Performance Review

Cars, like houses, are never fully known until they're inhabited. Er, driven. But you get my drift. Only after repeated and extensive interactions are the strengths and weaknesses of a car (or house) ever known.

So after six months, I feel fairly qualified to comment on my Accord Sport sedan.

The good:

The 2.4 liter, four-cylinder engine is a joy. At 189 horsepower, it's not going to challenge an Alfa-Romeo Giulia Quadrifoglio. But unlike the troublesome Alfa, it works. Which is kind of nice. What good is 503 horsepower when it's sitting in a service bay at your local A-R dealer?

And while the Accord's torque peaks at a typically Honda-ish 3,900 RPM and horsepower at 6,400, its ample horses are easily accessed. Throttle tip-in is very smooth, with no hot or cold spots in pedal travel versus acceleration.

In a mix of highway and urban driving, the Accord reliably returns 34 MPG. That's dropped off a bit with the onset of winter temps here in the Land of Lincoln, but still laudable given the Accord's robust sense of git.

Continuously variable transmissions (or CVTs), don't enjoy sparkling reviews in car magazines. They are called uninvolving, vague and mushy—none of which imparts a feeling of precision and connection. And I was skittish until I drove one.

But I have to admit the unit in the Accord is surprising. It shifts smoothly and responsively, without the hunting the transmission in my sixth-generation Accord was prone to at low speeds.

The CVT equivalent of passing gear comes quickly and decisively, moving the 3,342-pound car with authority. I have yet to encounter a situation the Accord's drivetrain couldn't handle. Which, when you think about it, is a kind of safety feature.

Ditto a good suspension. The assembly responsible for keeping each of the four tires squarely and firmly pressed against pavement plays an enormous role in your car's driveability. The Accord features MacPherson struts in the front and a multi-link set-up in the rear.

I haven't had an opportunity to push my current Accord the way I did my '99 LX coupe, which is how it goes when you move from a sparsely-populated state to the nation's third most-populous metropolitan area.

I feel the additional three-hundred pounds the newer Accord has put on and miss the four-wheel double-wishbone set-up employed by the sixth-gen iteration. That car felt light and tossable in a way the new one doesn't quite match.

At the same time, the ninth-gen edition doesn't suffer from the wind and road noise its predecessor did. Pick your poison.

Taken on its own terms, I don't see the ninth-generation's suspension provoking any complaints. The steering is responsive, if not overly communicative. The car feels planted and secure regardless of road conditions and speed.

Interior room is excellent, and is made additionally so by the multiple configurations offered by the ten-way power driver's seat and tilt and telescope steering column. The dashboard isn't quite as intuitive and uncluttered as the six-generation's, but is nevertheless ordered very nicely.

I purposely avoided higher trim levels festooned with driver-assist tech, so I can't comment on the Honda's navigation system. But the functions contained within the Sport's infotainment unit are easily understood and accessed.

And if someone as tech-weary as I can sync his phone to the Bluetooth function without exasperated sighs, think of the stress-free fun you'll have. 

Furthermore, with eight cupholders, two power outlets and a USB port, it's unlikely you'll go unentertained—or thirsty.

The bad:

With a wife suffering from reduced mobility, the wide door sills in the Accord make ingress and egress more difficult than it should be. On the glass-is-half-full side, I'd like to think the thicker doors offer more in the way of side-impact protection.

The wiper stalk is largely hidden behind the steering wheel's cross-member and a paddle shifter. But even if it weren't, choosing an appropriate setting is far from the no-brainer it should be.

Instead of rotating a piece mounted on the stalk to the desired setting, the current lay-out asks that the driver move the stalk downward through multiple wiper speeds. Beyond the fact that they are not visible, the indents that should inform the driver of each setting are vague.

In a word, using the wipers is a pain. And when conditions turn suddenly, this is not a good thing.

Speaking of indents, the one separating normal window-down function from 'express' is discernible only to surgeons and classical pianists. No matter how lightly my fingers tread upon the driver's-side window switch, I too often end up with a portal to the outdoors when all I wanted was a sliver.

Finally, the switches for the door locks and power windows are only illuminated on the driver's door. Granted, this is a trifling complaint. But the entry-level '06 Nissan Altima I drove previously paid its passengers this nicety. Why couldn't the class-leading Accord?

So there you have it: the good, the bad and the not-so-ugly.

