles on the road.
More hybrids on the road doesn't necessarily mean less pollutants in the air, but an increased demand for the technology would lead to more efficient production lines, less reliance on shipping over local manufacturing and better battery recycling programs.
The Nissan Denki Cube
Canadians will be able to get the Nissan Cube next year in conventional gasoline-powered form, and the funky little box on wheels should be a hot seller. Portland, Oregon residents will get an even better version (if you're a city dweller) as Nissan has announced a partnership with the State of Oregon based around electric vehicles.
The Oregon Department of Transport will be responsible for providing the recharging infrastructure, principally in densely-developed areas, and Nissan will provide the electric vehicles. Nissan CEO Carlos Ghosn has mentioned a need for electric SUVs and Minivans for the plan to succeed, but you can pretty much guarantee there will be some version of the lithium-ion powered Denki Cube concept that was revealed at the 2008 New York Auto Show.
The Toyota/Subaru Coupe
The new Dodge Challenger SRT8 produces 425 horsepower. The BMW M3 now has a 420hp V8. The Corvette ZR1 churns out a whopping 638 horsepower. All excellent if you're trying to use up the oil reserves faster or melt those pesky polar icecaps.
But is all this brute force necessary if you just want to have something fun to drive? Subaru and Toyota don't think so, so they've been working on a new project that favours lightness over large-displacement, forced-induction engines.
Rumored to have a 2.0-litre, 200hp engine with rear-wheel-drive, a six-speed manual transmission and a 2400lb curb weight, the two-seater coupe is sure to be a smash. It may be launched under Subaru brand in North America only, or under Toyota's youth-oriented Scion brand. Best of all, it's projected to be competing at a price-point just over $20,000.
The European Ford Focus
I've long said that if Ford of Europe ever bring their cars over to North America, I'd be among the first in line at the dealership.
Well it looks like they're going to do it, so it's time to break out the camping chairs and sleeping bags and get in line. Ford will be releasing their Transit utility van, their Fiesta sub-compact car and the European Focus should arrive by 2010. Forget everything you ever thought about Fords, the Focus is more fun to drive than a Miata, more reliable than a Civic, and more practical than a minivan.
If they don't bring the 300hp Focus RS though, I may have to Take Steps.
The Honda FCX Clarity
Honda's already got a mention in this list, but their Fuel-Cell powered clarity is truly a vision of the future. This car is the one to watch if you'd like to know what you'll be driving when the oil runs out.
No it doesn't hover or fly or (disappointingly) have laser beams attached to the front fenders to blast rush hour into molecular dust.
What it does have is four doors, above-average roominess, a willing 134 horsepower engine, miserly fuel economy, and excellent brakes and handling. It feels like a glimpse at the next Honda Accord. The futuristic part is the powerplant.
The FCX Clarity runs on hydrogen. Its vertical-flow fuel cell charges a 288V lithium-ion battery and runs the electric motor. No gasoline required.
Several FCX Clarities have been leased at a Honda-subsidized $600USD/month to specific customers at dealerships where hydrogen refueling stations are close by. Obviously the cost of manufacturing hydrogen and the fuel-cell cars is still far too high to be commercially viable, but Honda has proved that they can build a practical daily driver around the technology, and it's only a matter of time before we see more fuel-cell cars on the road.
Automotive Branding
My dad brought home a Peugot pepper grinder the other day. When I finished picking myself up off the floor after hearing how much it had cost, I began to wonder what makes people buy car-company-branded products that have nothing to do with cars whatsoever.
Obviously the French have always been aces at food preparation, but I'd expect a pepper grinder designed by a French car company to leak oil all over my pasta and then disintegrate into a small conical pile of rust on the kitchen table.
Actually though, it worked quite well, which made me wonder if the real problem is that the engineers at Peugot are a little too concerned with preparing eight-course lunches to be bothered designing a car where the doors don't fall off unexpectedly. Even so, where do these companies get the idea that they should invest time and money in developing things that are totally unrelated to motor vehicles?
Porsche Design, for instance, offers pretty much everything you'd expect in the way of driving gloves, briefcases, hats and wallets with the Porsche name emblazoned on them: all the nonsense that lets everyone know you don't actually own a Porsche and probably never will. But you can also buy a Porsche-branded pipe. Or an entire kitchen. What exactly makes it a Porsche kitchen? Does the stove only have burners in the back? Does the refrigerator have a tendency to suddenly snap-oversteer and crash into a tree? I'm not quite sure.
Is it perhaps because the designers have nothing better to do? I mean the current new-style 911 Carrera has round headlights (again), but pretty much everything else is the same shape it's always been. Perhaps all these turtleneck-wearing ultra-cool German art-school graduates are just plain bored.
But then, it's not just Porsche who's slapping their name on everything under the sun either. Care to buy a Ferrari Segway? Some Hummer shot glasses? How about a Lamborghini Smart-phone, or a spritz of Bugatti cologne? It's sheer lunacy, but worst of all, the automakers are missing out on tie-ins they really should be making. Here's a few I'd like to see.
Toyota Warm Milk Drink:
Dependable. Reliable. Good value for money. All core attributes of Toyota products. Fun? Well occasionally, as long as it's not too much fun, there's no loud noises, and certainly not after eight o'clock. Having put the Celica to sleep a while back, and now with the announcement that Toyota intends to scrap its plans to return the riotously delinquent Supra, what better tie-in for Japan's largest automaker than a mild sedative?
They can even offer it in three shades of beige packaging, and the Prius version could be soy-based.
Honda VTEC Pacemakers:
Of the millions of VTEC valve-timing control devices that Honda's put out over the years, not a single failure has been reported. That's good.
Even better is the clever way in which VTEC allows for excellent fuel economy whilst puttering around town, and then a kick in the pants when you rev the engine into the stratosphere. Think of just how useful this could be for grandad: fiddling about in the garden all afternoon, and then out for some basketball with grandson Jimmy, dunking over all those baggy-short-wearing whippersnappers.
Potential drawback: young men might start illegally racing their grandparents on the street.
Aston Martin Make-up:
Astons are among the most beautiful man-made things on the planet, so why not you too? Stunning lines, gorgeous curves, perfectly balanced proportions, British Racing Green paintwork, it can all be yours! Side effects may include a long nose, wide rear haunches and a bellowing exhaust note.
Volvo Hockey Pads:
Literally translated, “Volvo” means “rolling strength”, but why not “skating strength”? After all, as the maker of some of the most crash-worthy cars ever to have golden retreivers shed all over the back seats, Volvo has always prided itself on safety first.
An additional bonus is that Volvo's traditional boxy design will leave you looking like a cross between Todd Bertuzzi and Optimus Prime.
Range Rover Designer Gumboots:
Just in time for the squelchy fall season, a high-heeled wellington boot. Be forewarned though, they're pretty much guaranteed to leak like a cardboard colander.
Alfa-Romeo Cappucino Maker:
From Italy comes a frothing, fizzy delight, emitting grinding noises and jets of steam. So why doesn't Alfa also have a go at building a Cappucino machine?
Come to think of it, they wouldn't even have to develop anything. All they'd have to do is retrofit one of their old Spyders so that the coffee beans were fed into the gearbox, and the radiator was hooked up to the milk steamer. Then all you'd have to do is drive it until it overheated, say fifteen feet or so, enjoy a lovely morning pick-me-up, and then get your neighbour to help you push it back into the garage.
Saab Jet Fighter:
Saab loves to tell the world about its aeronautical background, but the truth is the company that builds cars split from the airplane manufacturer back around the time fire was discovered. Still, I'd love to see what they could come up with if they tried to build a fighter plane today. Prediction: it'd be front-wheel-drive, turbocharged, have a ski-rack and be flown by Tom Cruise's orthodontist.
Citroën Energy Drink:
I have no real reason for this one, except for the chance we should all have to enjoy a tasty lemon-flavoured beverage called Citroënella.
There're plenty more, some that might even make sense like a Nissan-themed Playstation (after all, the Gran Turismo guys designed the GT-R's display system), but the deadline to print looms rapidly.
Good thing I've got my fool-proof Yugo speel-chëkker on.
Obviously the French have always been aces at food preparation, but I'd expect a pepper grinder designed by a French car company to leak oil all over my pasta and then disintegrate into a small conical pile of rust on the kitchen table.
Actually though, it worked quite well, which made me wonder if the real problem is that the engineers at Peugot are a little too concerned with preparing eight-course lunches to be bothered designing a car where the doors don't fall off unexpectedly. Even so, where do these companies get the idea that they should invest time and money in developing things that are totally unrelated to motor vehicles?
Porsche Design, for instance, offers pretty much everything you'd expect in the way of driving gloves, briefcases, hats and wallets with the Porsche name emblazoned on them: all the nonsense that lets everyone know you don't actually own a Porsche and probably never will. But you can also buy a Porsche-branded pipe. Or an entire kitchen. What exactly makes it a Porsche kitchen? Does the stove only have burners in the back? Does the refrigerator have a tendency to suddenly snap-oversteer and crash into a tree? I'm not quite sure.
Is it perhaps because the designers have nothing better to do? I mean the current new-style 911 Carrera has round headlights (again), but pretty much everything else is the same shape it's always been. Perhaps all these turtleneck-wearing ultra-cool German art-school graduates are just plain bored.
But then, it's not just Porsche who's slapping their name on everything under the sun either. Care to buy a Ferrari Segway? Some Hummer shot glasses? How about a Lamborghini Smart-phone, or a spritz of Bugatti cologne? It's sheer lunacy, but worst of all, the automakers are missing out on tie-ins they really should be making. Here's a few I'd like to see.
Toyota Warm Milk Drink:
Dependable. Reliable. Good value for money. All core attributes of Toyota products. Fun? Well occasionally, as long as it's not too much fun, there's no loud noises, and certainly not after eight o'clock. Having put the Celica to sleep a while back, and now with the announcement that Toyota intends to scrap its plans to return the riotously delinquent Supra, what better tie-in for Japan's largest automaker than a mild sedative?
They can even offer it in three shades of beige packaging, and the Prius version could be soy-based.
Honda VTEC Pacemakers:
Of the millions of VTEC valve-timing control devices that Honda's put out over the years, not a single failure has been reported. That's good.
Even better is the clever way in which VTEC allows for excellent fuel economy whilst puttering around town, and then a kick in the pants when you rev the engine into the stratosphere. Think of just how useful this could be for grandad: fiddling about in the garden all afternoon, and then out for some basketball with grandson Jimmy, dunking over all those baggy-short-wearing whippersnappers.
Potential drawback: young men might start illegally racing their grandparents on the street.
Aston Martin Make-up:
Astons are among the most beautiful man-made things on the planet, so why not you too? Stunning lines, gorgeous curves, perfectly balanced proportions, British Racing Green paintwork, it can all be yours! Side effects may include a long nose, wide rear haunches and a bellowing exhaust note.
Volvo Hockey Pads:
Literally translated, “Volvo” means “rolling strength”, but why not “skating strength”? After all, as the maker of some of the most crash-worthy cars ever to have golden retreivers shed all over the back seats, Volvo has always prided itself on safety first.
An additional bonus is that Volvo's traditional boxy design will leave you looking like a cross between Todd Bertuzzi and Optimus Prime.
Range Rover Designer Gumboots:
Just in time for the squelchy fall season, a high-heeled wellington boot. Be forewarned though, they're pretty much guaranteed to leak like a cardboard colander.
Alfa-Romeo Cappucino Maker:
From Italy comes a frothing, fizzy delight, emitting grinding noises and jets of steam. So why doesn't Alfa also have a go at building a Cappucino machine?
