Bumper to Bumper

by Doug DeMuro

  For more pricing fun, here’s an exciting Murano CrossCabriolet fact: when it came out in 2011, it was Nissan’s second-most expensive car, after the GT-R.

  But even the pricing wouldn’t have been so bad if it weren’t for the fact that it was so obvious to everyone that it would be a failure, aside from the six guys at Nissan who designed the thing using RoseArt markers and a hot glue gun. The two-door SUV segment has always been a graveyard of bad ideas, like the Toyota RAV4, and the Kia Sportage, and the Ford Explorer Sport, and the Isuzu Amigo, and the Mazda Navajo, all of which failed so miserably that each of those automakers immediately abandoned two-door SUV production forever. And here was Nissan, thinking they had found some secret cache of two-door SUV fanatics, hiding out in the $50,000 price range.

  So the Murano CrossCabriolet was a bad idea from the very beginning; the kind of horrible product that comes along when the chief executive issues an edict to “BUILD THIS!” and nobody has the balls to stand up and say: “But sir, it looks like a soup bowl with a backpack.”

  But was it at least an acceptable vehicle? Of course not!

  We’ll start with visibility.

  With the top raised, the Murano CrossCabriolet suffers from the same issue as nearly all convertibles: you can’t see anything smaller than a fire station. So what Nissan did was, they fitted not one but two rear windows, each roughly the size of a hand saw. Unfortunately, the steep rake of the convertible top ensures that these windows have no practical purpose, except for viewing a) the sky, and b) the trees. So these windows are not very good for visibility, though I admit they would be excellent for bird-watching in the rain.

  And it isn’t any better with the top down. The problem is this: between the typical tall SUV ride height and the normal high convertible rear deck, you can’t see anything when you’re backing up. It’s good that the CrossCabriolet I drove included a backup camera, because the rear end can hide a wide variety of objects, like shrubs, bushes, fire hydrants, baseball stadiums, inner-city neighborhoods, major American landmarks, etc.

  Then there’s the cowl shake. My God, the cowl shake. In many ways, the Murano CrossCabriolet was actually better than I was expecting, because I went into the experience thinking it would be a modern-day Yugo. But not the cowl shake. The cowl shake was much worse. It was so bad that I honestly thought the windshield might dislodge itself from the body on some bump and fall into my lap like an airplane tray table. I swear you’d have more structural rigidity from those military Jeeps whose windshields were actually designed to fold down with hinges.

  As you might imagine, the kind of convertible engineered with horrible cowl shake is also the kind of convertible that’s about as fun to drive as a shipping pallet with wheels. And indeed, the Murano CrossCabriolet has its on-road downsides. For example: despite a weight gain to more than 4,400 pounds, the Murano CrossCabriolet uses the same engine as the standard Murano—though I must report, in the interests of journalistic accuracy, that it adds an additional five horsepower. Unfortunately, those extra horses must be newborn foals, because the thing gets off the line with the same verve as a Winnebago. And then there’s the handling, which I call ponderous: essentially, you turn the wheel, and the Murano CrossCabriolet ponders where to go.

  And then there’s the practicality. Oh, the practicality. We’ve already established that this vehicle—designed to double as a “fun convertible” and a “practical SUV”—is certainly no fun convertible. So you think maybe it redeems itself by being a practical SUV. But that’s not true either: the trunk is only large enough for a stapler, or possibly a three-hole punch, while the rear seats were clearly designed to only carry children, or possibly those creepy plastic dolls that children sometimes carry around with them. There’s no trunk pass-through for larger items, and you can’t really take this thing very far off-road. In other words: in an attempt to combine “convertible” and “SUV,” Nissan failed at both. This would be like going out in search of a pillow that’s both fluffy and soft, and coming home with a toner cartridge.

  So are there benefits? Of course there are. For instance: the interior is a nice place to be, unless of course the top is down and people can see you. And prices are finally coming down to the point where they should’ve been originally: eleven grand and a partial trade for a riding mower.

  So what’s my verdict? Not surprisingly, I love this thing. Oh, sure, it’s unashamedly bad in every way: it’s ugly, it’s slow, it’s sloppy around corners and shaky over bumps; it’s expensive, it’s impractical, and it’s compromised. But by God, it’s unique. And in today’s world of Camrys and Accords, of Elantras and Malibus, we need more cars like the Murano CrossCabriolet. We will not buy them, of course. But it’s nice to know they’re there.

  I Got Pulled Over Twice in One Night Driving My Nissan Skyline GT-R

  Originally published on Jalopnik—September 3, 2015

  I recently had the opportunity to spend an evening with several of the fine men of southern New Jersey law enforcement. This is because I was pulled over by the police twice in the span of ten minutes last week while I was driving my Nissan Skyline GT-R. This story will undoubtedly leave you desperately hanging on the edge of your seat, unless you have to do something gravely important, such as pee, or make a photocopy.

  Before I get started, a little backstory: because I live in the middle of the very large and crowded city of Philadelphia, my house only comes with enough room to park one car. So I park my Skyline at a storage facility twenty minutes away in upscale suburban New Jersey, and I park my Hummer in a surface lot in West Philadelphia where I silently hope it will be stolen by those guys who beat up the Fresh Prince.