I would enthusiastically recommend the 2015 Accord Sport Sedan to just about anyone. Its mix of performance, reliability, utility, comfort, economy and value is hard to beat.

It's ironic that just as sedans have become so incredibly useful and multi-talented they're being crowded out of the marketplace by crossovers and SUVs which don't carry people and their stuff as efficiently as a van nor drive as well as a car.

Makes perfect sense.

But they're fashionable. Sexy. And like women and high heels, the motoring public will slavishly endure their shortcomings to remain in lockstep with the prevailing style.

At the risk of dropping off Mr. Blackwell's best-dressed list, I'll take the sedan. And more-specifically, the Accord. That's my sport utility vehicle.

Buying a Car (part two)

Part one left off after two fruitless visits to CarMax, two more to Honda dealerships, a Mazda outlet and four test drives.

In part two, the winding and serpentine search continues.

Through the wonder of technology, I am theoretically able to visit a remote dealership's inventory, peruse their offerings, indicate interest and schedule a test drive.

Not surprisingly, it doesn't go that smoothly.

I am first alerted to this fact when an agent e-mails me back saying no specific car had been indicated in my message. I again go to the car's page, click on 'Schedule a test drive' and supply the requested information.

After work I find another e-mail, this one expressing delight at my presumed visit later that day. Were I as intelligent as I like to think I am, I would see this as the precursor to disaster that it is. Instead, I naively blunder ahead, unaware of the train wreck that awaits me.

Once the details of my visit are confirmed, I check in the pre-dawn hours before work that the car is still listed. It is.

We set forth on a sunny Friday afternoon. In keeping with Illinois statutes that forbid the sale of blue and red Accord Sports within thirty miles of my home, this dealership is over sixty miles away.

Granted, it is an outrageous distance to travel to test drive a used car. But this is the low-mileage (22K), recently-reduced (17K), Certified Obsidian Blue Pearl Accord Sport of my dreams.

I wash the Nissan, clear-out all non-essential belongings and secret the title and spare keys in the console's storage space. I am confident my spouse and I will drive home in a new-to-us Accord Sport.

The second harbinger of ill-fortune arrives when we hit Google's drive time estimate of an hour and fifteen-minutes still thirty minutes away from our destination. Traffic is obnoxious. I feel like a blood cell in an artery begging for an angioplasty.

Weary and wrung-out, we arrive at the dealership in mid-afternoon.

After lingering near a used 2016 Civic for a moment, a young man bounds out of the showroom. “Hi folks! What can I help you with today?”

I tell him we have an appointment with Aldo (not his real name) to test drive a blue 2015 Accord Sport.

“OK. Give me your name and I'll let him know you're here.”

Several minutes later the young man returns. This time he is not bounding.

“Um, Aldo is busy with a client. But I'm afraid the blue Accord has been sold.”

In addition to the gut-wrenching drive, I did not sleep well the night before. A variety of emotions well-up inside my chest cavity. They are not pleasant ones.

I, too, have been the messenger. I, too, have borne the anger and frustration that were the byproducts of circumstances and events and policies over which I had little—if any—control. So I am reluctant to vent to this young man with a coward for a boss. I go to plan B.

Not having driven one before, I ask to test drive a used example of the redesigned Civic. The young man retrieves an EX-L sedan, lets the interior cool and gives us a rundown of its features. I feel a bit guilty as the kid is genuinely enthused and is doing a helluva job.

Then I recall the torturous drive and the lack of communication and my guilt subsides.

The car is appealing, and a model sans leather seats and the electronic goop that passes for driver enhancement would be tempting. As it is, there is more on this car than I want. Or need. The subsequent offer is resistible.

We excuse ourselves and head for 8433 S. Pulaski, the better to enjoy a pizza at Vito & Nick's. There, the futility of the day falls away in an orgiastic symphony of cheese, peppery sausage, tomato sauce and green peppers resting on a cracker-thin crust.

Why can't car-shopping taste this good?

The return trip is substantially less-congested. I ponder whether chasing a specific color on a used car is the best use of my time. There are low-mileage, Certified, black, white and grey Accord Sports to be had much closer to home.

I wake Saturday morning with the sour taste of non-communication still fresh in my mouth. Despite the excellent pizza, yesterday was a long slide for an out. I fire-off a rude e-mail to Aldo.

One Sport remains. We again set out for a far-flung dealership in hopes of finding The One.

