Test driving 101: “Don’t kill me”

Nicholas Maronese
Editor-in-Chief
“You want to hit the potholes, actually,” Howard utters through his handlebar moustache, pointing at some wheel-eating ditches on the gravel lot’s far side.
I grip the Scion’s steering wheel and aim for a saucer-sized hole. The brand new Goodyear tires on the Toyota have never touched dirt, but they take the abuse well, murmuring as I rumble across the lot at 40 kilometres-an-hour. Just before the tire dips into the wet brown cavity, instinct kicks in and I yank the wheel to the right.
Who knew reviewing a new car could be so counter-intuitive?
Howard Elmer, an automotive journalist for the National Post, knows I missed the hole – and an opportunity to test the suspension – but, if he’s disappointed, his face doesn’t show it. His expression remains blank, but he runs a hand over his bald, gleaming scalp.
He knows that I – like the other 10 journalists at the Automotive Journalists Association of Canada’s media training event – am here to learn, but I hand him an excuse anyway.
“Caught some glare there, couldn’t see,” I explain as we both watch a band of the sun’s morning light soak into the flat, charcoal-gray hood, glare-free.
I turn out of the parking lot and drive around the Toronto Congress Centre, keeping my eye on the speedometer buried deep in the plastic dashboard. The four-cylinder’s gentle purr is interrupted by the near-deafening roar of a Pearson-bound airliner landing and I impulsively stab the throttle with my right foot.
As I approach the jet-black pavement of the course, Howard Elmer’s cardinal test drive rule – “Don’t kill me” – loops through my head. I enter the skidpad and slalom track, gunning the engine. I twist hard to the right and feel the lateral Gs pull me toward the door. All of Elmer’s plaid-clad girth leans in my direction, too. I swing the wheel back and forth wildly as I swerve around the neon orange pylons. The tires squeak in protest, chirping every time I switch direction.
I near the course’s end and align the boxy toaster-shaped Toyota with the straightaway. I pin the gas and rocket from 20 to 50 kilometres-an-hour before slamming on the brakes. The pedal vibrates underfoot as the ABS kicks in, and Elmer and I are thrown forward.
The car plants its nose deep into the tarmac, stopping abruptly and, in the next moment, whipping my skull backward against the leather headrest, jolting my brain. I look at Elmer. “Nice,” he nods.
He offers me some tips as we step out of the car and saunter off to look for another. A sharp, silver Cadillac CTS coupe catches my eye, the sun glinting off its massive chrome wheels.
“How ’bout that one?” I query. He gestures toward it, and we duck inside the cabin of the luxury sports car. Within minutes, I’m back on the gravel. This time, I fight my intuition, floor it and aim for a tire-eater.