Author: Steve

Our family’s return trip from the Cayman Islands met with some difficulty when we arrived at our connecting flight’s gate to find only a man in an American Airlines uniform shaking his head and saying, “It’s gone.”

I’m still not ready to talk about how it came to that, but the result was that we were in need of transportation for 5 from the Philadelphia to home, somehow. A 20 minute wait at American’s customer service desk got us an offer of mayyybe they could get us on a flight 24 hours later. I was about done with flying at that point anyway so I asked if we could get some help with a rental car, and I was told that if I go on the airline website and explain what happened, mayyybe they would refund the cost of our PHI-PIT leg. So no.

Off to the Hertz desk, which is the world’s longest shuttle ride away. At least our baggage was in airline limbo somewhere so we didn’t have to carry it around. The woman at the rental desk greeted us with a start, as if we were the first customers she’d seen in hours. I explained that I wanted to rent a car from her and return it in Pittsburgh the next day. This kind of thing happens all the time, right? Apparently not, as she summoned her manager who shrugged. At this point I deployed the best weapon in my arsenal: “I’m a Gold Club member.” The manager looked at me like I had spoken another language and summoned a voice on the radio who replied that they do not do “one-way walkups”. There was a silence hanging in the air as I imagined myself stepping outside, making a reservation on my phone, and returning to the desk for my car. But that was unnecessary, as the voice on the radio reconsidered and crackled, “Nah, go ahead and do it.”

Twenty minutes passed while clerk and manager tried in vain to make a paper receipt issue from one of the 6 computer terminals in the office. I kept apologizing, noting that my trip was jinxed and I was sorry to have brought the curse into their office. At the end of the twenty minutes, they either got tired of watching me try to look relaxed, or tired of the kids’ singing, and offered that they would just call the gate guard and have him let me out. I just had to go select a car from Row 2. What I found there was all essentially the same car with different badges attached- a Chevy Cruze, a Toyota Corolla, a Nissan Sentra, and the Kia and Hyundai equivalents. I was holding out for a Ford but none was forthcoming so I fired up the Corolla.

Having just returned from a week of driving in Grand Cayman, I quickly realized that I was navigating the rental lot on the left, which wasn’t going to go over well on the streets of Philly. I made a mental note to switch back to the convention I’ve been practicing for the last 30 years.

All of this must have taken an incredibly long time, because by the time I returned to the office to pick up the family, a miracle had occurred- a paper receipt had printed! Paper in hand, carry-ons in the trunk, we sped away from air-travel hell.

Life was good. The Toyota was excellent, with an eager engine, snappy transmission, and steering and suspension that seemed up to the task of getting us home before sunrise. We were getting close to 40 mpg and the headlights were incredible. I have cars with good headlights, but these, these were special. And they needed to be, since my retinas were being seared by the interior lighting. First it was the central screen, which barely dims at all witht he brightness turned all the way down, Then I remembered a trick I had learned 1500 miles into my 4Runner rental- you can hit DISP->SCREEN OFF and it does just that. But then the instrument cluster just blinds you almost as much. After some groping though, I found the dimmer for that and on nearly the lowest setting I was finally fully ready for a late-night sprint across the Pennsylvania Turnpike.

Then it began to rain. Just a few drops at first, but within minutes it was a full-on deluge, windshield wipers on high. The Corolla handled it well though, and despite plummeting fuel economy and a massive increase in noise, I continued my 80 mph clip. But something was bothering me, and that was our range. We were barely a half hour into the trip and the fuel gauge had already dropped by more than an eighth of a tank. I checked the car’s range estimate and it showed 277 miles, while Google Maps said 290 to home. We weren’t going to make it, not without risking a predawn breakdown.

There were other concerns cropping up, too. The coolant temperature gauge, which like in all modern cars doesn’t ever really move except from Cold to Normal, always indicated just a bit colder than a perfectly vertical needle. This shouldn’t bother me, but the vertical needle is so universal these days that it seemed to me like a mistake.

More troubling was that when the engine was asked to put out some power, which it did admirably, it would tickle my right foot with unwelcome vibrations through the accelerator pedal. Things like that can really sap the joy out of an otherwise fun powertrain, and this did. I would call on the engine when needed, but the romance was gone.

