Seventy dollars (that’s almost Dh260) for a 15-minute cab ride. Man, I can’t keep doing this. A week in California and my wallet’s shrivelled, but this is the last time you’ll see me cramped in the back of a Town Car trying to converse with a Vietnamese cabbie who landed here two days ago. My ride for the next four weeks is waiting at LAX, and as I arrive the Estoril Blue BMW 428i M Sport is parked right up front in the airport lot. It’s gleaming, the tank is brimmed, and when I turn to check the rear seats they seem about as spacious as that rickety Town Car. No matter, I’m not planning on using the dedicated car-pooling lane; it’s just me, the car, and California…
WEEK 1
The first order of duty is setting everything up just so — the mirrors, radio presets, seats (both front chairs have to be perfectly aligned and the air vents should all be horizontal — I’m sure there’s a fancy medical term for such a disorder). As I’m doing all this and fretting over the angle of the air vents, I notice there’s no satellite navigation. That’s going to be an issue… So, before I even get back to my headquarters for the month in downtown LA, I make a stop to buy one of them suction phone holders and a car charger so my Nokia can act as a sat-nav.
The first problem is already out of the way but, crawling into the city, there’s a bigger issue to contend with — parking. I remember the ruckus when all the streets around wheels’ office first welcomed parking meters — we had to pay around Dh11 every day to park at work. Try $15! So I shop around, and a couple of blocks down from the hotel where I’ll mostly be staying this month, the guy sorts me a deal at $8 a day. If you park kerbside it’s a quarter for eight minutes so people tend to do their business quickly. Naturally it takes me all of two days to score my first parking violation — $68 all in, including something called tax. I jumped out to get a coffee, got distracted, walked over to another place, boom, nine minutes…
The first week I’m mostly just roaming around LA I visit a couple of car shows in a Latin neighbourhood south of downtown where lowriders get more cred than Bel Air’s Bentleys. I do Santa Monica a lot, since it’s home to LA’s only decent blues bar (there’s me sitting expecting some local guitarist nobody, and Coco Montoya staggers on to the stage…), and a couple of hipster areas where people ride bicycles with no brakes! (Because brakes are so conformist.) And I run up and down the 22-mile Sunset Boulevard until I’ve run out of fuel…
WEEK 2
My mileage isn’t excellent. I’m averaging around 10 litres per 100km. I expected more from the BMW’s ultra-modern, direct-injected 2.0-litre turbocharged four-cylinder. It’s good for a very decent 242bhp and 350Nm of torque and in a perfect world it’ll run the 0-100kph jaunt in 5.9 seconds. Forget that. The first thing I do after starting up is switch to Eco Pro. LA wants $5 for a gallon of premium in places, whereas in, say, some sticks in Georgia down in the South, I scored a gallon for less than $4. But it’s really not too bad because $60 brims the BMW’s tank, although not immediately.
First I have to figure out how to actually pump my own fuel. We Dubaians are so spoiled… You can sit there as long as you like, ain’t nobody coming out to serve you. My credit card is refusing to help out, so I walk into the petrol station, sorry, gas station, to hand over the cash. Then I walk out and walk back in because the filing gun won’t cooperate. I’m made aware by a kind motorist who refrains from laughing — just — that I have to flip a thingy up before the nozzle will work. I make a mental note never to forget tipping the Dubai guys — this is hard work.
Anyway, I’m soon good to go with the BMW’s instrument display promising around 400 miles (640km) of range. That turns out to be wishful thinking because I decide to swap LA’s notoriously bad traffic for the deserted mountain roads up in the, whaddaya know, mountains. The Nokia throws up some promising squiggles not one hour east of downtown, so I hit the highway containing my urge to cheat and wander over into the empty carpooling lane all the way across the county.
There is a positive. The posted speed limits vault between 55mph (88kph) and 70mph (113kph) yet everyone’s doing 90 (145kph), so I try the BMW’s cruise control and I can safely report it controls the cruise. Before an hour’s up I’m in San Bernardino County and the Nokia instructs me to swing a left on to California State Route 18. The speed limit drops, but the speeds don’t — everyone’s still doing 90 despite the fact that Route 18 is also known as the Rim of the World Highway, treading the side of the tallest mountains in SoCal and quickly tightening from a wide dual-carriageway to a cliffside pass. I’ve inadvertently timed this perfectly; school’s in again and nobody is heading up to mountain resorts in the middle of a weekday. Soon enough, most other motorists spill off the highway before things get properly twisty. The biggest nuisance might be a local pick-up trudging on up to the top, although they’re used to this sort of thing and as soon as some Estoril Blue fills up their rear view they split into one of the frequent run-offs to kindly let me pass.