Come to think of it, they wouldn't even have to develop anything. All they'd have to do is retrofit one of their old Spyders so that the coffee beans were fed into the gearbox, and the radiator was hooked up to the milk steamer. Then all you'd have to do is drive it until it overheated, say fifteen feet or so, enjoy a lovely morning pick-me-up, and then get your neighbour to help you push it back into the garage.
Saab Jet Fighter:
Saab loves to tell the world about its aeronautical background, but the truth is the company that builds cars split from the airplane manufacturer back around the time fire was discovered. Still, I'd love to see what they could come up with if they tried to build a fighter plane today. Prediction: it'd be front-wheel-drive, turbocharged, have a ski-rack and be flown by Tom Cruise's orthodontist.
Citroën Energy Drink:
I have no real reason for this one, except for the chance we should all have to enjoy a tasty lemon-flavoured beverage called Citroënella.
There're plenty more, some that might even make sense like a Nissan-themed Playstation (after all, the Gran Turismo guys designed the GT-R's display system), but the deadline to print looms rapidly.
Good thing I've got my fool-proof Yugo speel-chëkker on.
Gas Prices are Good
I really love our new high gas prices.
Wait, hear me out! And you in the back, put down those pointy-looking rocks. High gas prices are actually good for driving enthusiasts.
I know it sounds ridiculous, but artificially low gas prices have been subsidizing an unsustainable automobile-based lifestyle, and we need to get back to basics, man. At least, that's what some beared guy on a bicycle told me. He did seem fairly with-it and groovy though, and anybody with that many facial piercings must know something I don't.
Anyway, for those of us who have the luxury of regarding driving as just a luxury, rather than a necessity, the recent rise in fuel prices is about to result in a second golden age of motoring. Steam may issue from my ears every time I pay for a fill-up of premium, but there's at least five good reasons I can think of to be happy my wallet is hurting.
1.] Less Congestion:
People who don't understand why I enjoy driving are often confused about what driving actually is, and no wonder. Here in the lower mainland, piloting a car from one place to another can be an activity far closer to parking than driving.
But good news everyone! Paying more per litre is finally pushing the cost of transportation into a greater factor than the minor inconveniences of public transit. Even car-pooling with somebody who's a Leafs fan is better than being stony broke after single-car commuting, and if you reduce the number of vehicles on the road by doubling up, we all get there faster.
Even better, can you imagine what the Sea-to-Sky would be like if people were commuting back and forth for their ski weekends by train, rather than forming kilometers-long congo-lines of motorists too testy to check out either the sea or the sky? Nothing is worse than getting stuck behind some ancient Winnebago that always seems to ooze along at twenty kph until there's a passing zone, at which point Bob and Martha turn into Han Solo and Chewebacca trying to break their Kessel Run record at hyperlight speed.
2.] Better cars:
I suppose SUVs are pretty good value per pound, but so is ground chuck. Now automakers are dealing with our new demand for extra-lean vehicles, and that means better design, more efficiency, and an emphasis on small and sporty, rather than big and beefy.[
High gas prices are sounding the death-knell of the Sport Utility Vehicle – those mastodons of the highways. Personally, I couldn't be more delighted, as the things are forever veering out of their lane, blotting out the scenery and blocking the line-ups at the pump every time gas dips below 1.40. Fact is, most people who drive SUVs don't need to, and those who are legitimately using a behemoth on a daily basis would be more than happy if it had a usefully efficient diesel engine, rather than some ludicrously large V8, swilling fuel and belching pollutants.
3.] Better roads:
Higher fuel prices mean less urban sprawl as people start to value living closer to their work. Greater densification in the urban core means that when you head out on the weekend for a trip to the countryside, not only do you get there sooner but you're also likelier to find cows, chickens and sheep rather than a massive new gated community in taupe and off-white. The secret backroads where driving nirvana hides will remain isolated, leafy and winding.
4.] Cheaper Insurance:
Cheaper insurance is not ever something I thought I'd see in my lifetime. Happily though, the more fuel-efficient your car, the further down the insurance scale it is. Small displacement engines that provide good bang for your buck are also easier on your insurance premiums, even if it's the sportier model of a compact car, rather than the V8 model of a luxury car.
Also, if you aren't driving your car for work, you can afford to take it off the road and insure it for pleasure use only. Not a huge savings to be had here, but there's something very pleasant about knowing that your car is there for you only when you need it, rather than being some slavering monster hiding in the garage that must be fed before the daily commute.
Better than that, you can always sell your boring minivan and buy the classic or hot-rod you've always wanted. Collector plate insurance is the cheapest you can get, and I'm sure heading out to pick up milk wouldn't be such a hassle if you had an Aston-Martin DB5 or an orange '70 Challenger R/T.
5.] Fitter Vancouverites:
I'm not just talking about the asthetics of Lululemon yoga pants here, although they are the really are the best leg-related thing to happen since the polio vaccine. When you and your friends are all fitness enthusiasts with the collective mass of a balsa-wood glider, your car is faster, handles better and burns less gas. Fantastic! Plus, there's a reduced burden on the healthcare system so taxes can be re-directed to finally paving that giant pothole called Cambie Street.
So embrace our new high gas prices, even if your Visa bill now looks like the GDP of Portugal. But just so everyone knows I'm only on the bus for the love of driving, I'll be wearing my race helmet.
Wait, hear me out! And you in the back, put down those pointy-looking rocks. High gas prices are actually good for driving enthusiasts.
I know it sounds ridiculous, but artificially low gas prices have been subsidizing an unsustainable automobile-based lifestyle, and we need to get back to basics, man. At least, that's what some beared guy on a bicycle told me. He did seem fairly with-it and groovy though, and anybody with that many facial piercings must know something I don't.
Anyway, for those of us who have the luxury of regarding driving as just a luxury, rather than a necessity, the recent rise in fuel prices is about to result in a second golden age of motoring. Steam may issue from my ears every time I pay for a fill-up of premium, but there's at least five good reasons I can think of to be happy my wallet is hurting.
1.] Less Congestion:
People who don't understand why I enjoy driving are often confused about what driving actually is, and no wonder. Here in the lower mainland, piloting a car from one place to another can be an activity far closer to parking than driving.
But good news everyone! Paying more per litre is finally pushing the cost of transportation into a greater factor than the minor inconveniences of public transit. Even car-pooling with somebody who's a Leafs fan is better than being stony broke after single-car commuting, and if you reduce the number of vehicles on the road by doubling up, we all get there faster.
Even better, can you imagine what the Sea-to-Sky would be like if people were commuting back and forth for their ski weekends by train, rather than forming kilometers-long congo-lines of motorists too testy to check out either the sea or the sky? Nothing is worse than getting stuck behind some ancient Winnebago that always seems to ooze along at twenty kph until there's a passing zone, at which point Bob and Martha turn into Han Solo and Chewebacca trying to break their Kessel Run record at hyperlight speed.
2.] Better cars:
I suppose SUVs are pretty good value per pound, but so is ground chuck. Now automakers are dealing with our new demand for extra-lean vehicles, and that means better design, more efficiency, and an emphasis on small and sporty, rather than big and beefy.[
High gas prices are sounding the death-knell of the Sport Utility Vehicle – those mastodons of the highways. Personally, I couldn't be more delighted, as the things are forever veering out of their lane, blotting out the scenery and blocking the line-ups at the pump every time gas dips below 1.40. Fact is, most people who drive SUVs don't need to, and those who are legitimately using a behemoth on a daily basis would be more than happy if it had a usefully efficient diesel engine, rather than some ludicrously large V8, swilling fuel and belching pollutants.
3.] Better roads:
Higher fuel prices mean less urban sprawl as people start to value living closer to their work. Greater densification in the urban core means that when you head out on the weekend for a trip to the countryside, not only do you get there sooner but you're also likelier to find cows, chickens and sheep rather than a massive new gated community in taupe and off-white. The secret backroads where driving nirvana hides will remain isolated, leafy and winding.
4.] Cheaper Insurance:
Cheaper insurance is not ever something I thought I'd see in my lifetime. Happily though, the more fuel-efficient your car, the further down the insurance scale it is. Small displacement engines that provide good bang for your buck are also easier on your insurance premiums, even if it's the sportier model of a compact car, rather than the V8 model of a luxury car.
Also, if you aren't driving your car for work, you can afford to take it off the road and insure it for pleasure use only. Not a huge savings to be had here, but there's something very pleasant about knowing that your car is there for you only when you need it, rather than being some slavering monster hiding in the garage that must be fed before the daily commute.
Better than that, you can always sell your boring minivan and buy the classic or hot-rod you've always wanted. Collector plate insurance is the cheapest you can get, and I'm sure heading out to pick up milk wouldn't be such a hassle if you had an Aston-Martin DB5 or an orange '70 Challenger R/T.
5.] Fitter Vancouverites:
I'm not just talking about the asthetics of Lululemon yoga pants here, although they are the really are the best leg-related thing to happen since the polio vaccine. When you and your friends are all fitness enthusiasts with the collective mass of a balsa-wood glider, your car is faster, handles better and burns less gas. Fantastic! Plus, there's a reduced burden on the healthcare system so taxes can be re-directed to finally paving that giant pothole called Cambie Street.
So embrace our new high gas prices, even if your Visa bill now looks like the GDP of Portugal. But just so everyone knows I'm only on the bus for the love of driving, I'll be wearing my race helmet.
GTR
It's a hundred and fifteen degrees Fahrenheit on the shimmering tarmac of Las Vegas Motor Speedway and there's a desert wind coming in from the West that feels like God's hairdryer. In this brutal desert environment any human being exposed to the elements for too long would shrivel up like a banana slug in a microwave oven. Convenient then, that this particular human being is currently sitting in a Monster.
A Monster with air-conditioning. Actually, it's getting a bit nippy in here, I'd better turn it down a little. Brrr.
The Monster in question is “Godzilla”, the nickname carried by Nissan's new supercar GT-R. A car that has garnered more press recently than a Britney Spears haircut. A car that is generating more expectant hype than Brangelina's baby. A car, in short, that has every gearhead either drooling in anticipation or warming up their scoffing muscles.
But perhaps a quick recap is necessary if you've been living in a cave. On Mars. With your eyes shut and your hands over your ears.
The Nissan GT-R's heritage stretches back to the sixties when it dominated Japanese racing series. Then nothing very much exciting happened for a while. Moon landings and fuel crisises mostly.
In 1989 the twin-turbocharged, all-wheel-drive GT-R arrived in its first R32 designation and proceeded to win the Japanese Touring Car Championship title for four consecutive years, was the first production car to lap the Nürburgring in under eight minutes, and was so dominant in racing that it was generally handicapped with weight and power-restriction penalties.
This latest incarnation, chassis designation R35, has been coming our way since being revealed as a concept at the Tokyo Auto Show way back in 2001. Since then, there's been spy shots of heavily camoflauged prototypes being tested, unofficial lap times, leaked technical specifications, an early Japan-only release, and the more recent news that two GT-Rs have been unloaded at Annacis Island in Vancouver and are awaiting customs clearance.
It's still a twin-turbocharged, all-wheel-drive beast, but Nissan is now calling the GT-R an “everyday supercar” and pitting it against the likes of the Corvette Z06 and the Porsche 911 twin turbo.
The new GT-R has destroyed everything in every parameter of every comparison test in every major automotive magazine in the last six months, and now I'm sitting in one at the starting line of the Las Vegas Motor Speedway road course, waiting to see if Godzilla is really a monster, or just a man in a silly rubber suit.
Does it live up to the hype?
Oh yes, yes indeedy.
Sweet sassy molassy, does it ever!
With all three adjustable parameters (suspension, throttle response, traction control) put to their “R” race settings, I pin the drive-by-wire throttle wide open and hang on for dear life as the GT-R rockets to 60 mph in less than four seconds. Then it's hard on those enormous six-piston brakes, each one the size of a smaller car's entire wheel, and into the sharp right-hander. There's so much cornering grip I fully expect the tarmac behind me to be ripped up as though by the claws of some prehistoric beast, but there's no time to check the rear view as the GT-R wriggles through some fast bends without any drama, just pouring on the power like a force of nature.