  So last week, on Monday night at around 10:45 p.m., I went to retrieve my Skyline from the storage facility in order to shoot a video that I had scheduled for Tuesday morning. And this is where our story begins.

  I knew I was going to get pulled over the moment I saw the police car hanging back about thirty feet behind the stopped traffic in the next lane so he could get a look at my license plate. When a cop leaves three car lengths behind someone in order to read your license plate, you’re screwed. It’s like when you’re skiing down a hill, and you look up, and you see you’re about to hit a tree. At that point, it’s over. You’re screwed. You just wince and hope the tree doesn’t find your drugs.

  So a couple of seconds after traffic started moving, the police officer changed lanes to get behind me, and then he turned on his lights.

  Now, I don’t care what any American Skyline owner says: the first thing you think about, when you see police lights in your rearview mirror, is: Is he going to tow my car? Yes, I know it’s legal, and you know it’s legal, and the DMV knows it’s legal, but your average street cop isn’t usually too well versed on federal laws regarding vehicle importation. This is because he spends approximately 90 percent of his time dealing with people who insist they haven’t smoked pot, and they don’t have any pot, even though they smell like they’ve smoked pot, and they’re acting like they’ve smoked pot, and they have two cannabis leaves tattooed on their cheeks.

  So when the officer approached on the left side of the car—the passenger side—I was pretty nervous. Here’s how the conversation started:

  Police Officer: How are you doing?

  Me: Good, how are you doing?

  Police Officer: Good. Do you have your license, registration, and insurance?

  Me: I do.

  Police Officer: I stopped you for a couple reasons. One is your license plate’s hanging. And, I can’t read what state it’s from.

  Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that’s right: I’m driving a rare, powerful, freshly imported, high-performance turbocharged sports car late at night on nearly empty roads, and I get pulled over for—not speeding, not weaving, not reckless driving—a license plate violation. This is what happens when you drive a twenty-five-year-old Nissan through an upscale suburb at 11 p.m. on a weeknight.

  Now, a little more backstory: altho
ugh Japanese license plates are roughly the same size as American license plates, the bolt holes are in different places, which makes it very difficult to fasten the American license plate to the car. So I’ve resorted to a complex strategy that involves zip-ties and a big black license plate frame, which, I admit, comes off with approximately the same legitimacy as a Craigslist seller offering a MacBook Pro for $150 because “my daughter dont want it no more.”

  As I was getting my paperwork together, the conversation continued.

  Police Officer: Why are you driving on that side of the car?

  He said this so nonchalantly that I wasn’t sure if I had heard him correctly. So I asked him to repeat it and he did, once more, in this unusually casual manner that made it seem like he thought I had decided earlier that day to spend the evening driving on the wrong side of the car. It was as if he thought that I walked up to the car, decided things weren’t exciting enough, and moved the steering wheel over like it was one of those child’s toy steering wheels where you press the horn and it makes animal noises. I replied:

  Me: Oh, I imported this car from Japan.

  Police Officer: OK.

  Me: Trust me, it’s no more fun for me than you’d expect it to be.

  Police Officer: They’re for racing, these cars, aren’t they?

  It was at that moment I knew I’d be getting a ticket.

  So the officer disappeared back to his car, which is where he spent the next twenty minutes.

  Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that’s right: twenty minutes. Initially, I thought I’d be getting a warning, because who gives a ticket for a crooked license plate? After five minutes, I figured it was taking so long because he was writing a ticket. After ten minutes, I was wondering if he had called in the drug dogs for a quick sniff of the guy driving on the wrong side of the car. After fifteen minutes, I thought maybe I should go back there and check on him to make sure he hadn’t died in his patrol car and was already starting to decompose. After twenty minutes, I wanted a cheeseburger.

  Eventually, he walked back up to the car and told me he had written me a ticket for the “improper license plate display,” which is a $54 fine. He also told me the reason it took so long was that his computer system wouldn’t accept my short Japanese VIN number. Or my make and model. Or my model year. As I look at the ticket right now, it was written to a 1999 Nissan Unknown, and the VIN section is blank.

  At this point, he loosened up, and we discussed some of the other violations he’s seen (“Those pickups where they mount the license plate crooked in the tailgate? I write those every time.”) and what he thought of his Dodge Charger police car (“I hate it”) before we parted ways for the night. Since I was only ten minutes from home, this is where I thought my interaction with the police would end for the evening. Until …

  Six minutes later, on the Benjamin Franklin Bridge heading into Philadelphia, I noticed a Dodge Charger with a light bar slowing down to get closer to me, then next to me, then changing lanes directly behind me. I was once again the skier, and the officer was the tree. Or maybe the officer was the skier, and I was the tree. I’m not really sure. Definitely one of the two.

  Anyway: the moment we got off the bridge, the lights came on and a second police car joined the traffic stop. Once again, I pulled over right away, and once again, the officer approached me on the passenger side. Here’s how it went:

  Police Officer: Do you have your license, registration, and insurance?