In contrast to the previous dealer, this outfit not only has a functioning web site, but people who can discern my garbled, ESL-speak and understand not only what car I'm interested in but when I'd like to see it.

Plus it remains unsold.

This is a refreshing change.

The salesperson is middle-aged, direct and largely well-informed. (I don't have the heart to tell him this car does not use a double-wishbone suspension.) He directs my mate and I to the Basque Red Pearl sedan on the lot.

While there are a distressing number of scratches in the hollows behind the door handles, and a fair amount of scuffs elsewhere, the body is free of dents and pockmarks. The interior fares even better, and remarkably even bears a trace of new car smell.

We take a lengthy and thorough test drive. The car is again impressive. It feels responsive. Alive. The driving experience is sharpened, like graduating from a butter knife to a scalpel. I fight to maintain my poker face.

“So whaddaya think?”

“It's nice” I deadpan. We head back to his office.

There is impressive documentation about the car's inspection, subsequent maintenance and a CarFax report. With only ten-thousand miles on the odo, a hefty share on the original drivetrain warranty remains. Then there is the twelve-month, twelve-thousand mile Honda Certified warranty.

I feel a deal cookin'.

I hand over the keys to the Altima and wait for the trade-in valuation. I want at least two grand.

Check.

The car is now at a reasonable price. But there remains tax, title and licensing. And the nefarious, indistinct fees that get tacked-on like pork to congressional legislation.

We dicker. We haggle. Still no deal.

I am losing it.

The cool detachment I exhibit for the car at the outset of negotiations has turned into white-hot lust. To demonstrate my frustrated ardor, I climb atop a shiny, new Odyssey positioned outside the salesman's office.

I now have the undivided attention of everyone on the showroom floor.

“If anyone can show just cause why this man and this Accord should not be joined in holy matrimony, let them speak now or forever hold their peace!” I thunder. “And by anyone I refer to you, Sir!”

I point to the salesman, glowering.

Peter Ustinov would be proud.

My anxious spouse attempts to coax me down. There is a concern in her eyes I have never seen before. A salesman rushes to her side and hands her a bottle of water. He, too, urges me towards terra firma.

It doesn't work. I want a deal.

The salesman holds up a piece of paper. On it is a figure. I reluctantly abandon my perch, having enjoyed my all-too-brief turn at public oration.

It is not a number that constitutes a steal. But getting out the door within a couple of hundred bucks of my target price is a decent value. I reason with myself: I got a good test drive. I got a fair trade-in. The salesman is working with me. It's a ridiculously low-mileage Certified Accord Sport in an actual color.

Not to mention that I am dying to plant my ass in the driver's seat.

I shut-up and shake hands. I sign my name many times. I now own a new-to-me used car I will love, honor and cherish all the rest of my days. We return Monday afternoon and hand over a check.

Once inside the car, I lovingly run my hand over the contours of the dash. I am smiling.

Is bigamy still illegal?

Buying a Car (part one)

The time has come to replace my car. The lightly-used 2006 Nissan Altima I inherited from my parents is a perfectly fine car and competent in every way. But at twelve years-old, I am worried about the onset of major repairs.

And after a succession of Hondas, all of which were lightweight, nicely sprung and gifted with high-revving four cylinder engines, the Altima feels a bit pedestrian. Yes, the seats are great. The fuel economy stellar. And the expressway-merging capacity of its four-cylinder engine completely worthy. 

Plus there are numerous and thoughtful design touches, like the removable cupholders in the front console or the niche in the trunk covered by an elastic net, which is ideal for transporting the large, economy-sized bottles of distilled spirits I currently favor.

On the area's autobahns (referred to as the Jane Addams or Tri-State Tollway on your car's navigation unit) the Altima routinely keeps up with those bent on testing the boundaries of the posted speed limit. It also does this quietly. 

So when my wife expresses her concerns, they are easily and reliably heard.

There is no rational reason to dislike this car. But therein lies the rub. I am a car buff. And like an introverted relative at a boisterous party, 'rational' doesn't always enter the picture.

This car doesn't inflame me. It doesn't make me smile in knowing appreciation of its finely-calibrated mechanicals. At speed, the Altima doesn't hunker down and adhere itself to the road like a powerful vacuum cleaner. It merely goes fast.

I am looking for the closest facsimile to a Ferrari or a Lamborghini my puny income will permit. Laugh if you must, but I have settled on the Sport edition of the ninth-generation Honda Accord.