Don’t take this the wrong way — the roads chiselled into the side of this 3,000mt mountain are so tortuous I hardly need to get out of third gear, and in the 428i there are five more of those to go. It’s not necessary to speed, merely to stay on the mountain and not plummet back down to sea level. It’s brilliant, and before long I get my fill of Route 18 and start exploring into the triple digits — basically the more numbers a Californian road carries in its tag the more remote it is. And consequently the tighter and twistier it comes too. As such, State Route 173 makes 18 look arrow straight, and leads straight to Lake Arrowhead. I’m still on the same tank of fuel, barely, and merely 200 miles on, and the needle is near the red due to all the mountaineering, and it’s getting dark. I can’t be bothered to schlep all the way back to LA so I’m staying on this mountain and getting a room in a charming old inn.
The next day I repeat the whole process from early in the morning. I discover Route 138 and Silverwood Lake, and it just keeps getting better and better. The blacktop is among the best I’ve seen anywhere and my mind’s tortured — do I stare out the window towards the mesmerising scenery or tunnel-vision my way forward? So called ‘fire roads’ — for the authorities to segregate and fight fires; a serious hazard around here — are some of the absolute best accidental finds. They’re usually narrow, single-lane tracks with high kerbs on either side isolating you into your own private rally stage. As long as the Sheriff is on his doughnut break. And it looks like he is…
It’s time to fill up again and another $60 is drained, but the tank is brimmed and after a second night’s rest in yet another charming old mountain lodge, I point the BMW back down the mountain.
On the return leg to my downtown HQ, I make a stop in San Bernardino city (which as I’m told by a good ol’ boy who owns a bone-stock ’66 Riviera, used to be a nice town but is now all crime-ridden — I can tell) to visit a car show, and it’s at this point I realise my passport’s gone. My passport is, in a way, my livelihood, and this would be plenty of reason to panic were it not for the fact that I’m a veteran passport-loser and have experienced this a half-dozen times already. (The last time I lost my passport in McDonald’s I was stranded in Eastern Europe for three months.)
Anyway, I call that lodge and Steve the manager finds it in my room drawer, so there’s nothing to it, but to backtrack an hour-and-a-half up to Lake Arrowhead. Not that I mind — Route 18 and 173 are only getting stickier in the afternoon sun.
May as well spend night three up here now… This was an amazing week on what I reckon to be some of the best roads I’ve ever run. But then…
WEEK 3
It’s a toss-up between going north and going south, and north wins. I will never, ever regret that outcome.
California 190, California 198, J37, Balch Park Road, M-99, and then the single greatest road I’ve ever run in anything, ever: Yokohi Drive. It’s just a miracle of tarmac, and I half expect irritated hobbits to start crawling out of their holes curious as to what sort of fire-breathing beast is disturbing the Shire’s peace this morning. Relax boys; it’s a 428i. Peter Jackson could’ve saved a lot on airfare.
For week 3 I decide to run way further than Big Bear and San Bernardino like last week, so I head straight up to Sequoia National Park to see those famous, massive trees challenging the clouds. I’ve always wanted to see them, but I didn’t figure on Yokohi Drive distracting me. It’s a matter of getting out of downtown and crawling over the Hollywood Hills into the Valley on the other side of LA. Once you’re there it’s all flat and incessantly boring, although the 428i cruises — in Comfort mode — with the best of them. Before long I’m driving through Mojave town and finally the monotony of the desert makes way for the southern Sierra Nevada mountains. I swing another left and the fun begins.
The BMW’s engine is great; I fall hard for the 2.0-litre turbo, but eight gears are just too many in the twisties. With the paddles behind the three-spoke wheel I keep giving the manual mode in S+ a chance but soon enough I reckon Auto knows best. A more persistent issue is the sound of the turbo motor, which makes no sound. The constant elevation changes (every spirited drive in California has massive elevation changes — you’re either carving canyons or climbing mountain passes) mean my ears are blocked most of the time and that doesn’t help. This is one of the few times I’d appreciate BMW channelling sound exhaust notes into the cabin through the speakers. I find myself checking the rev counter all too often, and this car isn’t specced with a head-up display either, which would help in this case.