Gear-changes happen in the blink of an eye (half a blink actually) in a near seamless wave of lag-free acceleration. The brakes can stop you faster than running smack into a block of depleted uranium, but it's so easy to modulate their ferocious bite. The all-wheel-drive system is balanced and free of any understeering tendencies. But the really special thing is how the car works as a whole.
If a Mazda MX-5 Miata is supposed to fit like slipping on a pair of driving gloves, the GT-R is like one of those exoskeletal cargo-loaders from Aliens II, powerful and brutal. Better yet, it's Ironman's power-suit, seemingly invincible and transmitting every input into staggering performance.
Its electronic wizardry doesn't ever feel as though it's interfering, it just enhances your driving experience, making a slight correction here, adding a touch of brakes there. Confidence in my own abilities may not be absolute, but in this car, I'm Michael Schumacher crossed with Juan Michael Fangio, Jackie Stewart crossed with Ayrton Senna, Gilles Villeneuve crossed with... whoopsie...
Yikes, that last chicane was a bit awkward, but where a normal car might have spun, the GT-R stepped in for a split-second and routed some extra power to the front wheels to pull me out of the frying pan
But it's time to pull into the pit-lanes, and step out of air-conditioned comfort into the firey Nevada desert. Is the new Nissan GT-R the most amazing thing I've ever driven? An unequivocal “Yes”.
A Monster with air-conditioning. Actually, it's getting a bit nippy in here, I'd better turn it down a little. Brrr.
The Monster in question is “Godzilla”, the nickname carried by Nissan's new supercar GT-R. A car that has garnered more press recently than a Britney Spears haircut. A car that is generating more expectant hype than Brangelina's baby. A car, in short, that has every gearhead either drooling in anticipation or warming up their scoffing muscles.
But perhaps a quick recap is necessary if you've been living in a cave. On Mars. With your eyes shut and your hands over your ears.
The Nissan GT-R's heritage stretches back to the sixties when it dominated Japanese racing series. Then nothing very much exciting happened for a while. Moon landings and fuel crisises mostly.
In 1989 the twin-turbocharged, all-wheel-drive GT-R arrived in its first R32 designation and proceeded to win the Japanese Touring Car Championship title for four consecutive years, was the first production car to lap the Nürburgring in under eight minutes, and was so dominant in racing that it was generally handicapped with weight and power-restriction penalties.
This latest incarnation, chassis designation R35, has been coming our way since being revealed as a concept at the Tokyo Auto Show way back in 2001. Since then, there's been spy shots of heavily camoflauged prototypes being tested, unofficial lap times, leaked technical specifications, an early Japan-only release, and the more recent news that two GT-Rs have been unloaded at Annacis Island in Vancouver and are awaiting customs clearance.
It's still a twin-turbocharged, all-wheel-drive beast, but Nissan is now calling the GT-R an “everyday supercar” and pitting it against the likes of the Corvette Z06 and the Porsche 911 twin turbo.
The new GT-R has destroyed everything in every parameter of every comparison test in every major automotive magazine in the last six months, and now I'm sitting in one at the starting line of the Las Vegas Motor Speedway road course, waiting to see if Godzilla is really a monster, or just a man in a silly rubber suit.
Does it live up to the hype?
Oh yes, yes indeedy.
Sweet sassy molassy, does it ever!
With all three adjustable parameters (suspension, throttle response, traction control) put to their “R” race settings, I pin the drive-by-wire throttle wide open and hang on for dear life as the GT-R rockets to 60 mph in less than four seconds. Then it's hard on those enormous six-piston brakes, each one the size of a smaller car's entire wheel, and into the sharp right-hander. There's so much cornering grip I fully expect the tarmac behind me to be ripped up as though by the claws of some prehistoric beast, but there's no time to check the rear view as the GT-R wriggles through some fast bends without any drama, just pouring on the power like a force of nature.
Gear-changes happen in the blink of an eye (half a blink actually) in a near seamless wave of lag-free acceleration. The brakes can stop you faster than running smack into a block of depleted uranium, but it's so easy to modulate their ferocious bite. The all-wheel-drive system is balanced and free of any understeering tendencies. But the really special thing is how the car works as a whole.
If a Mazda MX-5 Miata is supposed to fit like slipping on a pair of driving gloves, the GT-R is like one of those exoskeletal cargo-loaders from Aliens II, powerful and brutal. Better yet, it's Ironman's power-suit, seemingly invincible and transmitting every input into staggering performance.
Its electronic wizardry doesn't ever feel as though it's interfering, it just enhances your driving experience, making a slight correction here, adding a touch of brakes there. Confidence in my own abilities may not be absolute, but in this car, I'm Michael Schumacher crossed with Juan Michael Fangio, Jackie Stewart crossed with Ayrton Senna, Gilles Villeneuve crossed with... whoopsie...
Yikes, that last chicane was a bit awkward, but where a normal car might have spun, the GT-R stepped in for a split-second and routed some extra power to the front wheels to pull me out of the frying pan
But it's time to pull into the pit-lanes, and step out of air-conditioned comfort into the firey Nevada desert. Is the new Nissan GT-R the most amazing thing I've ever driven? An unequivocal “Yes”.
Nürburgring
Nürburgring
Recently, the new Nissan GT-R supercar lapped the Nürburgring in a blisteringly fast seven minutes and thirty-eight seconds. Next, the new supercharged 638-horsepower Chevy Corvette ZR-1 started putting in lap times in the 7:40 range, but in less-than-ideal cold, wet track conditions, and the GM engineering team started flexing their bragging muscles.
Nissan, not about to lose face to a bunch of hairy gaijin and their coarse, brutish 'Vette, sent out track ninja Tochio Suzuki who knocked out an unbelievably quick 7:29. In the face of speculations as to whether the ZR-1's dry lap time would best the techno-wizardy of the GT-R, chief ZR-1 Engineer Tadge Juecter responded that his car would beat any production car's track record, anywhere in the world.
Needless to say, this epic battle went to my head faster than a pint of schnapps and I may have become a little over-excited. Sadly, I was not successfully able to communicate that excitement to most of my friends.
“Nüburgring? Isn't that the German word for onion ring?” one asked.
“I thought the Nürburgring was destroyed when Frodo cast it into Mount Doom,” said another, “Oh, and thanks for calling, I need your help to clean out my basement.”
There was no help on the home front either, as my eco-conscious wife wanted to know how many miles to the gallon the ZR-1 got. “At least several,” I mumbled, and then high-tailed it.
So what is the Nüburgring anyway, and why does it seem to be the equivalent of behind-the-bike-sheds for afterschool scrapping between the best racecar drivers and engineering teams in the world?
Built in the 1920s in Nürburg (which has nothing whatsoever to do with onions, just in case you were wondering), the Nüburgring is one of the longest, most technically difficult racetracks in the world. It is located in the west of Germany, 120 kilometers northwest of Frankfurt, and is divided into several sections, the most famous being the Nordschliefe or “Northern Loop.”
At nearly twenty-three kilometers in length, with every conceivable type of corner imaginable, it is the Nordschliefe that has made the Nüburgring famous. Sir Jackie Stewart, the Formula 1 racing driver known as the “Flying Scot”, coined the term “The Green Hell” for the Nordschliefe when he raced there in the late sixties, and even now, it is widely regarded as the toughest, the most demanding and the most dangerous racetrack in existence.
The Nüburgring claims several lives each year in crashes. Several well-experienced Formula One drivers died in the sixties, and even now drivers who have logged countless hours can be caught out by any one of its one hundred corners. Any mistake at all means hitting the barrier, and the track's enormous length makes it difficult for emergency teams to respond quickly.
Dangerous it may be, but as a yardstick with which to measure the performance of supercars, 'Ring lap times are far better than just 0-60mph acceleration figures and quarter-mile times. The Nüburgring punishes every dynamic of the cars, only rewarding the best, and many manufacturers use the track as a place to hone their vehicles until they're just right.
GM and their Corvette are relatively new 'Ring rats, but team drivers from German companies such as BMW, Mercedes, Audi and Porsche can be found on the track almost every day, flogging everything from prototype racers to the latest 911 variant. No official word on what the Germans think about the current battle for 'Ring supremacy being fought between the Americans and the Japanese but they're probably cooking up their own track superweapon.
It's not just bragging rights for company racers either: the 'Ring is also open to the public on most weekends and weekday evenings. As it operates in much the same manner as a toll road, you simply drive up to the gate, deposit your twenty-one Euro, and then it's off for a blast around the corners. It can be dangerous to get too wrapped up in trying to hit your best lap time though. Rescue paramedics report that they often retrieve running stopwatches from crashed racecars.
If you're not foolhardy enough to want to lap the Nüburgring yourself, a professional driver can take you on a lightning tour in one of the BMW M5 'Ring Taxis. If you're very lucky, it'll be the “Queen of the Ring”, driver Sabine Schmitz, who's known for giving out such helpful tips as, “Never enter Karussell [a tricky corner] when on the brakes! I have gone round there on the roof, I know what I'm talking about.”
Not enthused about riding shotgun with a fast and furious fräulein either? Well, the Nüburgring's popularity is so widespread, it can be found on most any serious racing simulator you'd care to name. If you do happen to end up going around the Karussel on your roof, it's great to have a reset button.
Recently, the new Nissan GT-R supercar lapped the Nürburgring in a blisteringly fast seven minutes and thirty-eight seconds. Next, the new supercharged 638-horsepower Chevy Corvette ZR-1 started putting in lap times in the 7:40 range, but in less-than-ideal cold, wet track conditions, and the GM engineering team started flexing their bragging muscles.
Nissan, not about to lose face to a bunch of hairy gaijin and their coarse, brutish 'Vette, sent out track ninja Tochio Suzuki who knocked out an unbelievably quick 7:29. In the face of speculations as to whether the ZR-1's dry lap time would best the techno-wizardy of the GT-R, chief ZR-1 Engineer Tadge Juecter responded that his car would beat any production car's track record, anywhere in the world.
Needless to say, this epic battle went to my head faster than a pint of schnapps and I may have become a little over-excited. Sadly, I was not successfully able to communicate that excitement to most of my friends.
“Nüburgring? Isn't that the German word for onion ring?” one asked.
“I thought the Nürburgring was destroyed when Frodo cast it into Mount Doom,” said another, “Oh, and thanks for calling, I need your help to clean out my basement.”
There was no help on the home front either, as my eco-conscious wife wanted to know how many miles to the gallon the ZR-1 got. “At least several,” I mumbled, and then high-tailed it.
So what is the Nüburgring anyway, and why does it seem to be the equivalent of behind-the-bike-sheds for afterschool scrapping between the best racecar drivers and engineering teams in the world?
Built in the 1920s in Nürburg (which has nothing whatsoever to do with onions, just in case you were wondering), the Nüburgring is one of the longest, most technically difficult racetracks in the world. It is located in the west of Germany, 120 kilometers northwest of Frankfurt, and is divided into several sections, the most famous being the Nordschliefe or “Northern Loop.”
At nearly twenty-three kilometers in length, with every conceivable type of corner imaginable, it is the Nordschliefe that has made the Nüburgring famous. Sir Jackie Stewart, the Formula 1 racing driver known as the “Flying Scot”, coined the term “The Green Hell” for the Nordschliefe when he raced there in the late sixties, and even now, it is widely regarded as the toughest, the most demanding and the most dangerous racetrack in existence.
The Nüburgring claims several lives each year in crashes. Several well-experienced Formula One drivers died in the sixties, and even now drivers who have logged countless hours can be caught out by any one of its one hundred corners. Any mistake at all means hitting the barrier, and the track's enormous length makes it difficult for emergency teams to respond quickly.