Its four-door utility, modest insurance premiums and fun-to-drive personality make it the best compromise for a frustrated Porsche Cayman S or Jaguar F-Type owner like myself.

Not wanting to contribute to the hordes of Soviet housing bloc-inspired black, grey and white automobiles already on the road, I resolutely complicate the car-buying process by determining the Obsidian Blue Pearl and Basque Red Pearl best show off the lean, clean lines of the Accord.

The first late-model, low-mileage example I am able to locate is sold before I can avail myself of a test drive. The second, a 2017 with just 10K on the odometer makes my nostrils flare until I am aware of a growing pain in my posterior region.

It is exacerbated during the agent's post-drive demonstration of the car's onboard computer. The seat feels like a piece of chicken wire covered by a couple of weekday editions of the Chicago Tribune.

Whatever a car's attributes, they will be rendered moot by a bad seat. I abruptly end the presentation by announcing the seat is making my butt hurt.

Beyond the crappy seats, the excessively gaudy chrome pieces adorning the front and rear (which Car & Driver memorably described as “...like wearing platinum earrings to your job at the DMV”) bother me.

Disappointed, I recalibrate my strategy. I opt for the newest, not-quite-so-chrome-encrusted model, which would be the twenty-fifteen. And fortunately, a number of them are coming off lease and showing up on used car lots.

But the colors I seek are—predictably—in short supply. The five months of leaden, grey skies Chicagoans endure between November first and March thirty-first makes them sensitive to a sea of cars painted black, white and grey.

Exhibiting the perseverance that enabled me to survive the Great Recession, I scour the Internet for promising targets. After a momentary detour to a Mazda dealership to drive a 6 (where I find the salesman as interested as I am impressed), it's on to the nearest CarMax.

A red Accord EX-L coupe has been listed, and while the trim level is a bit rich for me, the fact that it bears only 6K miles convinces me I can live with heated leather seats and a sunroof.

I am not a total stranger to CarMax. My sister and brother-in-law have bought from them and been entirely happy with not only their purchase but with the customer experience.

I am less-enthused.

I brought my wife's car to CarMax the previous fall, intrigued by their offer to buy. It is an older model Civic coupe, but clean and mechanically sound. Nothing is broken. Everything works.

The offer is less than half the amount quoted in the Kelley Blue Book. It is also less than half of what we sell it for in a private sale.

The red Accord is sharp. I am eager to drive it and experience its V6. The salesman attaches the plates and directs me out of the lot. I expect to take it out on a nearby four-lane arterial street, where I can at least accelerate to fifty MPH.

“Oh no” he replies. “We don't drive on that road.”

Instead, he points the way to a serene network of streets that wind through a pleasant office park. The speed limit never exceeds twenty-five MPH. He ably answers my questions, but maintains the V6 only requires 87 octane, which I know not to be true.

Just five minutes later, we're back at CarMax. In a scene from an unmade Coen Brothers movie, he asks with great solemnity if I have a feel for the car.

I look at him. “Not from a five-minute drive through an office park” I reply.

Ignoring my response, he hands me his card and reiterates there is a great deal of interest in this car and that it will sell quickly. I am a prodigious manufacturer of ear wax, and despite this his words enter one and exit the other with surprising speed.

At Buona Beef, a succulent Italian Beef sandwich on a crusty, chewy roll, accompanied by a basket of golden-brown crinkle-cut fries alleviates my disappointment.

In my internal stock market, CarMax shares are dropping alarmingly. Getting to and from this test-drive devoured one-hundred and twenty minutes of free time on a rare spring-like afternoon. And for what?

On another spring-like afternoon, my wife and I venture to a remote suburb to examine two promising 2015s. Since it is Sunday, we will be unmolested by salespeople. A “dirty rain” has left the cars in the lot looking like they were props in a monster truck show.

To my wife's chagrin I inspect them anyway, determined to find beauty beneath the dirt.

The one in Obsidian Blue Pearl bears evidence of boy-racer use. Aftermarket rims, an MP3 player and poorly-tinted windows. There is also a cloud of condensation in the passenger-side tailight lens. Had it been hit?

I move on to the one in Basque Red Pearl. It appears clean and carefully-used. I make a note of it.

Despite all the travel, I still haven't driven a 2015 Accord Sport. That needs to change. I identify one I would conceivably buy if my passions were sufficiently aroused and make an appointment.

My deeply-unprejudiced nature is revealed by the fact that it resides at another CarMax. This one yet-another long drive away.

