I recently had the rare pleasure of test-driving, albeit very briefly, the BMW 530d. I should say – by way of background – that my ‘normal’ car is a 1991 Volvo 240. In truth, the 240 is on its very last legs – or rims – though it ‘only’ has 400,000 kilometres on it. The main problem is the transmission – it takes a while for it to find reverse, and when it does it slams into gear and races toward whatever is behind it. More problematically still, it won’t stay in fourth gear anymore. I saw these problems coming. For some years, it had been reluctant to achieve ‘escape velocity,’ which is my euphemism for 4th gear, and would only do so when I hit 100km/h and then pumped the accelerator – which in itself is no small feat when driving a 240 in 3rd gear. More recently, it had taken to shifting down from 4th to 3rd of its own accord, which was a little disconcerting when barrelling along on a crowded highway.
Anyway, I know you’re wondering why I even deign to say the words ‘Volvo 240’ in a magazine of this calibre. The point is that, as a crotchety liberal-arts-college professor who favours old Volvo’s – especially of the 240 vintage – expensive ‘Virility’ Enhancement Devices don’t often come my way (I would normally use a different word for ‘virility,’ but I’m told this is a family magazine). So, when offered the chance to get behind the wheel of the 530, I was intrigued. Might the experience convert me, jolt me out of my disdain for our car-obsessed culture? Might I finally see the light, and actually want to own one of these massive shiny metal and glass behemoths that own the highway?
My first reaction was that the seats were a little too moulded to the human form – or what I can only assume is the normative Germanic version thereof. My second reaction, as the driver tapped the accelerator, was surprise that BMW doesn’t provide sick bags in the door panels – I hadn’t experienced that kind of g-force displacement since I was an eleven-year-old kid on one of those giant amusement-park cylindrical spinners that stick you to the inner wall so you can pretend to be Spiderman. On that particular occasion, as soon as I ‘deplaned,’ I left my ‘lunch’ in the garbage bin that was strategically located next to the ride’s exit gate – ‘lunch’ being a euphemism for the hot dog, fries, coke, and cotton candy that I had recklessly consumed a half-hour earlier. Anyway, it was immediately obvious that the BMW 530d can accelerate very quickly. So, if you like acceleration, this car is for you.
But no test-drive is complete unless you actually get behind the wheel. Parenthetically (apologies in advance), one thing I’ve noticed about Indian drivers is the constant use of the horn. Having lived in the US for many years after my ‘advanced teenagerhood’ (two words that), this South-Asian horn-blowing habit really grated on me. But, gradually, I began to appreciate it. I do a lot of walking, even in Delhi (though now that it’s November, I need to invest in a gasmask), so I quickly realized that the logic of horn-blowing is exactly the reverse of what occurs in the West. In the US, drivers usually sound the horn as a last resort, to warn other drivers of impending danger. In this sense, the horn is a way of saying to someone, ‘stop doing whatever it is you’re doing.’ In India, drivers blow the horn to let others in the vicinity know that the blower of the horn is nearby, as if to say, “Hey there, just letting you know that I’m here, poised just off your left rear fender.” In this sense, it is a courtesy alert system, a kind of happy sound. In short, in India the horn is not about the other person, it is about oneself. As a pedestrian, I actually find this comforting, particularly in a city like Delhi, that, for the most part (outside of Lutyens’ Delhi), lacks any basic pedestrian amenities like crosswalks and sidewalks.
Anyway, from behind the wheel, I’m sure I don’t need to describe the effect on my virility, which expanded dramatically. I decided to avoid the horn though, and tried flashing the headlights instead. The effect was amazing, if unexpected – water sprayed all over the windshield. But, fortunately, the wipers instantly came on, and they worked extremely well. Wrong toggle. But how many reviews in this august publication ever mention windshield wipers? I also tried out the accelerator, which was fun, though I only had the guts – or juevos – to ‘get it up’ to about 40 or 50 before one of Lutyen’s roundabouts loomed.
In retrospect, I can’t say that I’m converted yet. I like the fact that my Volvo gives me a few seconds to adjust my stomach to its ‘acceleration,’ if you can call it that, when you put the pedal to (or through) the metal. As if to confirm my Luddite inclinations, a VED nearly ran me down the other day while I was crossing the main road. My disdain for these testicular-vehicular monsters briefly turned to outright disgust – nay, rage. But I should note that that VED was a black Mercedes – I guess there’s no accounting for taste. Probably, the driver wanted to test out the accelerator, and what better target to test it out on than a crotchety liberal arts college professor in the middle of a chaotic Delhi street?
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