Dangerous it may be, but as a yardstick with which to measure the performance of supercars, 'Ring lap times are far better than just 0-60mph acceleration figures and quarter-mile times. The Nüburgring punishes every dynamic of the cars, only rewarding the best, and many manufacturers use the track as a place to hone their vehicles until they're just right.
GM and their Corvette are relatively new 'Ring rats, but team drivers from German companies such as BMW, Mercedes, Audi and Porsche can be found on the track almost every day, flogging everything from prototype racers to the latest 911 variant. No official word on what the Germans think about the current battle for 'Ring supremacy being fought between the Americans and the Japanese but they're probably cooking up their own track superweapon.
It's not just bragging rights for company racers either: the 'Ring is also open to the public on most weekends and weekday evenings. As it operates in much the same manner as a toll road, you simply drive up to the gate, deposit your twenty-one Euro, and then it's off for a blast around the corners. It can be dangerous to get too wrapped up in trying to hit your best lap time though. Rescue paramedics report that they often retrieve running stopwatches from crashed racecars.
If you're not foolhardy enough to want to lap the Nüburgring yourself, a professional driver can take you on a lightning tour in one of the BMW M5 'Ring Taxis. If you're very lucky, it'll be the “Queen of the Ring”, driver Sabine Schmitz, who's known for giving out such helpful tips as, “Never enter Karussell [a tricky corner] when on the brakes! I have gone round there on the roof, I know what I'm talking about.”
Not enthused about riding shotgun with a fast and furious fräulein either? Well, the Nüburgring's popularity is so widespread, it can be found on most any serious racing simulator you'd care to name. If you do happen to end up going around the Karussel on your roof, it's great to have a reset button.
Fix It Yourself
AC Schnitzer, the famous German tuning house, has recently announced that they will be opening a high-end restaurant above their workshop. The idea, so sayeth the glossy press release, is that deep-pocketed customers will be able to drop off their BMWs to get some extra horsepower shoehorned under the hood, whilst enjoying some chilled-salad-fork-style fine-dining at the same time.
After idly wondering about whether AC Weiner Schnitzel would be on the menu, or whether I could get a 5W-30 truffle oil change, I suddenly came to the realization that this was possibly the stupidest thing I had ever heard in my entire life.
Whatever happened to doing things yourself? Nowadays it seems like every manufacturer has wreathed their engine bays in complicated-looking multi-coloured wiring and masked everything familiar with mysteriously corrugated plastic engine covers.
Oh dear, I just said “nowadays”. It's only one small step further to curmudgeonhood with its “newfangled” and “whippersnappers.”
Still, I stand by my original assertion: there's something to be said for the simpler days of motoring, when each individual component didn't have its own computerized control module. Back then you could just change a wiper blade without having to reinstall and then update the wiper-blade-control-unit driver software.
Now the first thing to do when your car stops working is perform a full system reboot by turning off the car, getting out, closing all the doors, and then getting back in again, but there was a time when even a hamfisted do-it-yourselfer such as myself could successfully attempt a roadside repair.
Once upon a time, all you needed to fix a car was a screwdriver, a monkey wrench, a socket set with not too many pieces missing, a really big hammer, and overconfidence in your own abilities. There was no need for specialized dealer tools that look like R2-D2's arm and cost more than a piano: cars were nothing more than tremendously complicated Mechano sets, just that the wrenches were bigger, and there was more opportunity to get yourself all nice and dirty.
And there were no Wizard of Oz don't-look-behind-the-curtain plastic covers either, just bare greasy metal. Everything was out in the open: there is the manifold, here is the carburettor, there're the valve covers, here's the metal thingy I always burn myself on, there's the bit that goes sproing and flies off into the corner of the shed where you can't find it for three hours. All there; all just begging to be tampered with.
In my opinion, you don't really begin to truly appreciate your car until you've invested a part of yourself in repairing, maintaining or improving it. The part I usually end up investing is the skin off my knuckles, but there's been plenty of times I've sat in the driver's seat, ignition key poised, offering up a silent prayer to Our Blessed Lady of Acceleration that this time it's got to start. When the engine does start, it's the best feeling in the world. All the sore backs, mashed thumbs and gritty eyes disappear in a flood of endorphins, as you stand back to admire your handiwork. Usually at this point you realize that you've forgotten to bolt something extremely important back in, and that you've got to take everything apart again in order to do so, but that's beside the point.
Even with a modern car being crammed full of computing power, there's still plenty for the shade-tree mechanic to try their hand at. I wouldn't really bother with the brakes, as that's how Tim Robbin's character ended up in jail in the Shawshank Redemption, but you could at least learn how to change your own oil. For all the mumbo-jumbo of drive-by-wire, electronic control units and on-board diagnostics, engines are still all about fuel, air and spark. If you can figure out which one of those things is missing, you're halfway there to fixing it.
Leave the big stuff to the professionals by all means, but get out there and get under your car. Take off the plastic engine covers and put them in the recycling bin. Show up to the board meeting with blackened fingernails and a smudge on your nose.
You'll learn how the internal combustion engine works. You'll learn how swearing actually makes pain go away faster. You'll learn what a complicated, fantastic, amazing piece of machinery a modern automobile is.
Best of all, if you know what your mechanic is actually talking about, you'll never end up paying to have your muffler bearings lubricated.
After idly wondering about whether AC Weiner Schnitzel would be on the menu, or whether I could get a 5W-30 truffle oil change, I suddenly came to the realization that this was possibly the stupidest thing I had ever heard in my entire life.
Whatever happened to doing things yourself? Nowadays it seems like every manufacturer has wreathed their engine bays in complicated-looking multi-coloured wiring and masked everything familiar with mysteriously corrugated plastic engine covers.
Oh dear, I just said “nowadays”. It's only one small step further to curmudgeonhood with its “newfangled” and “whippersnappers.”
Still, I stand by my original assertion: there's something to be said for the simpler days of motoring, when each individual component didn't have its own computerized control module. Back then you could just change a wiper blade without having to reinstall and then update the wiper-blade-control-unit driver software.
Now the first thing to do when your car stops working is perform a full system reboot by turning off the car, getting out, closing all the doors, and then getting back in again, but there was a time when even a hamfisted do-it-yourselfer such as myself could successfully attempt a roadside repair.
Once upon a time, all you needed to fix a car was a screwdriver, a monkey wrench, a socket set with not too many pieces missing, a really big hammer, and overconfidence in your own abilities. There was no need for specialized dealer tools that look like R2-D2's arm and cost more than a piano: cars were nothing more than tremendously complicated Mechano sets, just that the wrenches were bigger, and there was more opportunity to get yourself all nice and dirty.
And there were no Wizard of Oz don't-look-behind-the-curtain plastic covers either, just bare greasy metal. Everything was out in the open: there is the manifold, here is the carburettor, there're the valve covers, here's the metal thingy I always burn myself on, there's the bit that goes sproing and flies off into the corner of the shed where you can't find it for three hours. All there; all just begging to be tampered with.
In my opinion, you don't really begin to truly appreciate your car until you've invested a part of yourself in repairing, maintaining or improving it. The part I usually end up investing is the skin off my knuckles, but there's been plenty of times I've sat in the driver's seat, ignition key poised, offering up a silent prayer to Our Blessed Lady of Acceleration that this time it's got to start. When the engine does start, it's the best feeling in the world. All the sore backs, mashed thumbs and gritty eyes disappear in a flood of endorphins, as you stand back to admire your handiwork. Usually at this point you realize that you've forgotten to bolt something extremely important back in, and that you've got to take everything apart again in order to do so, but that's beside the point.
Even with a modern car being crammed full of computing power, there's still plenty for the shade-tree mechanic to try their hand at. I wouldn't really bother with the brakes, as that's how Tim Robbin's character ended up in jail in the Shawshank Redemption, but you could at least learn how to change your own oil. For all the mumbo-jumbo of drive-by-wire, electronic control units and on-board diagnostics, engines are still all about fuel, air and spark. If you can figure out which one of those things is missing, you're halfway there to fixing it.
Leave the big stuff to the professionals by all means, but get out there and get under your car. Take off the plastic engine covers and put them in the recycling bin. Show up to the board meeting with blackened fingernails and a smudge on your nose.
You'll learn how the internal combustion engine works. You'll learn how swearing actually makes pain go away faster. You'll learn what a complicated, fantastic, amazing piece of machinery a modern automobile is.
Best of all, if you know what your mechanic is actually talking about, you'll never end up paying to have your muffler bearings lubricated.
Best Cars We Don't Get
There are many reasons I love living in Canada: its great natural beauty, our multicultural society, free medical care every time I hurt myself doing something stupid, and being able to convince American tourists that twelve people were eaten by polar bears in the downtown core last winter. However, sometimes it's tough to be a Canadian gearhead.
No, I'm not talking about grease patches on your best toque, or getting your tongue stuck to your ratchet set during a cold snap (and anyway, that only happened the once). I'm talking about all the great cars we don't get here. Of course, there's plenty of great rides we do get, but nothing's as annoying as having an amazing European rental car that has no North American equivalent.
If I were able to take a sampling of all the best cars the rest of the world gets, here are my top picks.
Diesel Mini. There's plenty of tiny, hyper-efficient runabouts to choose from, including the very nicely appointed Mazda2, but I've got to go with the Mini Cooper D. Not only are Minis always as fun to drive as they are to look at, but the extra torque from the turbodiesel engine means that you can haul extra weight (for instance, a few more gold bars next time you rob that Italian armoured car). The other thing about Minis is that every time I get into one, it's like stepping through the front door of a tiny hut into the interior of BC Place. How the heck do they do that? Do they build the things at Hogwarts? With a six-speed manual transmission, the Mini D would be a hoot, while also not endangering any spotted owls.
Audi RS6 Avant. Wasn't Audi's R8 supercar at this year's Auto Show a pretty little confection of aluminum and carbon-fibre? Think it was the most powerful car Audi makes? Wrong. Witness the mind-bendingly powerful RS6 Avant: a twin-turbocharged, V10, AWD, station wagon. Yep, a station wagon. If you really want to laminate your golden retriever to the rear window, this 580hp monster is the way to do it, with a crushing acceleration capable of turning lumps of coal into diamond. It's the perfect car to take on a family picnic, assuming your destination is the seventeenth century and you need to warp space and time to get there.
Ford Focus ST. The Focus is an amazing, beautifully designed, fun-to-drive, comfortable vehicle. Oh, not the one we get, the one you get if you live in a place that has lots of vowels and umlauts in its name. Foörd, sorry, Ford has seen fit to build an entirely different entry-level vehicle for the North American market, and it's a great shame because they only need to look at the success of the Mazda3 to see how the Euro-Focus would do here. I'll take the turbocharged hooligan version in tear-up-my-license iridescent orange please.
Land Rover Defender. Having experienced the immeasurable joys and miseries of driving an elderly Land Rover Series III, I have a soft spot for this truck. It's the automotive version of wellington boots and a tweed sportscoat. No air-conditioning? Stiff upper lip, old boy! Mind you, the new ones have a few more amenities, such as a heater, but you've got to love a truck that makes no concessions to aerodynamics whatsoever. Mine would be green, except you wouldn't be able to tell because there would always be so much mud caked on it.
Holden Commodore SS VE Ute. I love Australians. I know it's a bit obvious to say that, as pretty much everybody loves Australians unless you don't like barbeques, or are from New Zealand. It's such a great country, so far away and full of deadly spiders and snakes, and they send all their best and brightest to run our ski resorts. Australian cars are like that too: big and friendly, and my favorite type is probably the ute. Essentially a car with a pickup bed on the back, the Holden is the best of the bunch as it's directly descended from the El Camino. The VE (in either eye-searing green or menacing black) would be my pick as it's the one that comes with a Corvette engine transplant. Nothing could be greater than rolling around with a bed-full of terrified sheep, pulling up next to an M5, rolling down the window, and saying in your best Paul Hogan, “That's not a knoife.”