Anyway I’ve done 200 miles and I’m only just in the National Park zone, so Isabella Lake comes and goes because I’m eager to reach the Giant Sequoias. Well, they get no love, because, like I mentioned, Yokohi gets in the way. The minute I turn on to this marvel I spot a biker, handcuffed on the side of the road, a patrol car, and a tow truck loading his Honda on board ready for the impound lot. Sucks to be you, buddy, and thanks for the warning.
The mental note in mind, I hit Yokohi cautiously, but not eight miles into it, the road hits some sort of natural ridge (it actually spans a valley) and goes absolutely berserk. I run a five-mile portion of it up and down and count a good 20 hairpins, yet you’re not changing elevation at all. You’re in the bottom of this stunning valley, enveloped in morning mist clouding the mountains far away to the sides, semi-civilisation on my left and the Blue Ridge National Wildlife Refuge over there. The surface changes constantly, the persistent bumps on the inside only upset my flow rather than the BMW’s, a challenge for more concentration. How much can I possibly give?
I’m glued to this road, hypnotised, and soon enough nothing around Yokohi registers except the line, the bonnet traces of Estoril Blue in the margins of my tunnel vision, and the convincing thought that, surely, I must be Patrick Snijers on the Isle of Man. Within Yokohi and the hundreds of miles I cover in the rest of Sequoia Park, I span at least six continents, all the yearly seasons (later on, even winter, with the snow-capped Angeles Crest Highway), and cross farmland, desert, pine forests, rivers and lakes. Periodically I pull over, just to remember to breathe. It’s a dream drive, and the 428i grabs a hold of me bad. No beat missed and the poor thing knows I’ve put it through a lot. There is no traffic here, like, at all. I run hard, and only the next day it gets a bit crowded — I pass two cars and a bike…
The BMW and I are bonding, yes, but I know the truth — any car around here would leave a lasting mark on your heart. It’s the road that really brands itself in there, but I’m still glad I’ve got the BMW on my side. This is just the beginning of it, too. I spend two nights in the area running dead-end fire roads. And Yokohi, just one more time.
Just one more time…
As the week draws to a close and downtown LA fills the windscreen again, I’ve notched up 1,000 miles. Just about every single one of them glorious.
WEEK 4
How do you top that?
For my farewell I toss between San Diego and Las Vegas, and Sin City wins. The main reason is I score a dirt-cheap hotel rate on the Strip, in the fancy Monte Carlo Resort next to the Bellagio, and the clincher is valet parking. It’s an easy four-hour drive at 80mph (130kph) or so.
That wouldn’t do the BMW 428i M Sport justice, so we stay off the obvious Interstate 15 and head back to Angeles Crest Highway. This thing is literally on the doorstep of LA and it’s 66 miles of spaghetti. In the middle of it there’s a famous roadhouse and it’s the only private property in the entire 655,387 acres of the Angeles National Forest (that’s bigger than Mauritius and Luxembourg).
A quick bite and we keep going but once again I swing a left (take it from Nascar; you swing a lot of lefts in America) towards Death Valley. If you’ve seen a desert, and chances are if you’re reading wheels you have, then you’ve seen them all, but Death Valley is different. First of all it’s a valley, which means there’s some amazing tarmac cradling its side, and it’s appropriately called Badwater Road. The only traffic is tour buses full of pensioners, and they don’t pose an issue because they’re always pulling off for number-one breaks and photo ops. So the BMW and I run hard once again and the car never protests. With 350Nm of torque I can really hustle without even noticing it because the rev needle stays so low. I often have to depend on it due to the lack of engine noise. In Death Valley’s heat — even outside of summer it’s well into the Thirties, degrees Celsius that is (I’ve become accustomed to miles, but forget Fahrenheit…) — the AC has to work hard but the turbo doesn’t seem to mind.
I take my time in the valley and stop for the obligatory photo down in Furnace Creek, 190 feet below sea level. But it’s too hot for smoke breaks so I make a rush for Vegas, cruise-controlling the Bimmer at 90mph (145kph). Bad idea…
The speed limit is 70 (113kph) and, although I picked up this bad habit on LA’s highways I’m in Nevada now, so, guilty as charged — not 10 minutes out of Death Valley I have a cop filling my rear view with flashing blues and reds. The startled driver of a rickety Nineties’ Buick pulls over immediately thinking he’s at fault but I know the real deal…
From past experience, I pull over, switch off the car, and place the key on top of the instrument binnacle so the officer can see it as he’s walking towards the vehicle from behind. Getting out is a huge no-no, so I keep the seatbelt on and stick my left arm out of the open window with all my documents in my hand. That’s part of making sure the officer is at ease and that you don’t just get shot immediately.