  Me: Yep! Here’s everything from when I got pulled over three minutes ago in Cherry Hill!

  Police Officer: What did he get you for?

  Me: Improper license plate display.

  Police Officer: Yep. Let me see the ticket.

  At this point, the officer walked to the back of my car, where he was joined by the other officer who had stopped me. Despite the original officer’s gruff, pointed demeanor, I could hear the two of them talking about me as they reviewed the ticket written a few minutes earlier by the other officer.

  Officer 2: That guy’s sitting on the wrong side of the car!

  Officer 1: I know! That’s crazy, right?!

  After just a few seconds, the officer came back to my car, told me to get the license plate taken care of, and informed me I was free to go. At this point, I was thinking Jalopnik pictures, so I asked him if I could take a photo of my car stopped in front of his patrol car. He rejected this request with approximately the same demeanor I would expect him to reject a request to sleep with his wife.

  So I went on my way, and I made it the next five minutes home without getting pulled over for a third time. This is largely because I was now driving through the city of Philadelphia, whose police officers don’t have time to deal with license plate violations, what with all the murders, armed robberies, muggings, Eagles fans, etc.

  Before I wrap this up, a quick recap. Neither officer seemed to have any idea what a “Nissan Skyline” was, nor why it meant I would be driving on the wrong side of the car. More importantly, neither officer seemed interested in checking out any customs paperwork or making sure the car had been legally imported. They just wanted to make sure the guy with the crooked license plate and the old car wasn’t doing anything sinister in their jurisdictions so late on a weeknight.

  Fortunately, I can truthfully say that I’ve learned a lot from this experience. Number one: if you’re driving an old car with a loud exhaust through a nice suburb late at night, you’d better display your license plate correctly, or else the police will have to find something else to stop you for. And number two: nothing gets by the fine officers at the Cherry Hill and Delaware River Port Authority Police Departments. Especially not the guy in the imported sports car.

  The Volkswagen Golf Isn’t Selling as Well as Volkswagen Says

  Originally published on Jalopnik—September 15, 2015

  Now that September is in full force, we can take a moment to reminisce on August, which is yet another month when Volkswagen tried to make the Golf seem more successful than it really is.

  Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that’s right: I’m accusing Volkswagen’s public relations department of spinning the truth to make us believe the Golf is more popular than it really is. Actually, “spinning” is the wrong word. “Spinning” is what happens when you take some numbers and present them in a way that makes them fit your point of view. In this case, Volkswagen isn’t spinning. They’re one step away from creating a press release announcing that they did not have sexual relations with that woman.

  But before I get into the wonderful details of this sordid tale, a little background information: in May 2015, Volkswagen changed the name of its popular Jetta Sportwagen to the Golf Sportwagen for the U.S. market. This is important, so I’m going to repeat it, even though this is the printed word and you can read it as many times as you like. In May 2015, Volkswagen changed the name of its popular Jetta Sportwagen to the Golf Sportwagen. There may have also been a redesign, but it’s hard to tell with Volkswagen these days. Usually there are just some updated panels, a couple new features, and the same eleven-pixel gauge cluster screen they’ve always used.

  Now, in addition to changing the name of the Jetta Sportwagen to Golf Sportwagen, Volkswagen also redesigned the Golf at approximately the same time. So the stage is set: you have the “new” Golf Sportwagen, which is really just the Jetta Sportwagen with a new name, and you have the new Golf, which looks exactly like the old Golf to everyone except the guy who designed it.

  So anyway: at the beginning of June, Volkswagen of America released its May sales figures like everyone does. And with these sales figures, they made a big announcement: the Golf delivered 6,308 units, or a 252 percent increase over last year. Two-hundred and fifty-two percent! In fact, it was the Golf’s best May in fifteen years. At Volkswagen headquarters, trumpets blared. Marching bands played. Confetti fell from the ceiling. Unfortunately, no employees saw any of this, because they were all stuck in D.C. Beltway traffic.

  What’s more, virtually ev
ery major news outlet picked up on the resurgence of the Golf, from Business Insider to Automotive News. Volkswagen is back, was the main point of view. And the Golf is responsible.

  Except there was one little problem: Golf sales weren’t really that good. They were merely OK.

  How do I reach this conclusion? Because Volkswagen only delivered 1,972 units of its traditional Golf hatchback in May—admittedly a huge increase over the previous year’s 685 sales, but one that’s entirely expected for a fully redesigned vehicle. So how did they reach the 6,308-unit number that made all the papers? Because a full thirty percent of “Golf sales” were merely sales of the recently renamed Jetta Sportwagen. In other words: this amazing month of 6,300 Golf deliveries and a 252 percent sales increase wasn’t because of some incredible new product that people were fighting over at dealerships. A large portion of this figure was due to the fact they had simply renamed a vehicle.

  Now, when I first saw this, I decided I would let it go and I wouldn’t write a column about it. Let Volkswagen have their day, I said to myself. God knows they need it. This was reinforced by the fact that Volkswagen still had Routan sales on the books through the entirety of 2014, even though the thing’s final model year was 2012.