There's so many left to mention: the Fiat 500 Abarth, the BMW M5 Wagon, the european-variant Suzuki Swift, the Clio Renaultsport 197, the Ford Mondeo from the last Bond movie, the turbodiesel 5-series BMW, the Civic Type R...
I'm going to need a boat. And a bigger garage.
No, I'm not talking about grease patches on your best toque, or getting your tongue stuck to your ratchet set during a cold snap (and anyway, that only happened the once). I'm talking about all the great cars we don't get here. Of course, there's plenty of great rides we do get, but nothing's as annoying as having an amazing European rental car that has no North American equivalent.
If I were able to take a sampling of all the best cars the rest of the world gets, here are my top picks.
Diesel Mini. There's plenty of tiny, hyper-efficient runabouts to choose from, including the very nicely appointed Mazda2, but I've got to go with the Mini Cooper D. Not only are Minis always as fun to drive as they are to look at, but the extra torque from the turbodiesel engine means that you can haul extra weight (for instance, a few more gold bars next time you rob that Italian armoured car). The other thing about Minis is that every time I get into one, it's like stepping through the front door of a tiny hut into the interior of BC Place. How the heck do they do that? Do they build the things at Hogwarts? With a six-speed manual transmission, the Mini D would be a hoot, while also not endangering any spotted owls.
Audi RS6 Avant. Wasn't Audi's R8 supercar at this year's Auto Show a pretty little confection of aluminum and carbon-fibre? Think it was the most powerful car Audi makes? Wrong. Witness the mind-bendingly powerful RS6 Avant: a twin-turbocharged, V10, AWD, station wagon. Yep, a station wagon. If you really want to laminate your golden retriever to the rear window, this 580hp monster is the way to do it, with a crushing acceleration capable of turning lumps of coal into diamond. It's the perfect car to take on a family picnic, assuming your destination is the seventeenth century and you need to warp space and time to get there.
Ford Focus ST. The Focus is an amazing, beautifully designed, fun-to-drive, comfortable vehicle. Oh, not the one we get, the one you get if you live in a place that has lots of vowels and umlauts in its name. Foörd, sorry, Ford has seen fit to build an entirely different entry-level vehicle for the North American market, and it's a great shame because they only need to look at the success of the Mazda3 to see how the Euro-Focus would do here. I'll take the turbocharged hooligan version in tear-up-my-license iridescent orange please.
Land Rover Defender. Having experienced the immeasurable joys and miseries of driving an elderly Land Rover Series III, I have a soft spot for this truck. It's the automotive version of wellington boots and a tweed sportscoat. No air-conditioning? Stiff upper lip, old boy! Mind you, the new ones have a few more amenities, such as a heater, but you've got to love a truck that makes no concessions to aerodynamics whatsoever. Mine would be green, except you wouldn't be able to tell because there would always be so much mud caked on it.
Holden Commodore SS VE Ute. I love Australians. I know it's a bit obvious to say that, as pretty much everybody loves Australians unless you don't like barbeques, or are from New Zealand. It's such a great country, so far away and full of deadly spiders and snakes, and they send all their best and brightest to run our ski resorts. Australian cars are like that too: big and friendly, and my favorite type is probably the ute. Essentially a car with a pickup bed on the back, the Holden is the best of the bunch as it's directly descended from the El Camino. The VE (in either eye-searing green or menacing black) would be my pick as it's the one that comes with a Corvette engine transplant. Nothing could be greater than rolling around with a bed-full of terrified sheep, pulling up next to an M5, rolling down the window, and saying in your best Paul Hogan, “That's not a knoife.”
There's so many left to mention: the Fiat 500 Abarth, the BMW M5 Wagon, the european-variant Suzuki Swift, the Clio Renaultsport 197, the Ford Mondeo from the last Bond movie, the turbodiesel 5-series BMW, the Civic Type R...
I'm going to need a boat. And a bigger garage.
Offensive Driving
As I was strolling down the sidewalk the other day, minding my own business, somebody walked out of a store right in front of me - without even looking! I lurched to a halt, but the guy didn't even seem to notice. Snarling, I sped up to within inches of his back, breathing down his neck, but the sidewalk was too busy for me to get around him. Suddenly, he stopped, and I very nearly ran into him. Taking a chance, I swerved to the left and went for it, but he saw my move and blocked me. “Beeeep!” I yelled, swerving back and forth in an effort to get around him, “Honk honk HONK!”
There was a red light at the next crosswalk and I pulled up alongside him, glaring. We both made growling noises and shuffled our feet really fast, making our shoes squeal in protest. The light changed to white-walking-man, and we leapt forward, streaking down the sidewalk. He obviously had some training as we were neck-and-neck, but then suddenly there were two people coming the other way! I was going far too fast to stop. Swerving to the right, I collided with the guy I was racing and spun out into a pole. He went through the fruit display of a grocery store and overturned.
When the police arrived the officers booked us for speedwalking and sidewalk-racing and impounded my shoes. Now I have to get my friends to come pick me up and piggy-back me whenever I want to go out. I'm just glad no-one got seriously hurt.
Sounds ridiculous, right? Well, why then aren't we surprised when this sort of thing happens every day in our cars and on the road? It seems like as soon as we surround ourselves with a few tonnes of steel, plastic and glass, nearly all common courtesy goes out the window. It's a good thing only James Bond gets the machine-guns and rocket launchers.
When I was young and foolish (i.e. sometime last week), I used to think that there was a warehouse out there somewhere, packed to the rafters with little old men and ladies with thick glasses. As soon as I put my keys in the ignition, an alarm would ring and they'd all scramble out of bed, throw on their fedoras and driving gloves, slide down brass poles and leap into their ancient cars. Soon, a slowly-moving fleet of boat-sized Crown Victorias, beige Corollas, and rusty Buick LeBarons would clog up the streets, all seemingly heading in the same direction that I was trying to go. It was kind of like trying to get anywhere in Park Royal around Christmas-time.
But that's all nonsense too. The fact is, there are a lot of cars on the roads in this city, and the people in them have all got places to go that are just as important as the errands I'm running. Actually, probably more important to tell the truth, as I'm only going to pick up milk but that guy over there is on his way to donate blood.
The Honda Civic that's carefully making its way across the Lion's Gate Bridge at 40 km/h, developing a trail of following cars like an automotive Pied Piper? Maybe they've been in an accident recently, and are intimidated by the cars rushing the other way at speeds far above the limit.
The Dodge Caravan that's taking seemingly forever to make a left-hand turn at a light? Perhaps there's a brand new baby in the backseat, and her parents are taking that extra bit longer to make sure she's as safe as they can make her.
The Subaru Impreza that's having trouble getting away uphill from a stopsign? That's probably my wife, new to driving a manual transmission.
I'd certainly want you to be nice to her, even if she inadvertently causes you a minor delay - so, what right do I have to get all bent out of shape when someone else isn't as sharp behind the wheel as I'd like them to be?
What's more, regardless of whether you tear up the roads like Michael Schumacher after four triple espressos or ooze towards your destination like a heavily-sedated sloth, studies show there will only be about five minutes difference in arrival time per hour of urban driving.
It's my belief that Carma (please note how I've cleverly spelled karma with a “C”) will catch up to you, one way or another. So let somebody get in front of you in line, let somebody pull out of a side-street, back off from that slow-poke's bumper and give them some breathing room. After all, we're all fellow travellers on these roads, and it'd be nice to get to where we're going without losing our humanity in the process.
Of course, there's still no excuse for people in BMWs who can't seem to find their turn signals.
There was a red light at the next crosswalk and I pulled up alongside him, glaring. We both made growling noises and shuffled our feet really fast, making our shoes squeal in protest. The light changed to white-walking-man, and we leapt forward, streaking down the sidewalk. He obviously had some training as we were neck-and-neck, but then suddenly there were two people coming the other way! I was going far too fast to stop. Swerving to the right, I collided with the guy I was racing and spun out into a pole. He went through the fruit display of a grocery store and overturned.
When the police arrived the officers booked us for speedwalking and sidewalk-racing and impounded my shoes. Now I have to get my friends to come pick me up and piggy-back me whenever I want to go out. I'm just glad no-one got seriously hurt.
Sounds ridiculous, right? Well, why then aren't we surprised when this sort of thing happens every day in our cars and on the road? It seems like as soon as we surround ourselves with a few tonnes of steel, plastic and glass, nearly all common courtesy goes out the window. It's a good thing only James Bond gets the machine-guns and rocket launchers.
When I was young and foolish (i.e. sometime last week), I used to think that there was a warehouse out there somewhere, packed to the rafters with little old men and ladies with thick glasses. As soon as I put my keys in the ignition, an alarm would ring and they'd all scramble out of bed, throw on their fedoras and driving gloves, slide down brass poles and leap into their ancient cars. Soon, a slowly-moving fleet of boat-sized Crown Victorias, beige Corollas, and rusty Buick LeBarons would clog up the streets, all seemingly heading in the same direction that I was trying to go. It was kind of like trying to get anywhere in Park Royal around Christmas-time.
But that's all nonsense too. The fact is, there are a lot of cars on the roads in this city, and the people in them have all got places to go that are just as important as the errands I'm running. Actually, probably more important to tell the truth, as I'm only going to pick up milk but that guy over there is on his way to donate blood.
The Honda Civic that's carefully making its way across the Lion's Gate Bridge at 40 km/h, developing a trail of following cars like an automotive Pied Piper? Maybe they've been in an accident recently, and are intimidated by the cars rushing the other way at speeds far above the limit.
The Dodge Caravan that's taking seemingly forever to make a left-hand turn at a light? Perhaps there's a brand new baby in the backseat, and her parents are taking that extra bit longer to make sure she's as safe as they can make her.
The Subaru Impreza that's having trouble getting away uphill from a stopsign? That's probably my wife, new to driving a manual transmission.
I'd certainly want you to be nice to her, even if she inadvertently causes you a minor delay - so, what right do I have to get all bent out of shape when someone else isn't as sharp behind the wheel as I'd like them to be?
What's more, regardless of whether you tear up the roads like Michael Schumacher after four triple espressos or ooze towards your destination like a heavily-sedated sloth, studies show there will only be about five minutes difference in arrival time per hour of urban driving.
It's my belief that Carma (please note how I've cleverly spelled karma with a “C”) will catch up to you, one way or another. So let somebody get in front of you in line, let somebody pull out of a side-street, back off from that slow-poke's bumper and give them some breathing room. After all, we're all fellow travellers on these roads, and it'd be nice to get to where we're going without losing our humanity in the process.
Of course, there's still no excuse for people in BMWs who can't seem to find their turn signals.
Hot Rodding
Christmas has come and gone, and no Porsche 911 under the tree (mind you, I did accidentally leave out skim milk with the cookies), so I’m left trying to sew a sportscar out of a station wagon. Good news though: I can build it, someone else has the technology.
At least that’s what I keep telling myself as my Subaru WRX wagon hunkers down on Rocket Rally’s All Wheel Drive dyno and begins emitting a whooshing shriek like a banshee caught in a shop-vac. Oh well, warranties are for sissies anyways.
Buying your car “off the rack” never quite results in that perfect personalized fit. The front grille is too plastic, or the alloy wheels are too small and plain, or the suspension is too soft, or for some inexplicable reason you feel the need to festoon the dashboard with dozens of bobbleheads. Manufacturers aim their vehicles at a target market, but usually end up making compromises in order to appeal to the greatest amount of potential customers possible.