“Sir, do you realise you were doing 86 in a 70 zone?” the cop asks.
My brilliant excuse is, “Yes officer, I apologise, I didn’t realise my car sped up on this downhill because I was actually playing with my phone at the time.”
He hasn’t heard that one before.
“Sir, it’s illegal in the state of Nevada to even be holding your cell phone in your hand while driving,” he lectures me.
It all goes fine though, and I explain to Nevada’s finest that I was actually handling the Nokia to make sure I’m on the right way to Vegas. He gets my whole story and we actually get to chatting about Crown Vics and BMWs… He likes the Estoril Blue and asks with a puzzled expression, if it’s a real M car. After I explain the 428i’s merely wearing a suspension/brakes/cosmetics/M Sport package, he’s contentedly convinced I won’t squeal off terrorising Nevada in a 425bhp M4.
I get a slap on the wrist and a very courteous, “Have a nice day, sir. And put your cell phone down…”
I have never pulled off in a car more slowly, but soon enough the BMW is cruise-controlling towards Vegas at a nice 85mph (137kph), as per the cop’s suggestion.
What do I tell you? Vegas is a grid. I visit a local hot rod shop, and then valet-park at Monte Carlo and walk the Strip all night. Sin City is fun for the first 36 hours and afterwards you can’t wait to get the hell out of there. It’s Disneyland for adults, someone tells me, only I’ve been to Disneyland and I don’t remember Mickey being a transvestite. I leave town having lost precisely zero dollars. And they say the house always wins.
On the way back to LA I run Angeles Crest Highway once more, and that leads me straight into the Valley — that’s what they call the northern part of LA. I remember reading Jay Leno’s column in one of my favourite car magazines way back, and he mentioned an automotive book shop in Burbank, so I make a stop.
As I’m browsing (I got Mel Nichols’ And the Revs Keep Rising and Matt Stone’s My First Car, both highly recommended), who should walk in wearing his trademark denim jeans and denim shirt?
Jay Leno is red in the face and sweating from head to toe. The shop guys keep his stuff on hand and he asks what else they might have for him. One woman says, “Jay, this is the only book about Pegaso in English ever published.” Jay adds that to his pile.
Once he’s finished paying and about to walk out the door I take my chance. Jay is more than happy not just to listen to the ramblings of a Dubai journalist and a fan of his columns, but also to have a look at ‘his’ BMW, sit inside and take a few snaps. I offer to drop by his legendary Big Dog Garage in a BMW i8 (which I’d have on hand soon), but he’s off to New York, “For a coupla weeks.”
So outside of Autobooks-Aerobooks in Burbank, in the afternoon sun, we chat about the NSU Spider he’s in, which would explain the cherry-red face. He shows me the Wankel engine and everything: “Oh it’s so smooth, you can get ’em to a hundred you know…”
Just don’t try it in Nevada, Jay.
The commotion is enough to get the construction workers from across the street to rush over and take up another 20 minutes of his time. Jay takes pictures and talks to absolutely every single one of them.
Eventually he has to run, but slips one more in, “Hey, how’s old Oscar doing?” I’d told him I grew up in South Africa.
“Yeah,” Jay continues, “You know I had Pistorius in my garage, and on my show about a year ago. So you think they gonna get him or what?”
Jay’s cool. He goes his way, I go mine. Another night downtown and the BMW’s scheduled at LAX once again. The month is nearly up, so the next day on the way to the airport I stop at a car wash and get the 428i detailed. It’s only right. I want to see it go home clean.
With a half tank of gas, a parking ticket, and a few stone chips to its name, the car pulls into the lot and we occupy the exact same spot I picked it up from. It left its mark. Up in that valley, up on Yokohi Drive, and on me. I somehow hope I’ve left my mark too. It’s a demo; dozens of drivers will still come and go, just human anonymities to the Bimmer. I gather my things and align the front seats, twist the lighter straight, set the air vent slats just so. Just how the car likes it.