The all-black example gleams. Aside from a chip in the passenger-side rear wheel, it appears pristine, even with 30K miles and three years of Midwestern weather on the odometer.

A thorough test drive ensues which includes side streets, rough pavement and expressway merges. The Accord is composed and eager. I am impressed.

The salesman is engaging and low-key. He knows the car and professes a fondness for Hondas. But back in his cubicle, I am forced to confront the reality that the no-dicker sticker price is a bit high. And there is no warranty.

I balance those against the trade-in value of my low-mileage Altima.

An offer sheet is worked up. And despite this visit to CarMax being substantially better than the previous one, they have again low-balled me on the trade-in. I voice my concerns. I reason. “Bertrand (not his real name), if you can get me out the door for seventeen we have a deal. I love the car.”

He makes a face. He gives me many reasons why this is the best offer he can make.

I tell him I need to sleep on it (which is car-shopper speak for “I'll call you”) and leave. Were it not for two more prospects I have recently unearthed, I would be crestfallen.

The all-black Sport had been unexpectedly seductive.

To be continued.

My Conflicted Love

I’ve always been a car nut. In fact, I could say “car” before I mastered the two-syllable complexities of “mama”. Fortunately, I was born to a mother who, gracious by nature, forgave my misaligned priorities.

Obviously, something about the rolling sculpture of metal, glass, chrome and rubber fascinated me.

The day I discovered I didn’t possess the math and engineering skills necessary to be a car designer was probably the worst of my youth. Then why had I endured the classroom ridicule of so many teachers as I resolutely attempted to translate the cars in my imagination to paper?

This infatuation subsequently ebbed and flowed over the years, as I (in turn) discovered pop music, sports and girls. But it was never far from the surface, and reemerged in my late-twenties as strong as ever. It became conflicted as I gradually became aware of the degree to which the automobile shaped and influenced the twentieth century.

Yet my love is an egalitarian one. It encompasses everything, from old to new and up market on down. From 1929 Duesenbergs to the new three-cylinder Ford Fiesta. To my way of thinking, the Honda Accord is every bit the marvel a dazzling, futuristic concept car is.

This because the Accord fulfills its purpose in a way few things in life ever do.

But despite the perfection of its utility, there aren’t very many people who lust for the Accord. It isn’t sexy. There is no exotic racing lineage. No cache. No status. It is merely the preferred appliance of the American soccer mom. For high-status sexy, you must look to Europe: England, Germany and Italy.

BMW, Bentley, Mercedes, Jaguar, Lamborghini, Porsche and Ferrari offer status and exclusivity to their owners. Attention. Sex appeal. Validation. Ownership inspires an I-have-one-and-you-don’t sense of superiority.

But it isn’t all hand-stitched leather and finely-calibrated engines.

While the rest of us look on longingly, the owner of a Porsche 911 must cough up three-hundred-dollars for an oil change. The eager buyer of the new Porsche 918 will lay out 6K for the extravagance of a heater. 26K for “upgraded” leather. And 63K for something called liquid metal paint.

Porsche extends to prospective buyers an additional opportunity to boost its year-end earnings via the Weissach Package. What the buyer gets for a jaw-dropping 84K is the deletion of three components from the car.

That’s right. Stuff is taken off the car. For eighty-four thousand dollars.

Check-off the Weissach Package box on your order form and your sound insulation, leather upholstery and a portion of the passenger-side cooling infrastructure is removed in the interest of reducing mass.

I have just one question: is it more to remove the “upgraded” leather?

The total weight loss amounts to 90 pounds. I hope Weight Watchers is taking note. You seeing this, Slim-Fast? That’s nine-hundred and thirty-three dollars a pound.

But when you’re dropping $845,000 on a car, what’s another 84 thou? Percentage-wise, it’s like adding a GPS unit and upgraded sound to your Camry or Jeep Grand Cherokee. No biggie. Right?

Manufacturers like Porsche know intimately how desperate the well-heeled are to display their well-heeledness. The well-to-do require ever more exclusive and outrageous product, the better to stay one step ahead of the Joneses.

And brands like Porsche and Bentley and Ferrari are only too happy to charge them for it.

For those of us on the other side of the glass, we can only laugh at their desperation. While many of us would like to give it to the one-percent, it is ironic that we have Porsche to do it for us.

In this, the Age of Diminished Expectations, it’s something.