Customization is the answer, and tailoring your whip to fit can give great satisfaction in knowing that no-one else out there has exactly the same car as you. Then there’s that certain type of person who just can’t leave well enough alone, and can’t wait to start fiddling with their shiny new machinery and/or potentially breaking things. Who, me?
Think of the phrase “Hot Rod” and the image springs to mind of a chopped-n’-channeled, American-Graffiti-style “deuce coupe”, or a slammed ’57 Chev’ with its supercharger bursting through the hood.
I remember being trackside at Mission Raceway Park for their Friday Night Street Legal Drag Races while a classic Dodge Challenger pulled up to the line, its lumpy idle sounding like a bowling ball in an industrial dryer, and proceeded to light up its slick tires with an enormous burnout, producing a smoky pall that took several hours to fully disperse. Big, bearded dudes with suspenders and tattoos grinned their approval behind wrap-around shades.
Come to think of it, some of them looked a little like Santa in the off-season, although if Santa Claus looks like that in his civvies, next year I’m leaving out a fifth of bourbon and some pork rinds rather than milk and cookies...
Anyway, all that Detroit Iron (racing in what’s appropriately called the Outlaw class), though impressive to look at, was outnumbered by the legions of import and compact domestic cars in the paddocks. Many of the Beards scoffed at the buzzy little front-wheel-drivers as you would your kid brother and his tricycle when you’ve got a BMX, but some of these little pocket rockets are fast. What’s more, many of them are daily-drivers: reliable, fuel-efficient (up to a point) and not quite as prone to release billowing clouds of pollution as their forerunners.
And forerunners are what those big ol’ muscle cars are to the hopped-up Honda crowd. The Bearded Ones may not like to admit it, but the guys in baggy jeans and spiky hair are the spiritual successors of the original hot-rodders. Just because high-revving four-cylinders and ball-bearing turbochargers have replaced Whipple superchargers and four-barrel carburettors doesn’t mean anything’s really changed. Hot Rodding is still what it’s always been about: standing out from the pack by striving to be the fastest, the loudest, the baddest.
Best of all, this is the Golden Age of hot-rodding for both the muscle-car purists and the tech-savvy tuners. The number of specialist manufacturers for the high performance has swelled each year, and today’s tuner has an almost unlimited number of choices. It’s possible to get everything from bolt-on swaybars and a full turbocharger kit for the Honda Accord hand-me-down from Mom, or disc-brake and fuel-injection conversions for the classic Mustang that’s mouldering in the garage.
Luckily, if you’re rightly afraid of the cost incurred if you accidentally break something, there are lots of factory-tuned parts providing the custom tailoring along with that ironclad warranty. For those of us with deep pockets there have always been Mercedes’ AMG or BMW’s M-Division, but now you can get also buy Nismo parts for your Nissan, SPT parts for your Subaru and Mugen for your Honda. No points for guessing what Mazdaspeed parts are good for.
Back to the little Subaru wagon and the final dyno numbers are flickering up on the screen: peak horsepower is right around the level of the mighty Impreza STI, with a nice usable torque band. Not bad, but it’s the additional extra two or three MPG I’ll need to be emphasizing to my cycling-enthusiast wife when the Visa bill comes.
At least that’s what I keep telling myself as my Subaru WRX wagon hunkers down on Rocket Rally’s All Wheel Drive dyno and begins emitting a whooshing shriek like a banshee caught in a shop-vac. Oh well, warranties are for sissies anyways.
Buying your car “off the rack” never quite results in that perfect personalized fit. The front grille is too plastic, or the alloy wheels are too small and plain, or the suspension is too soft, or for some inexplicable reason you feel the need to festoon the dashboard with dozens of bobbleheads. Manufacturers aim their vehicles at a target market, but usually end up making compromises in order to appeal to the greatest amount of potential customers possible.
Customization is the answer, and tailoring your whip to fit can give great satisfaction in knowing that no-one else out there has exactly the same car as you. Then there’s that certain type of person who just can’t leave well enough alone, and can’t wait to start fiddling with their shiny new machinery and/or potentially breaking things. Who, me?
Think of the phrase “Hot Rod” and the image springs to mind of a chopped-n’-channeled, American-Graffiti-style “deuce coupe”, or a slammed ’57 Chev’ with its supercharger bursting through the hood.
I remember being trackside at Mission Raceway Park for their Friday Night Street Legal Drag Races while a classic Dodge Challenger pulled up to the line, its lumpy idle sounding like a bowling ball in an industrial dryer, and proceeded to light up its slick tires with an enormous burnout, producing a smoky pall that took several hours to fully disperse. Big, bearded dudes with suspenders and tattoos grinned their approval behind wrap-around shades.
Come to think of it, some of them looked a little like Santa in the off-season, although if Santa Claus looks like that in his civvies, next year I’m leaving out a fifth of bourbon and some pork rinds rather than milk and cookies...
Anyway, all that Detroit Iron (racing in what’s appropriately called the Outlaw class), though impressive to look at, was outnumbered by the legions of import and compact domestic cars in the paddocks. Many of the Beards scoffed at the buzzy little front-wheel-drivers as you would your kid brother and his tricycle when you’ve got a BMX, but some of these little pocket rockets are fast. What’s more, many of them are daily-drivers: reliable, fuel-efficient (up to a point) and not quite as prone to release billowing clouds of pollution as their forerunners.
And forerunners are what those big ol’ muscle cars are to the hopped-up Honda crowd. The Bearded Ones may not like to admit it, but the guys in baggy jeans and spiky hair are the spiritual successors of the original hot-rodders. Just because high-revving four-cylinders and ball-bearing turbochargers have replaced Whipple superchargers and four-barrel carburettors doesn’t mean anything’s really changed. Hot Rodding is still what it’s always been about: standing out from the pack by striving to be the fastest, the loudest, the baddest.
Best of all, this is the Golden Age of hot-rodding for both the muscle-car purists and the tech-savvy tuners. The number of specialist manufacturers for the high performance has swelled each year, and today’s tuner has an almost unlimited number of choices. It’s possible to get everything from bolt-on swaybars and a full turbocharger kit for the Honda Accord hand-me-down from Mom, or disc-brake and fuel-injection conversions for the classic Mustang that’s mouldering in the garage.
Luckily, if you’re rightly afraid of the cost incurred if you accidentally break something, there are lots of factory-tuned parts providing the custom tailoring along with that ironclad warranty. For those of us with deep pockets there have always been Mercedes’ AMG or BMW’s M-Division, but now you can get also buy Nismo parts for your Nissan, SPT parts for your Subaru and Mugen for your Honda. No points for guessing what Mazdaspeed parts are good for.
Back to the little Subaru wagon and the final dyno numbers are flickering up on the screen: peak horsepower is right around the level of the mighty Impreza STI, with a nice usable torque band. Not bad, but it’s the additional extra two or three MPG I’ll need to be emphasizing to my cycling-enthusiast wife when the Visa bill comes.
MGB
For some people, climbing into a car, starting it on the first try, and driving off with confidence in actually arriving somewhere is practically sacrilege. These tinkering enthusiasts regard motoring as a near-religious experience filled with arcane ritual, unfathomable mystery, and occasional cursing. To members of The Church of The British Sportscar, there are few better altars upon which to sacrifice one's time and money than the MGB.
The MGB arrived in 1962 with lightweight unibody construction propelled by literally dozens of horsepowers. It did 0-60 in roughly eleven seconds, could pull an even-now respectable 9/10ths-of-a-g on the skid pad, and would hit a top speed of 100mph “without fuss”. Its styling was simple and appealing: long hood, short deck, two seats and a drop-top; keep 'er low to the ground and add lashings of chrome. Compared to the big-finned behemoths of the time, the 'B was a frothy delight. Dad bought a used one and subsequently cheated death when a gravel truck ran a red light.
Our poor MGB spent several decades in a bramble-covered barn on a corner of a neighbour's property while several generations of rodents ate the upholstery. Marinating a car in a medley of rust, dust and decades like this is an important step in creating a classic and/or relic. Dad would periodically check in to see how things were getting on, and there was much standing around with arms folded and making grand plans with nothing ever actually happening (also an important step). It wasn't until the neighbour decided to knock down the barn that my father was forced to come and shift the wreckage.
While the MGB was hauled off to the body-shop for some chiropractic frame-straightening, Dad cleaned out the garage and tried to find all the errant components of his socket set. I was to learn that automobile restoration is not so much a project with a definite ending point as it is an ongoing process, like self-improvement, or continental drift. What other possible reason could there have been for investing several days in painting each engine component a different colour of rust-proof Tremclad?
For my own part, I seemed to be mostly involved in shining the trouble light on what was invariably the wrong bolt, and yet what an education I was receiving! Not in the inner workings of the combustion engine, nor the basics of tool use; what I learned was the language of automotive repair. Being of Irish extraction, my father was blessed with the knack for inventive cursing, and my interested young ears soaked up his best material.
As the years passed, and perhaps despite my father's best efforts, the MGB drew nearer completion, until the day there was nothing left to do except fire it up. Which couldn't be done. “Aha!” cried Dad with barely-disguised glee, “The carburettors must need adjustment.” Out came the wrenches, there was some last-minute choke-cable difficulty, and then the indignant spluttering gave way to a muffled roar. And that was just Dad. Still, when the bluish smoke had cleared, there she stood: a gleaming, candy-apple red Lazarus, purring as she would have done brand-new in 1967. Then she stalled.
Eventually we got her running rather lumpily and, after several test-circuits, my father decided to reward all my hours of grease-monkey-ism by letting me get a feel for late '60s motoring, UK-style. Grasping the yacht-sized, somewhat floppy bakelite wheel, I felt a twinge of unease. I soon discovered that the brakes favoured the Neville Chamberlain approach to forward velocity, preferring appeasement over action: planning ahead was required in order to avoid becoming a tree-ornament. Still, with the wind in your hair, careening around a blind bend with the narrow tires squealing, one couldn't help feeling alive; perhaps even going so far as to shout, “I don't want to die!”
The MGB sleeps in a shed (where else?) waiting for the sunny morning when Dad will begin the pre-flight preparations necessary for taking an autumn blast through the leaves. Wherever he parks it, it will mark its territory with scattered oil patches like an elderly and incontinent dog, and should it unexpectedly rain, he will find its convertible roof as complicated and time-consuming as the repairs to the roof of BC Place. My mother will need to have the phone nearby if/when an emergency SOS might come through. As for me, I'm off to the pub. On the bus.
The MGB arrived in 1962 with lightweight unibody construction propelled by literally dozens of horsepowers. It did 0-60 in roughly eleven seconds, could pull an even-now respectable 9/10ths-of-a-g on the skid pad, and would hit a top speed of 100mph “without fuss”. Its styling was simple and appealing: long hood, short deck, two seats and a drop-top; keep 'er low to the ground and add lashings of chrome. Compared to the big-finned behemoths of the time, the 'B was a frothy delight. Dad bought a used one and subsequently cheated death when a gravel truck ran a red light.
Our poor MGB spent several decades in a bramble-covered barn on a corner of a neighbour's property while several generations of rodents ate the upholstery. Marinating a car in a medley of rust, dust and decades like this is an important step in creating a classic and/or relic. Dad would periodically check in to see how things were getting on, and there was much standing around with arms folded and making grand plans with nothing ever actually happening (also an important step). It wasn't until the neighbour decided to knock down the barn that my father was forced to come and shift the wreckage.
While the MGB was hauled off to the body-shop for some chiropractic frame-straightening, Dad cleaned out the garage and tried to find all the errant components of his socket set. I was to learn that automobile restoration is not so much a project with a definite ending point as it is an ongoing process, like self-improvement, or continental drift. What other possible reason could there have been for investing several days in painting each engine component a different colour of rust-proof Tremclad?