In its place I was hoping to kindle a romance with the radar cruise control. I’d driven a few cars with it in the past and just never really “got” it. I could kind of see where it might be useful to follow a car at a preset distance, but my driving style and the implementation of the cruise control has never meshed well enough that I could consider it a desirable feature. However this night would not be the night for that, either. There were very few cars on the road so I was never really following anyone, and the system had a glaring defect- it would sometimes slam on the brakes as I was approaching a slower car that wasn’t in my lane. In fairness, this was probably a difficult situation: it was raining hard, and as fellow Turnpike travelers will know, the road has a Jersey barrier as the center median about two feet to the left of the passing lane. And because of the rain, some traffic was going slowly, maybe 50 mph or less. So I was closing at 30 mph into a space just a few feet wider than the car which was mostly obscured by road spray. But still, it was horrible when it happened and I couldn’t figure out how to turn the radar part off without taking my eyes off the road.

Up into the mountains, the temperature dropped to 33F, so I slowed my pace considerably. Salt trucks sat roadside every few miles, ready to go to work as soon as the torrent turned into a squall. But it never did. East of Donegal, down the western slope of the Alleghenies, the temperature rose with every mile, up to 50F by the time we crossed the Monongahela on I-70. But now my fuel level was getting critical, less than 20 miles to empty. I found an exit with an all-night GetGo and managed to navigate a roundabout in the American direction. At the pump, I was simultaneously mad that I had had to stop at all, and pleased at how little time and money it took to fill the 10 gallon tank. The same song was still playing on the radio when I finished and restarted the engine, $26 later. The calculation came out to just more than 30 mpg, which was acceptable given the extreme circumstances.

By this time, the rain had stopped, revealing the Corolla’s Achilles Heel, road noise. The car doesn’t seem to have any rear wheel-well liners. And maybe no sound deadening on the interior side, either. The result is that every puddle traversed sends a roar through the cabin, and every rock, pebble, or grain of sand that the rear tires encounter seems to get flung directly at the backsides of the rear-seat passengers. It’s incredibly loud from the front seat, and reportedly deafening in the rear at times. All involved agreed that we could not own this car for this reason alone. It’s that bad.

 

I’ve always thought that Toyotas in rental-car fleets were nothing but legends, made up by people who just didn’t want to admit to driving a Hyundai or a Nissan for a week like the rest of us. But I finally got one, and I have the pics to prove it.

It began with a phone call from the local Hertz office.

“I’m sorry sir, but we aren’t able to get the 3-row SUV you requested.”

This happens pretty much every time with the local place. I don’t know why I even get a choice when I make a reservation. It should just say “automobile” and I would select it and then they could call me like they always do to work something out. This time, the choices weren’t all bad though.

“I can get you a Toyota 4Runner, which is big but only has 2 rows, or a minivan if you need the seating.”

“Is the 4Runner four wheel drive?” It is a ski trip.

“Yes.”

“Cool, I’ll take it.”

I spent the few days before my pick-up appointment imagining how impressive the vaunted 4Runner was going to be. After all, this was the heavy-duty, body-on-frame, off-road capable 4Runner, not a reconfigured Camry with a lift kit. And when the day finally arrived, first impressions mostly confirmed my excitement.

It had huge 265/70 tires on 17 inch wheels, not the silly blacked-out 20s that are all the rage in the preschool parking lot. It sits high, with lots of ground clearance. And the styling, which has been around since 2014, didn’t have any egregious features, which is just about the kindest thing I can say about most modern car designs. It was more plasticky in the front end than I would have liked, and there seemed to be a lot of front overhang, but overall it was pretty honest and unpretentious.

Once the clerk had photographed all of the many cosmetic imperfections this example had suffered, I jumped in, tuned the radio off the pop music station, and drove off.

My rental car reservation was for a Toyota 4Runner, but I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to get one. I don’t think I’ve ever gotten the car I reserved, only an “equivalent”. So when the silver Hyundai Santa Fe pulled around the building for me, I wasn’t surprised. I was a little bit excited, actually. Surely this thing was going to be terrible, right? And ripping into terrible rental cars is more fun than driving a good one. At least I think so. I think the last good rental car I had was a Euro-market Ford Fiesta in Italy in 2003.

So I hopped into the Hyundai just as the world turned into a life-size snow globe, the flakes falling so heavily that the headlights turned themselves on. I like to handle some tasks myself though, so I moved the switch from Auto to On. OK, grab the steering wheel, shift to Drive, and… aaaah! Why are the wheel and shifter made of plastic?!? Maybe I’m spoiled, but I haven’t seen that in a while. Jeez, this car is going to be terrible!