For my own part, I seemed to be mostly involved in shining the trouble light on what was invariably the wrong bolt, and yet what an education I was receiving! Not in the inner workings of the combustion engine, nor the basics of tool use; what I learned was the language of automotive repair. Being of Irish extraction, my father was blessed with the knack for inventive cursing, and my interested young ears soaked up his best material.
As the years passed, and perhaps despite my father's best efforts, the MGB drew nearer completion, until the day there was nothing left to do except fire it up. Which couldn't be done. “Aha!” cried Dad with barely-disguised glee, “The carburettors must need adjustment.” Out came the wrenches, there was some last-minute choke-cable difficulty, and then the indignant spluttering gave way to a muffled roar. And that was just Dad. Still, when the bluish smoke had cleared, there she stood: a gleaming, candy-apple red Lazarus, purring as she would have done brand-new in 1967. Then she stalled.
Eventually we got her running rather lumpily and, after several test-circuits, my father decided to reward all my hours of grease-monkey-ism by letting me get a feel for late '60s motoring, UK-style. Grasping the yacht-sized, somewhat floppy bakelite wheel, I felt a twinge of unease. I soon discovered that the brakes favoured the Neville Chamberlain approach to forward velocity, preferring appeasement over action: planning ahead was required in order to avoid becoming a tree-ornament. Still, with the wind in your hair, careening around a blind bend with the narrow tires squealing, one couldn't help feeling alive; perhaps even going so far as to shout, “I don't want to die!”
The MGB sleeps in a shed (where else?) waiting for the sunny morning when Dad will begin the pre-flight preparations necessary for taking an autumn blast through the leaves. Wherever he parks it, it will mark its territory with scattered oil patches like an elderly and incontinent dog, and should it unexpectedly rain, he will find its convertible roof as complicated and time-consuming as the repairs to the roof of BC Place. My mother will need to have the phone nearby if/when an emergency SOS might come through. As for me, I'm off to the pub. On the bus.
Diesel
Mention the word “diesel” and most of us instinctively reach for the recirculation control on our air conditioning. There's probably not a driver on the road who hasn't been stuck behind a battered Volkswagen Rabbit or antique Mercedes slowly chugging up a hill, its tailpipe emitting the sort of smokescreen that would make James Bond turn green with envy (or perhaps just green with nausea).
Diesels used to be smelly, smoky, clattery, and disinclined to start in cold weather. Most of them were also incredibly slow; not so much “accelerating” as “accumulating speed” (in the same way a coffee table accumulates dust).
However, diesel technology has progressed by leaps and bounds since those tortoise-like Rabbits first crawled onto the roads, and now the only way you can tell if you're following a modern diesel-powered car is by looking for the tell-tale traces of smugness in its driver. They're quiet, durable, very fuel-efficient, and surprisingly powerful, as best evidenced by the diesel-powered Audi R10 racecar's win at the prestigious Le Mans 24 hour race in June of last year.
Diesel fuel is more energy-dense than gasoline, and vehicles designed to run on it produce less carbon dioxide and hydrocarbon emissions than an equivalently-sized conventional gasoline-powered car. Add this efficiency to the fact that torquey turbo-diesel engines have the low- and mid-range punch of a much larger-displacement gasoline engine and you've got a seemingly winning combination.
Yet while diesel sales have rocketed in popularity overseas, here in North America they still command a relatively small share of the market. Recent figures suggest that diesel now powers the majority of vehicles in Europe, but only a little over one percent of passenger cars being sold in North America run on the smelly stuff.
There's also not a great deal of choice either: the only two manufacturers producing diesel vehicles for the North American Market (aside from heavy-duty trucks) are still Volkswagen and Mercedes. Where's the diesel version of the Honda Accord, the oil-burning Ford Explorer, that stump-pulling Toyota Corolla? Why is the diesel revolution taking as long to get started as one of those pioneering 'Benzes in a cold snap?
First, despite modern cleaner burning engines, diesel-powered vehicles still produce much more smog-creating particulate matter (soot) and nitrous oxides (NOx) than cars running on gasoline. While their greenhouse gas emissions are greatly reduced, it can be argued that they create essentially the same amount of pollution, just in different forms.
Second, diesels are more expensive to manufacture, and their heavy-duty construction results in a considerable amount of added weight, along with that desirable dependability. For all the performance benefits of the extra torque they produce, diesel engines produce a nose-heavy feel to a light car, and can cost a considerable premium over an equivalent gasoline model.
Last, and most importantly, diesel is only now overcoming the age-old stigma of the sluggish, smokescreen-producing Volkswagen.
Still, the revolution may be taking its time getting the glow-plugs warmed up, but once it's firing on all cylinders, there'll be no stopping it.
Matching North American fuel qualities to European ones has eliminated one of diesel's greatest stumbling blocks. The large-scale establishment of cleaner forms of fuel with ultra-low sulphur content (ULSD) combined with the introduction of new exhaust-scrubbing technologies has allowed for greatly reduced emissions. Additionally, modified diesel engines can be made to run on biodiesel, for those who don't mind smelling like McDonald's and developing a permanent greasy sheen from collecting waste vegetable oil.
With increasing gas prices and increasing environmental consciousness, the greater cost of diesel engines will also begin to be less of a stumbling block. It may even be that government will provide tax breaks on efficient diesels, as they do in European markets, in a similar fashion to the savings offered on Hybrid vehicles currently.
The Honda Accord diesel is coming. The incredibly powerful BMW 5-series diesel is coming. The Jeep Grand Cherokee diesel is already changing consumer's perceived desires for gasoline V8-powered SUVs.
In the next few years, expect to see the durable workhorse diesels outstripping their technocrat Hybrid-drivetrain cousins in the alternative fuel race, perhaps to the point that there'll be a diesel commuter in every driveway.
I'll take an Audi R10, please.
Diesels used to be smelly, smoky, clattery, and disinclined to start in cold weather. Most of them were also incredibly slow; not so much “accelerating” as “accumulating speed” (in the same way a coffee table accumulates dust).
However, diesel technology has progressed by leaps and bounds since those tortoise-like Rabbits first crawled onto the roads, and now the only way you can tell if you're following a modern diesel-powered car is by looking for the tell-tale traces of smugness in its driver. They're quiet, durable, very fuel-efficient, and surprisingly powerful, as best evidenced by the diesel-powered Audi R10 racecar's win at the prestigious Le Mans 24 hour race in June of last year.
Diesel fuel is more energy-dense than gasoline, and vehicles designed to run on it produce less carbon dioxide and hydrocarbon emissions than an equivalently-sized conventional gasoline-powered car. Add this efficiency to the fact that torquey turbo-diesel engines have the low- and mid-range punch of a much larger-displacement gasoline engine and you've got a seemingly winning combination.
Yet while diesel sales have rocketed in popularity overseas, here in North America they still command a relatively small share of the market. Recent figures suggest that diesel now powers the majority of vehicles in Europe, but only a little over one percent of passenger cars being sold in North America run on the smelly stuff.
There's also not a great deal of choice either: the only two manufacturers producing diesel vehicles for the North American Market (aside from heavy-duty trucks) are still Volkswagen and Mercedes. Where's the diesel version of the Honda Accord, the oil-burning Ford Explorer, that stump-pulling Toyota Corolla? Why is the diesel revolution taking as long to get started as one of those pioneering 'Benzes in a cold snap?
First, despite modern cleaner burning engines, diesel-powered vehicles still produce much more smog-creating particulate matter (soot) and nitrous oxides (NOx) than cars running on gasoline. While their greenhouse gas emissions are greatly reduced, it can be argued that they create essentially the same amount of pollution, just in different forms.
Second, diesels are more expensive to manufacture, and their heavy-duty construction results in a considerable amount of added weight, along with that desirable dependability. For all the performance benefits of the extra torque they produce, diesel engines produce a nose-heavy feel to a light car, and can cost a considerable premium over an equivalent gasoline model.
Last, and most importantly, diesel is only now overcoming the age-old stigma of the sluggish, smokescreen-producing Volkswagen.
Still, the revolution may be taking its time getting the glow-plugs warmed up, but once it's firing on all cylinders, there'll be no stopping it.
Matching North American fuel qualities to European ones has eliminated one of diesel's greatest stumbling blocks. The large-scale establishment of cleaner forms of fuel with ultra-low sulphur content (ULSD) combined with the introduction of new exhaust-scrubbing technologies has allowed for greatly reduced emissions. Additionally, modified diesel engines can be made to run on biodiesel, for those who don't mind smelling like McDonald's and developing a permanent greasy sheen from collecting waste vegetable oil.
With increasing gas prices and increasing environmental consciousness, the greater cost of diesel engines will also begin to be less of a stumbling block. It may even be that government will provide tax breaks on efficient diesels, as they do in European markets, in a similar fashion to the savings offered on Hybrid vehicles currently.
The Honda Accord diesel is coming. The incredibly powerful BMW 5-series diesel is coming. The Jeep Grand Cherokee diesel is already changing consumer's perceived desires for gasoline V8-powered SUVs.
In the next few years, expect to see the durable workhorse diesels outstripping their technocrat Hybrid-drivetrain cousins in the alternative fuel race, perhaps to the point that there'll be a diesel commuter in every driveway.
I'll take an Audi R10, please.
JDM
I was recently driving over the Lion's Gate Bridge when I was shocked to see a tall, boxy blue van coming the other way, apparently piloted by a large Golden Retriever with a decidedly unconcerned human passenger on his right. Now, I'm not about to suggest that a Golden Retriever can't drive at least as well as some of the human drivers I've run across (or nearly run into), but it did come as a bit of a shock.
As I headed into the loop for Marine Drive, I began idly imagining what traffic would be like if dogs really could drive: falling asleep in roundabouts, constantly tailgating, always parked in front of fire hydrants. More importantly though, I was inspired to do a little research on those right-hand-drive Japanese imports (for that, of course, was what the van was) that seem to becoming more and more common, especially on the North Shore.
Transport Canada has very strict rules about the importation of vehicles, especially when it comes to safety regulations. Any vehicle that's been built to meet safety regulations other than Canada's can't simply be altered and then imported. However, an exemption currently exists where a vehicle that is fifteen years old or older may be brought into the country.
There's a few extra hoops to be jumped through, such as the installation of daytime running lights, a thorough mechanical inspection that may reveal expensive compliance issues, and naturally there's duties and taxes to be paid.
So why would anyone go to all the trouble (and considerable expense) of importing a 1992-or-older vehicle? After fifteen years, there might be a lot of life left in that Camry or Civic, but what possible reason could someone have for paying three or four times the market price for one with its steering wheel on the wrong side?
The fact is, most of the Japanese Domestic Market (JDM) vehicles that are showing up on our shores are nothing like the Hondas, Nissans and Toyotas you can buy here already. There's the Porsche-munching Skyline GT-R, nick-named Godzilla for its monstrous twin-turbo power and all-wheel-drive grip. There's the bulbous and quirky S-Cargo micro-van, with its frog-eyed headlights and snail-motif floormats. There are even modernized versions of the original Austin Mini that were still available overseas, long after the brand was discontinued here.
Even cars that are similar to the ones we have here tend to be better value. Japanese vehicles tend to have much lower mileage than North American vehicles of similar age, due to the high population density of Japan, and a more developed public transit network. A domestic mid-nineties low-mileage Mazda RX-7 might fetch over twenty thousand dollars, whereas the JDM import might be under ten thousand.
Most commonly spotted in North Shore neighbourhoods are the diesel-powered Toyota Landcruisers and four-wheel-drive Mitsubishi Delica vans, similar to the one I saw coming over the bridge. With all that reliable diesel torque, van-sized utility and major off-road abilities, they seem perfectly suited to our outdoors lifestyle and slippery hills.
Still, right-hand-drive vehicles don't necessarily suit everyone's needs. Sure it's ridiculously easy to deliver your Christmas cards, but making turns (especially right-hand turns) can be a challenge. Because JDM vehicles have been designed to travel on the left side of the road, their headlights are aimed opposite to ours, and it can be tricky to drive at night. Furthermore, you may experience excessive carpet wear as your left-seat passengers reflexively try to stomp an imaginary brake pedal through the floor.
Most importantly, there's a huge and hairy fly currently buzzing around the ointment and preparing to plunge in. Transport Canada is currently in the middle of a closed-door review regarding these grey-market imports, and is considering closing the loophole that allows them to be imported. Under the new rules, only cars that are twenty-five years old or older would be eligible for importation, and there is no word whether already imported vehicles would still be allowed on the road.
ICBC has recently released a study indicating that right-hand-drive vehicles are forty percent more likely to be involved in an accident than left-hand-drive vehicles. This report, combined with a high cost of repair and limited availability of replacement parts is bad news for the JDM import.
Still, newly formed organizations of JDM enthusiasts and importers are currently lobbying Transport Canada to work out a way to keep these quirky and practical vehicles on the road, and they may yet be successful.
After all, every dog has his day.
As I headed into the loop for Marine Drive, I began idly imagining what traffic would be like if dogs really could drive: falling asleep in roundabouts, constantly tailgating, always parked in front of fire hydrants. More importantly though, I was inspired to do a little research on those right-hand-drive Japanese imports (for that, of course, was what the van was) that seem to becoming more and more common, especially on the North Shore.
Transport Canada has very strict rules about the importation of vehicles, especially when it comes to safety regulations. Any vehicle that's been built to meet safety regulations other than Canada's can't simply be altered and then imported. However, an exemption currently exists where a vehicle that is fifteen years old or older may be brought into the country.
There's a few extra hoops to be jumped through, such as the installation of daytime running lights, a thorough mechanical inspection that may reveal expensive compliance issues, and naturally there's duties and taxes to be paid.
So why would anyone go to all the trouble (and considerable expense) of importing a 1992-or-older vehicle? After fifteen years, there might be a lot of life left in that Camry or Civic, but what possible reason could someone have for paying three or four times the market price for one with its steering wheel on the wrong side?
The fact is, most of the Japanese Domestic Market (JDM) vehicles that are showing up on our shores are nothing like the Hondas, Nissans and Toyotas you can buy here already. There's the Porsche-munching Skyline GT-R, nick-named Godzilla for its monstrous twin-turbo power and all-wheel-drive grip. There's the bulbous and quirky S-Cargo micro-van, with its frog-eyed headlights and snail-motif floormats. There are even modernized versions of the original Austin Mini that were still available overseas, long after the brand was discontinued here.
Even cars that are similar to the ones we have here tend to be better value. Japanese vehicles tend to have much lower mileage than North American vehicles of similar age, due to the high population density of Japan, and a more developed public transit network. A domestic mid-nineties low-mileage Mazda RX-7 might fetch over twenty thousand dollars, whereas the JDM import might be under ten thousand.
Most commonly spotted in North Shore neighbourhoods are the diesel-powered Toyota Landcruisers and four-wheel-drive Mitsubishi Delica vans, similar to the one I saw coming over the bridge. With all that reliable diesel torque, van-sized utility and major off-road abilities, they seem perfectly suited to our outdoors lifestyle and slippery hills.
Still, right-hand-drive vehicles don't necessarily suit everyone's needs. Sure it's ridiculously easy to deliver your Christmas cards, but making turns (especially right-hand turns) can be a challenge. Because JDM vehicles have been designed to travel on the left side of the road, their headlights are aimed opposite to ours, and it can be tricky to drive at night. Furthermore, you may experience excessive carpet wear as your left-seat passengers reflexively try to stomp an imaginary brake pedal through the floor.
Most importantly, there's a huge and hairy fly currently buzzing around the ointment and preparing to plunge in. Transport Canada is currently in the middle of a closed-door review regarding these grey-market imports, and is considering closing the loophole that allows them to be imported. Under the new rules, only cars that are twenty-five years old or older would be eligible for importation, and there is no word whether already imported vehicles would still be allowed on the road.
ICBC has recently released a study indicating that right-hand-drive vehicles are forty percent more likely to be involved in an accident than left-hand-drive vehicles. This report, combined with a high cost of repair and limited availability of replacement parts is bad news for the JDM import.
Still, newly formed organizations of JDM enthusiasts and importers are currently lobbying Transport Canada to work out a way to keep these quirky and practical vehicles on the road, and they may yet be successful.
After all, every dog has his day.
Track Day
“Nice, I like that!” says my instructor, as the inside front wheel of my car just barely kisses the apex of the off-camber left-hand turn. Then it's hard on the brakes, a quick down-shift into second and through the “throwaway” turn 5, not carrying maximum speed, just concentrating on maintaining a proper line, and looking ahead through the corner. I line the car up to hit the concrete transition at the entry of turn 6 and roll onto full throttle, blasting down the rear straight…where I'm promptly held up by a gaggle of M3s.
“Looks like we caught all the slow fast cars,” chuckles Mark, my instructor from Driving Unlimited, and I can't help a smug grin from crossing my face. Not bad for a novice in a station wagon.
It's the tail-end of what's been probably the most fun day I've ever had behind the wheel, and the air is full of the smell of glazing brakes, unburnt fuel and smouldering clutches. It's a potpourri of speed, even taking into account what the inside of my loaner helmet smells like.
The location of all this lead-footed lunacy is Mission Raceway Park, and the occasion is the last Vancouver Subaru Impreza Club track day for the season, put together by Specialty Subaru's Geremy Testar. WRXs and STis dominate the field, but there's also the aforementioned M3s, a pair of tuned-up NSXs (one of which has got a body-kit rivalling the Batmobile), and, lest you think speed is exclusively the province of young men with a wanton disregard for personal safety, a bright red Mini Cooper S piloted by a woman who has a passing resemblance to my mother. Annoyingly, she turns out to be a far better driver than me.
Track days provide a chance for those of us with an addiction to acceleration to test the limits of our cars and abilities in a safe environment. Well, mostly safe anyway.
The day started with quite a downpour, although there were only a few intermittent showers by the time we actually headed out for track orientation and warm-up exercises. However, this was worse than steady rain, potentially resulting in patchy areas of unpredictable grip, as our instructors reminded us at the driver's meeting. “We want everybody to have a good day out there, but more importantly, we want everybody to be able to drive their car home at the end of the day.”
The first one to discover that the instructors aren't fooling around is a black Honda S2000 that spins off into the grass in turn 2. He's lucky.
Fall weather has left slippery leaves lining the pavement either side of the perfect line, and there are lots of concrete walls out there, their sides scarred and covered with flecks of paint left there by previous victims of lift-throttle oversteer.
We split up into groups and run through the slalom, emergency braking and trail-braking exercises, getting a feel for the slick surface of the track. The higher-horsepower rear-wheel-drive cars are at a particular disadvantage, especially those with summer tires unsuited to the cold, wet conditions. Still, confidence in our abilities slowly began to build under the careful tutelage of our instructors.
Over a lunch of hot soup, we all chatter about our cars, proper gear choices for the corners, and that troublesome hairpin at turn 3. Most of us are novices, but there are a few more seasoned drivers, including the Mini driver and her husband. Regardless of experience though, there's a sense of community among the drivers, all here to fulfill our need for speed.
Despite the forecast, the rain holds off past lunch, and as the track dries out and grip gets better, we start going faster. Much, much faster.
The instructors pull us all in and give us the 3:20 braking lecture, reminding us that a tight, technical course like Mission can eat through brake pads and glaze rotors in two or three hot laps. “Brake management is among the most important things in race,” they hammer into us, “Brake early, and brake consistently.”
Despite their advice, more than a few cars have smoking binders after a couple of fast laps, and we need to pull into the paddock to cool off slowly and prevent warping, both of the brakes and of the driver's nerves. Then it's my turn to lead the last few hot laps, and Team Wagon pours through the turns, hot on the heels of those cocky Ultimate Driving Machine pilots. The signal for the final lap comes far, far too soon for anyone's likings.
After saying goodbye to my fellow drivers, I drive home in the sunshine and rush hour traffic. As things slow to a crawl just before the Pitt River bridge, I begin thinking of how I would explain how much fun today was to my decidedly non-auto-enthusiast wife.
Maybe I should get her a Mini.
“Looks like we caught all the slow fast cars,” chuckles Mark, my instructor from Driving Unlimited, and I can't help a smug grin from crossing my face. Not bad for a novice in a station wagon.
It's the tail-end of what's been probably the most fun day I've ever had behind the wheel, and the air is full of the smell of glazing brakes, unburnt fuel and smouldering clutches. It's a potpourri of speed, even taking into account what the inside of my loaner helmet smells like.
The location of all this lead-footed lunacy is Mission Raceway Park, and the occasion is the last Vancouver Subaru Impreza Club track day for the season, put together by Specialty Subaru's Geremy Testar. WRXs and STis dominate the field, but there's also the aforementioned M3s, a pair of tuned-up NSXs (one of which has got a body-kit rivalling the Batmobile), and, lest you think speed is exclusively the province of young men with a wanton disregard for personal safety, a bright red Mini Cooper S piloted by a woman who has a passing resemblance to my mother. Annoyingly, she turns out to be a far better driver than me.
Track days provide a chance for those of us with an addiction to acceleration to test the limits of our cars and abilities in a safe environment. Well, mostly safe anyway.
The day started with quite a downpour, although there were only a few intermittent showers by the time we actually headed out for track orientation and warm-up exercises. However, this was worse than steady rain, potentially resulting in patchy areas of unpredictable grip, as our instructors reminded us at the driver's meeting. “We want everybody to have a good day out there, but more importantly, we want everybody to be able to drive their car home at the end of the day.”
The first one to discover that the instructors aren't fooling around is a black Honda S2000 that spins off into the grass in turn 2. He's lucky.
Fall weather has left slippery leaves lining the pavement either side of the perfect line, and there are lots of concrete walls out there, their sides scarred and covered with flecks of paint left there by previous victims of lift-throttle oversteer.
We split up into groups and run through the slalom, emergency braking and trail-braking exercises, getting a feel for the slick surface of the track. The higher-horsepower rear-wheel-drive cars are at a particular disadvantage, especially those with summer tires unsuited to the cold, wet conditions. Still, confidence in our abilities slowly began to build under the careful tutelage of our instructors.
Over a lunch of hot soup, we all chatter about our cars, proper gear choices for the corners, and that troublesome hairpin at turn 3. Most of us are novices, but there are a few more seasoned drivers, including the Mini driver and her husband. Regardless of experience though, there's a sense of community among the drivers, all here to fulfill our need for speed.
Despite the forecast, the rain holds off past lunch, and as the track dries out and grip gets better, we start going faster. Much, much faster.
The instructors pull us all in and give us the 3:20 braking lecture, reminding us that a tight, technical course like Mission can eat through brake pads and glaze rotors in two or three hot laps. “Brake management is among the most important things in race,” they hammer into us, “Brake early, and brake consistently.”
Despite their advice, more than a few cars have smoking binders after a couple of fast laps, and we need to pull into the paddock to cool off slowly and prevent warping, both of the brakes and of the driver's nerves. Then it's my turn to lead the last few hot laps, and Team Wagon pours through the turns, hot on the heels of those cocky Ultimate Driving Machine pilots. The signal for the final lap comes far, far too soon for anyone's likings.
After saying goodbye to my fellow drivers, I drive home in the sunshine and rush hour traffic. As things slow to a crawl just before the Pitt River bridge, I begin thinking of how I would explain how much fun today was to my decidedly non-auto-enthusiast wife.
Maybe I should get her a Mini.
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