But then, I began to drive. Within a quarter-mile, I could feel it- the unmistakable aura of a Pretty Good Car. It just felt competent. The body felt stiff. Road imperfections were dealt with and dismissed, utterly without drama. The suspension was just right- firm enough not to be wallowy, but compliant enough for comfort. It was devoid of squeaks and rattles, and the controls all felt natural. I was impressed. Then it started to get too warm in the cabin, so I reached for the climate control knob… and realized that it had manual HVAC controls. It might be a good car, but it was a good car with no options.

When I had gotten it home, I was curious to look up its specs. I went to the Hyundai website and discovered that what I was driving was not a Santa Fe, but a Santa Fe Sport. It’s pretty cynical to call anything in the low-priced, midsize SUV class “Sport”, but Hyundai doubled down by endowing the Sport with an engine that makes 100 horsepower less than the one in the standard Santa Fe. The other main difference is that the Sport only has 2 rows of seats.

Complaints aside, the 190 hp that the 2.4L 4-cylinder makes is adequate for the job. It delivers all of the performance you need, and none that you don’t. As a benefit, it can return some very good fuel economy numbers if driven sympathetically. We rented the car to take us to Florida, and I saw 30+ mpg indicated on the display in several sections of the trip where speeds were in the 40-60 mph range. Some of tis fuel economy can be attributed to a very aggressive transmission shift schedule which allowed significant lugging. At 38 mph, I could induce a 1200 rpm boom like nothing short of a CVT-equipped Nissan. But honestly, the lugging was never excruciating. More interesting than unpleasant, even as my hands and feet got massages from the vibes.

Where this powertrain really showed its warts was in the mountains. We were pretty heavily laden for the long trip, and generally traveling around 80 mph. This resulted in a serene 2000-some engine RPM when going downhill or on nearly level ground. But throw a typical West Virginia interstate grade at it, and the transmission would downshift not once, but twice, and scream up the hill around 5000 rpm. Like the lugging, it wasn’t excruciating or anything, but after about the 37^th hill I did begin to wonder what the 390 hp V6 would drive like. The engine got thirsty in this workout, too, showing about 25 mpg. But it’s only rated at 27 mpg on the highway so I can’t complain about 25.

So we drove to Florida, did some theme park stuff, the Hyundai mostly sat in parking lots. Then one day the group were were with didn’t have any plans. They all just wanted to sit by the pool. I don’t really like to just sit by pools, especially when there is interesting stuff to explore. OK, we were in Florida so nothing was particularly interesting, but at least there was stuff to explore. So I bid my 13 fellow travelers adieu and headed for Ocala National Forest, about an hour and a half north of Orlando. [Side note: Florida uses SunPass for tolls, not EZ Pass. I learned that they are incompatible systems after I had driven through several. Will they ever catch up with me? I don’t know.] I “hiked” the St. Francis Trail. I put hike in quotes because when the land is totally flat, it’s more of a walk than a hike. But who says they walked a trail? I don’t know, Florida is weird.

I noticed during my hike that the forest was criss-crossed with forest roads. Nice, packed sand roads just wide enough for, say, a midsize SUV. I got back to the rental a bit ahead of schedule, and decided to go explore some of the forest roads. I picked one that Google maps knew about, though there seemed to be many others that Google had missed. It turned out to be a fun road- just bumpy enough to exercise the suspension, and as I gained confidence, I gained speed too. Soon I was in Rally Mode (me, not the car. It doesn’t have modes besdides Drive and Reverse). This is probably a good time to mention that my particular Santa Fe Sport, being devoid of options, was also devoid of all-wheel-drive. But who needs it, I figured? The road is flat and traction is good, and worse come to worst, I have cell phone service for a tow. Some of that was actually said by a devil on my shoulder as I careened through the palms and pines.

After some dozens of minutes and about 8 miles of sand roads (never having seen another soul), I steered toward the pavement again so I wouldn’t be late for dinner in Orlando. There was a quick way out without having to backtrack, but I did notice that the trails were a little wilder in this part of the park. Ruts appeared in places, some so deep that the car’s belly pan glided across the sand in the center at times. I came to one intersection that looked especially soft. So much so that I got out and scouted it. Yeah, the sand was unusually churned up, I guess because of the traffic in multiple directions,but it didn’t seem much more troublesome than some of the other sections I had been through. So I hopped back in and carefully crawled into the intersection. And slowed to a halt. The front wheels had sunk into the soft top layer of sand and were now just taking turns spinning uselessly. This would have been a good time to get out and do some simple recovery steps, but the sun was hot, I was tired from hiking, and I had more than enough adrenaline flowing from the rally-car vibe to make me feel invincible. So I tried to shake it off. Maybe some reverse? How about wheels turned? No? More throttle!

But it was all in vain. I was stuck. And now I was really stuck. When I finally came to grips with the situation and got out, I found the front subframe sitting on the sand and the tires basically hanging with little weight on them. I did some digging and tried to drive out. Then some stick-jamming. And lots of angry yelling. But the silver SUV only sank deeper. I knew it was time to face defeat. I texted Raina to tell her I wouldn’t make dinner, then called the local towing company.

The man on the phone was nice. He said my kind of thing happens now and then, and he’d personally be out within the hour with the 4WD truck with a winch. No sweat. I relaxed with the problem now out of my hands, and began to realize that I was thirsty. I had long since finished the water that I had brought for the hike. And the bottle I found in the trunk when I had gotten the jack out. But I knew I could count on my kids to leave half-finished water bottles in the back seat. I found some of those and drank whatever they offered, but then I began to wonder about the future. What would I drink next time? The sun was still bright, but much less hot, and unmistakably headed for the horizon. I paced around a bit, straining to hear the engine of my rescuer.

Then he called. He said the trail he tried to come in on was too soft and he was risking getting stuck himself. He was going to try to come in from the north. I shut the engine off, thinking about the future. I pulled up the forest website and studied the map. There were only about 4 ways to get to where I was from a paved road. They all looked the same on the map though.

The tow driver called back, an hour after the last call. This other way was too narrow, he couldn’t fit between the trees. He said these trails were the most extreme he had ever been on. He wanted to know how I had gotten in; he would just retrace my tracks. The entrance to that road was an hour from where he was. I hung up the phone and started digging. Really digging. What I had done before was noting like this. This was digging to save myself. From what, I didn’t know, but probably from at least a night in the forest. There was no way the tow driver was going to get to me.

S and is good stuff to get stuck in. It moves readily without a shovel, and stays where you move it to. I knew that all I had to do was dig in front of the tires enough that they weren’t in a hole anymore, then dig out from under the car so that the tires would have weight on them again. It was a lot of sand to move with just my hands, but I dug fiercely and it went more quickly than I had expected. I ignored the rocks and twigs mixed with the sand and the cuts they made on my hands. I ignored the thirst, and the jeering text messages of my compadres, now eating dinner without me. After an hour with my face in the sand, I felt like I had a good chance. One final detail- airing down the front tires to 10 psi, for some more traction. Then I wiped the blood off my hands and started the engine. If this didn’t work, what would I do? Start walking? Cry? I don’t know. But I never found out, because my efforts paid off and the Hyundai rolled forward as easily as if it were on pavement.

I got well free of the intersection and called the tow driver. He couldn’t get in the way I came in, no surprise there. He was happy that I had gotten out, but I could tell he was thinking he had just worked 2+ hours and was going to get stiffed on the bill. I assured him I’d pay him. He suggested I retrace my route so I was unlikely to get stuck again, which would also meet up with him. That all sounded good to me, I was just happy to be out. It was starting to get dark enough that I needed headlights now, but the elation of freedom meant that I was absolutely bombing the route this time. Upwards of 50 mph at times, with palm fronds smacking both mirrors on the narrow trail. There was a section of whoops, maybe 2 feet high, that had barely been interesting on the way in, but I hit them so hard that the suspension bottomed jarringly and I was sure there had to be body damage. But I didn’t care, I just wanted to go back to the hotel and sleep in a bed free of sand. I stopped at the intersection with the main road where the tow driver was waiting. I paid him and we used his flashlight to inspect for body damage but found none. I crawled to a gas station about 5 miles away and restored the tires to 40 psi and the gas tank to full. I bought a six pack of the best beer they sold, Miller High Life, and aimed the Santa Fe for Orlando. Santa Fe Sport, I should say. I think it earned it today.